What a difference a week makes. There we were in sun-soaked, broiling Marrakech watching the world go by and trying to have a short rest. The Sheraton Marrakech, where we always stay, is definitely not a swishy venue compared to the Ammanjenna or the distinctly jaded La Mamounia. However, the staff are to die for and we are treated like U2 (we are too old and circumspect to be mistaken for Oasis) or a Goldman Sachs partner. But the hotel is fun. So many groups come in and out that it is like a railway station. In the first two days we had what seemed to be a German petrol-pump attendants conference, a high ranking Jesuit convention and then delegates from an African-Arab summit in aid of starving children. The Jesuits kept to themselves and the Arab-African summiteers were conspicuous mainly by the number of lounging idle overweight bodyguards. "Who pays for these guys?" we asked ourselves, as you don't have to be a World Bank economist to know that 98% of the African countries are potless. We much preferred the German petrol pump attendants who like to call themselves petrol retail distributors. In terms of clothes chic they looked as if they came from East Germany before the Berlin Wall came down. But the men were fun and gold medal Olympic drinkers and as for the wives and long limbed girlfriends, who needs to be concerned about the world of chic when you are wearing no more than a bikini bottom, a light smearing of sun oil and a big smile!
June 08, 2001