IN MOROCCO, REAL NEWS isn’t spread through the papers, but on whispers in the wind.
That was how I first learned of the Royal Mansour, the latest in top-notch grandeur on the Marrakech hospitality scene.
Our maid had heard from her brother, and he from his wife’s cousin’s friend, that a palace was being constructed, one that would put shame to almost anything else ever created by Moroccan artisanal hands. Years passed, and I quite forgot hearing of the rumour. Then, one morning recently the whisper came again:
‘It’s opened,’ said a low voice.
‘What has?’
‘A palace fit for a king.’
In a city that’s hemorrhaging hotels, the Royal Mansour is set apart by its sheer decadence. Slipping in through the gates, set into the ancient honey-coloured city walls, is like lifting the veil on a fantasy, one that’s usually off limits to mere mortals.
The first thing that hits you is the scent of jasmine piercing the evening air. It’s as overpowering as the silence. A handful of carefully positioned staff glide up without making any noise at all. They greet you in whispers, and offer the refreshment served in the desert to travellers – succulent dates and cool buttermilk. Then, only when you are ready, they lead you to your quarters, through a labyrinth of jaw-dropping opulence.
Wherever you look, every inch of every surface is adorned with exquisite workmanship and textures – acres of intricate zellij mosaics, hand-sculpted plasterwork, cedar ceilings, and geometric painted wood. The furnishings are equally lavish, including fabulous Suzani embroideries from Bokhara, suede cushions and throws, and miles and miles of silk.
At the heart of the hotel is a central courtyard open to the sky. Hanging like an ivory medallion above, is the full moon; fabulous bronze lamps suspended below, each one in itself a true work of art. All around there are Andalucian cabinets crafted in Cordoba, lovely mosaic and marble fountains, and Damascene banquettes, inlaid with fragments of mother of pearl. And the entire fantasy is bathed in the kind of hush that simply doesn’t exist elsewhere in Marrakech.
This being the Royal Mansour, there’s no clumsy bell-hop lumbering ahead with your luggage. Rather, the hotel’s impeccable manager escorts you himself to your quarters, making equally impeccable small-talk as he goes. Everyone you pass greets you by name, and exudes a warmth, as though they are genuinely thrilled to meet you. It is the feeling of real celebrity, as if you’re Mick Jagger and that, as soon as your back is turned, the staff rush off and call their friends to boast that they’ve seen you in the flesh.
Desperately trying to suppress all delusions of grandeur, you follow the manager into an Andalucian courtyard. It’s filled with the sound of trickling water and with fragrant trees, all of them laden with perfectly ripe fruit – pomegranates, oranges and mouth-watering dates. And, eventually, you arrive at a medina, a mirror of the old city in miniature.
Instead of rooms or suites, you are taken to your very own riad,a three-storey building set around a colonnaded courtyard. As you approach, the door opens magically inward. A manservant steps silently from the shadows. Coutured in flowing robes, with a turban crowning his head, he asks permission to serve you vintage Champagne. Oh, the hardship of making such difficult decisions.
Miraculously, your luggage has already arrived, and the genie-like steward, has unpacked. Whatever your wish, he’s already anticipated it, as if trained in mind-reading as well in hospitality. But the most extraordinary thing of all is how he, and everyone else, comes and goes invisibly, without ever stepping in or out through the door.
The Royal Mansour is a pleasure dome of magic, but none of the wizardry is more amazing than the great secret that makes its illusionary realm possible. For, beneath the entire property – laid out over eight acres – is a vast maze of secret tunnels, worthy of a James Bond villain’s den. A city in itself, it houses vast kitchens and warehouses, laundries and staff quarters. And, plying the wide subterranean passages, is a fleet of brand new golf carts.
Morocco is a land of tradition, and one where the tradition of royal patronage dies hard. The king is almost expected to champion projects that will keep the ancient crafts and traditions alive. In the ’nineties, the present monarch’s father, Hassan II, constructed a colossal mosque in Casablanca. Bearing his own name, it stands at the western edge of the Islamic world. Having reigned for a decade, King Mohammed VI, conceived the Royal Mansour himself, and directly oversaw every detail of the project.
Built from scratch in less than four years, twelve hundred moualems, master craftsmen, were called upon to do the best work of their lives. For each of them the challenge was all the greater because they were working directly for their king. And it’s this point which has ensured that the Royal Mansour isn’t just another plush address to stay in Marrakech, Morocco’s ultra chic desert retreat.
‘We have strived to create a landmark of Moroccan culture,’ says sales manager Soufiane Berrada, ‘through architecture, hospitality, cuisine and art, all of it in one place.’ Leading me on a tour, he points out details hidden from view, like the high tech air cushion heating system that allows the central courtyard to be open to the sky even in winter.
In the cigar lounge he shows me a cabinet of rare Cognacs, including an unopened bottle of 1888 Armagnac Laubade. On the wall above it, hangs a fabulously intricate bronze appliqué frieze, crafted by the British-born Moroccan artist, now so celebrated that he goes by his first name alone – Yahya.
We step through to the library. As I wonder aloud why there’s a giant telescope in the middle of the room, the manager presses a button set into the marquetry, and the cedarwood roof slides silently away.
Of the fifty-three riads, arranged in clusters, as they are in the actual Marrakech medina, most are two-and three-bedroom, with private salons, dining rooms, swimming pools, kitchens and roof-top terraces, from which you can glimpse the snow-clad Atlas mountains. There’s a Riad d’Honneur as well, a palace in its own right, with two pools, gardens, private spa and underground cinema. Former French President Jacques Chirac and his wife were in residence during my stay, the riad guarded by dozens of swarthy men in black.
After two days and nights of the high life, I found myself back on the street, the mayhem of Marrakchi traffic frothing all around. I felt like Maruf the Cobbler from A Thousand and One Nights, whose desert palace had appeared by magic, before vanishing in the blink of an eye.
As I crossed the street to get a bus, I smiled to myself. After all, what would luxury be if it were not tempered by a little hardship from time to time?