134 GOURMET TRAVELLER
thehorizoninthevillagebelow.Thendinnerappearsby
candlelight:a richcumin-spikedpumpkinsoup,roastlamb
andchoppedgrassy-tastinglucerneseasonedwithgreenolives.
Thefollowingday,ourlong-dormantArabian-nightfantasies
cometrue.Afterhoursofdrivinginthevastred-sanddesert
nearMorocco’sborderwithAlgeria,ourcarstopsonthebrow
ofa dune.Mahditurnsinhisseatandsmiles.“Yourhomefor
thenight,”hesays,gesturingtowardstwowhitecanvastents
inthetroughsofa pairofdunes.Insidearewoven-reedcarpets
andkilimcushions,foldingleatherchairsandbrasstraytables,
a snowywhitebedand,mostimprobably,a shower.
Atdusk,candle-filledlanternsonironcrooksareplanted
inthesand,castinga glowonoursundownersofwell-chilled
Moroccanrosé,andourtablethatnightis setbya roaringfire
inthetroughofanotherdune.Froma campovencomesa
vegetabletaginewithgreenolivesandpreservedlemons.Though
thedayhasbeenscorching,it’schillyenoughwhenI returnto
mytenttodigouta pairofflannelpyjamas.Theabsolutesilence
ofthedesertwhenI fallasleepis brokenatfouro’clockby
thewindthrashingmytent,andwhenI stepoutsidetheskyis
streakedbylightning.It seguesintoa raredrivingrainstormthat
leavesthedunesdamptomybarefeetwhenI walktobreakfast.
ArrivingatDarAhlam,Teyssier’s“houseofdreams”in
Skoura, 40 kilometresfromthecityofOuarzazate,is a bitof
a shock.Forseveraldays,we’vebeena littletribeofnomads:
thetwoofus,andAliandMahdi.“You’reMoroccansnow,you
guys,”saysMahdi,clappingusonourbacksinfarewell.“You’ve
seenmoreofthecountrythanmostofuseverwill,andyou’ve
beengoodstudents.Comebackagainsoon,inshallah.”
Inmaze-likecorridors,delicatelyscentedcandlesby
ParisperfumerOliviaGiacobettiflickerinporcelainbisque
containers,andthestaffspeakwiththeflutyaccentsofthe
betterneighbourhoodsofParis.Theformidable1920s-erakasbah
ofrosymudbrickhas 18 guestroomsfilledwithbeautifulBerber
carpets,handmadebrasstraytables,ornaterattanbirdcages
andframedphotos,andplushsofassitbesidewood-burning
fireplaces.A glamorouscastof 30 internationalguestsattended
by 80 staffmovesbetweena communalloungeandthehuge
outdoorpool,fromlibrarytohammam.
Later,astheshadowslengthen,we’reontherooftopterrace
overlookingthekasbah’smagnificentwalledgardensdesignedby
LouisBenech,France’sbestknownlandscapearchitect,chatting
withtheownerofa modellingagencyinSãoPaolo,whenone
ofthehousemenarrivesunbiddenwiththreeglasses,a bowlof
olivesanda bottleofwineonice.Theperfectlytimedgestureis
oneofmanylittlesurprises,likeblack-soaptreatmentsinthespa,
a guidedwalkinthebuzzingsoukofOuarzazateanda candlelit
dinnerina jasmine-scentedcourtyardwithmusicbylocalartists.
Parisis chillyandsmoggywhenI return,andtheradio
inmytaxirattlesonwithnewsofthegyratingstockmarkets
andpoliticalstrifeI’dignoredduringmydaysinthedesert.
Athome,therearebillstopayandinsistentemailssentthree
times.WhenI unpackmypyjamas,theparquetis suddenly
coveredwithfineredsand.So,it hasn’tbeena mirage.Truly,
I havebeeninanoasiswherethestarslooked like sparkling
fruit you could pick from the sky.●