Review of Amanjena, by Vitali Vitaliev

Amanjena means “peaceful paradise” in Arabic – and that’s what it really is! It is an Arabian Nights fairy-tale of a luxury hotel, and just like in a true fairy tale, which defies materialism, no prices (except for those of the mini-bar) are ever quoted in Amanjena, no bills presented until the final moment of reckoning, or in more mundane terms, checking out… and the shock at that point may not be so gentle.

Hotels do not feature in Sex And The City for nothing; Amanjena did in the latest “Arabesque” episode (even if briefly). Bad movies and mad prices aside, Amanjena is a true miracle – from beginning to end.

The miracle hides in the outskirts of Marrakech, behind two checkpoints and an array of fences and  security gates. It begins with a welcoming party offering refreshing mint tea. In my case (and suitcase too), it included a young woman who – despite my meek protestations - relieved me of my shameful WH Smith plastic bag with a rumpled copy of that morning’s Times and kept pressing it to her chest as if it were her life’s biggest treasure.

My personal pink-stone pavilion was round and with a dome – somewhat mausoleum-like. In the backyard, a fountain, with rose petals floating in it like tiny archipelagos of happiness, bubbled gently day and night among the symmetrically planted olive tress and next to a spacious gazebo, furnished with sofas so soft and deep that they negatively affected the sitter’s self-esteem. Lying inside the gazebo on a scorching summer afternoon, with a warm soft breeze caressing your skin and palm trees rustling above your head, was like being on a familiarisation trip to Heaven.

Decorated  in traditional Moroccan patterns, the pavilion’s interior – apart from my girlfriend and myself – contained two separate walk-in wardrobes, or rather dressing rooms; insecticide aerosols in the cupboards (I admire attention to small – even if midget-size - details), wine, oranges; hand-made traditional slippers with sharp upturned tips making one look like a genie. Bottles of mineral water, including those for brushing your teeth, were everywhere.

Excessive lavishness can be corruptive. With every minute in Amanjena, I felt I was getting more and more “oligarch-ish”. That sensation was enhanced by a 40-minute-long session of hammam. Carried out by a young man called Hamza – a true magician of his trade, this ritual involved lots of steam, black soap, natural shampoos; eucalyptus oils, ice-cold water and my own piercing screams when splashed with it out of a tub and out of the blue. I fluttered out of the hammam room feeling almost weightless – like a piece of stray European fluff…

But it is at night that the Arabian Nights associations become reality. Thousands of candles and torches light up around the resort’s numerous canals and its vast decorative pond – a former irrigation lake on whose shores muffled sounds of live folk music mix with screechy chorus of frogs and crickets. The staff move around like shadows serving teas and pina coladas, the torches reflect in the water making the whole Amanjena world even more surreal and topsy-turvy…

Interestingly my relatively “modest” Pavilion Bassin was one of the lowest type of Amanjena accommodation; below Pavillions Piscines – each with a private swimming pool, and way below two-storey Maisons and Maisons Jardin…

Human memory often works by the rule of contraries. In Amanjena, I was unwittingly reminded of the worst hotel I’ve ever stayed at: it was Mari Hotel in the eponymous Turkmenistan town of Mari. Staying at Amanjena felt like being born again, re-incarnated into a different person you wouldn’t necessarily want to be. Unable to ever forget the grievances of Mari, I now know for sure what the world’s best hotel is…