Von dem Buch Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca haben wir 3 gleiche oder sehr ähnliche Ausgaben identifiziert!
Falls Sie nur an einem bestimmten Exempar interessiert sind, können Sie aus der folgenden Liste jenes wählen, an dem Sie interessiert sind:
100%: Tahir Shah: Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca (ISBN: 9780553902310) 2006, in Englisch, Broschiert.Nur diese Ausgabe anzeigen…
100%: Tahir Shah: The Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca (ISBN: 9780553383102) 2006, Bantam, in Englisch, Taschenbuch.Nur diese Ausgabe anzeigen…
82%: Shah, Tahir: The Caliph's House : A Year in Casablanca by (2006 Hardcover & Dustj) (ISBN: 9780553803990) 2006, Erstausgabe, in Englisch, Broschiert.Nur diese Ausgabe anzeigen…
Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca - 13 Angebote vergleichen
| Preise | Juni 16 | Feb. 17 | März 17 |
|---|---|---|---|
| Schnitt | € 10,21 | € 8,48 | € 27,26 |
| Nachfrage |
1
Symbolbild
The Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca (2006)
~EN PB US RPISBN: 9780553383102 bzw. 0553383108, vermutlich in Englisch, Bantam, Taschenbuch, gebraucht, guter Zustand, Nachdruck.
Lieferung aus: Neuseeland, Versandkosten nach: CHE.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, bookexpress.co.nz.
Bantam. Very Good. 5.5 x 0.8 x 8.24 inches. Paperback. 2006. 368 pages. In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under t he Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true . By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his fami ly's move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore conve rge-and nothing is as easy as it seems.... Inspired by the Moroc can vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a ho me in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chan ce. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir pac ked up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling rui n of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city's caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool , secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seem s sure to fulfill Tahir's fantasy-until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits uniqu e to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence great ly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the begin ning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their prop erty, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes w ith it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph's House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we f ollow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier t o Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrast s that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. Edito rial Reviews Review Tahir Shah's highly readable account of movi ng his young family to Casablanca is.... an outrageously black co medy [written] with the straightest of poker faces.-The Washingto n Post Book Review A wonderfully entertaining book - Tahir Shah' s talent is to make you laugh while you are admiring the insight s given by his most original and lively view of life.-Doris Less ing Reminiscent of Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence.-Entertainme nt Weekly About the Author Tahir Shah was born into an Anglo-Afg han family with roots in the mountain stronghold of the Hindu Kus h. His ten books have chronicled a series of fabulous journeys. H e lives with his wife and two children in Casablanca. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Two r eeds drink from the same stream. One is hollow, the other is suga rcane. -moroccan proverb There was a sdaness in the stillness of dusk. The cafe was packed with long-faced men in robes sipping b lack coffee, smoking dark tobacco. A waiter weaved between the ta bles, tray balanced on upturned fingertips, glass balanced on tra y. In that moment, day became night. The sitters drew deep on the ir cigarettes, coughed, and stared out at the street. Some were w orrying, others dreaming, or just sitting in silence. The same ri tual is played out each evening across Morocco, the desert kingdo m in Africa's northwest, nudged up against the Atlantic shore. As the last strains of sunlight dissipated, the chatter began again , the hum of calm voices breaking gently over the traffic. The b ackstreet cafe in Casablanca was for me a place of mystery, a pla ce with a soul, a place with danger. There was a sense that the s afety nets had been cut away, that each citizen walked upon the h igh wire of this, the real world. I longed not merely to travel t hrough it, but to live in such a city. My wife, Rachana, who was pregnant, had reservations from the start. These were fueled all the more when I ranted on about the need for uncertainty and for danger. She said that our little daughter required a secure home , that her childhood could do without an exotic backdrop. I raise d the stakes, promising a cook, a maid, an army of nannies, and s unshine--unending, glorious sunshine. Since moving from India eig ht years before, Rachana had hardly ever glimpsed the sun in the drab London sky. She had almost forgotten how it looked. I remind ed her of what we were missing--the dazzle of yellow morning ligh t breaking through bedroom curtains, the drone of bumblebees in h oneysuckle, rich aromas wafting through narrow streets, where mar ket stalls are a blaze of color, heaped with spices--paprika and turmeric, cinnamon, cumin and fenugreek. All this in a land where the family is still the core of life, where traditions die hard, and where children can grow up knowing the meaning of honor, pri de, and respect. I was tired of our meager existence and the pal try size of our apartment, where the warring couple next door pla gued us through paper-thin walls. I wanted to escape to a house o f serious dimensions, a fantasy inspired by the pages of The Arab ian Nights, with arches and colonnades, towering doors fashioned from aromatic cedar, courtyards with gardens hidden inside, stabl es and fountains, orchards of fruit trees, and dozens and dozens of rooms. ANYONE WHO HAS EVER tried to make a break from the dam p English shores has needed a long list of reasons. I have often wondered how the pilgrims on the Mayflower ever managed to get aw ay at all. Friends and family regard would-be escapees as crazed. Mine were no exception. At first they scoffed at my plan to move abroad, and when they realized I wasn't interested in the usual bolt-holes--southern France or Spain--they weighed in with fighti ng talk. They branded me as irresponsible, unfit to be a parent, a dreamer destined for failure. The pressure to abandon my dream mounted. It became so great that I did almost back down. Then, o ne dreary winter morning, I passed a crowd of people on a central London street. An elderly man at the middle of the group was bei ng wrestled to the ground by two police officers. He was dressed in business attire--pressed white shirt, silk tie, and three-piec e suit, with a plump red carnation pinned to his lapel. In a biza rre display of eccentricity, he had taken off his trousers and wa s wearing his underpants on his head. The police, who were not am used, were busy cuffing the man's hands behind his back. A young woman nearby was screaming, begging the authorities to lock the m adman up. As the man was bundled into an armored police van, he t urned and shouted: Don't waste your life following others! Be in dividual! Live your dreams! The steel doors slammed, the vehicle sped away, and the crowd dispersed--all except for me. I stood t here thinking over what I had seen, and what the supposed madman had said. He was right. Ours was a society of followers, trapped by an island mentality. I made a promise to myself right then. I would not be subdued by others' expectations. I would risk everyt hing and leave the island, dragging my family with me. Together w e would search for freedom, and for a land where we could be ours elves. CASABLANCA'S EVENING RUSH OF traffic rivals any in its fe rocity. But it has never been so wild as it was on the late sprin g day that I took possession of the Caliph's House. I had sat in the cafe all afternoon, waiting for the rendezvous with the lawye r. He had told me to come to his office at eight p.m. At seven fi fty-five I pressed a coin to the tabletop, left the cafe, and cro ssed the street. I passed a glass-fronted hotel flanked by proud date palms. An empty tour bus stood outside it, a pair of donkey carts beside, each piled high with overripe fruit. A moment later I was climbing up the curved stairwell of a dilapidated Art Deco building. I rapped at an oak door on the third story. The lawyer opened it, greeted me stiffly, and led the way into his office. There was an official-looking Arabic document on the desk. The l awyer ordered me to read it through. I don't know Arabic, I said . Then you'd better just sign it, he replied, glancing at a gold Rolex on his wrist. He handed me a Mont Blanc. I signed the pap er as instructed. The lawyer stood up and slid a hefty iron key a cross the desk. You are a very brave man, he said. I paused for a moment to look him in the eye. He didn't flinch. I lifted the key. As I did so, I was knocked to the floor by the force of a vi olent explosion. The windows blew inward, shattering with spectac ular energy, sending a hailstorm of glass through the office. Dea fened, covered in broken glass, and confused, I struggled to my f eet. My legs were shaking so badly that I had trouble standing. T he impeccably dressed legal man was crouched beneath his desk, as if he had previous experience of this kind. He rose silently, du sted the glass from his shoulders, straightened his silk tie, and opened the door for me to leave. Out on the street, people were screaming, running in all directions, fire alarms shrieking, pol ice sirens wailing. There was blood, too. Lots of it, strewn acro ss faces and over slashed clothing. I was too shaken to be of any use to the injured, who were now streaming from the glass-fronte d hotel. As I observed them in slow motion, a small red taxi pull ed up fast. The driver was calling desperately from the passenger window: Etranger! Monsieur etranger! he yelled. Come quickly, i t's dangerous for the foreigners! I clambered in and he swung the wheel, hurling us into the slipstream of traffic. It's bombers, suicide bombers, he said, they're going off across Casablanca! The red Peugeot slalomed westward, out of the center of town. But my mind was not on the traffic, the bombs, or the blood. Rather, it was on my wife, at home in London. I could see the news flash tearing over the TV screen, and her clutching our toddler to her very pregnant belly. I felt sure she would now be in no mood to embrace a new culture and a dream. She had been fearful of Morocc o's Islamic society, especially in light of Al Qaeda's September 11 attacks and the second Gulf conflict, which had toppled Saddam Hussein only days before. But it was too late to turn back. The money had been paid, the documents signed, stamped once, and stam ped again. In my hands was the key: a symbol of the future or, p erhaps, of a deranged purchase. I stared down at it, taking in th e ancient iron notches, cursing myself for having courted danger so openly. At that moment, the driver slammed on the brakes. We have arrived! he exclaimed. MY REASONS FOR MOROCCO were many. Th ey were endless, and began a long time ago. Throughout my own chi ldhood, my father, who was an Afghan, had wanted to take us to hi s homeland. But the nation's enduring wars prevented us from ever venturing to the lofty mountain strongholds of Afghanistan. So, from the time we could walk, my sisters and I were frequently bus tled into the family station wagon, vinyl cases laden high on the roof. Our gardener would drive us from the dull, serene lanes of the English countryside, through France and Spain, and up into M orocco's High Atlas Mountains. For my father it was a chance to reveal to his children fragments of his own homeland. We found a tapestry of mountain passes and steep-sided valleys, of deserts a nd oases and imperial fortress cities, a culture bound by the tri bal codes of honor and respect. For my mother, it was an opportun ity to snap up all manner of bargains, from caftans to candlestic ks, and to order the delirious heaps of hippies home to their own mothers far away. We would spend weeks at a time trundling thro ugh the mountains, and driving down to the soaring dunes of the S ahara, where the blue men traipsed in from the desert, their dark skin dyed by indigo robes. There would be regular breaks to thro w up in the bushes, to gorge ourselves on cactus fruit, and to tr ade our pocket money for chips of amethyst at the quarries in the hills. My earliest memories are of the great walled city of Fes . Cobbled lanes no wider than a barrel's length, dimly lit and be witching, where street-side stalls sold anything you could ever w ish to buy. There were mountains of spices and fresh-cut herbs--s affron, aniseed, paprika--pickled lemons and mounds of gleaming o lives; small cedar boxes inset with camel bone; fragrant leather sandals and terracotta pots; rough Berber rugs, golden caftans, a mulets and talismans. By far my favorite corner of the souq was where the black magicians would go to buy ingredients for their s pells. The walls of those shops were hung with cages. In them wer e live chameleons, cobras, salamanders, and forlorn-looking eagle s. There were cabinets, too, made from battered Burma teak, their drawers brimming with dried whale skin, the hair of dead men, an d other such things, so my father said. Morocco had brought colo r to my sanitized English childhood, which was more usually cloak ed in itchy gray flannel shirts and corduroy shorts, acted out be neath an overcast sky. The kingdom had always been a place of esc ape, a place of astonishing intensity, but, beyond all else, a pl ace with a soul. With a young family of my own, I regarded it as my duty, my responsibility, to pass on the same gift to my childr en--a gift of cultural color. It would have been far easier to ha ve given in and not to have made the great escape from the island 's shores. But something deep inside me goaded me on: a sense tha t if I did not seize the moment, I would regret it for the rest o f my life. There was another strong reason for Morocco--my fathe r's father. He spent the last years of his life in a small villa near the seafront in Tangier. When his beloved wife died at just fifty-nine, he was broken. Unable to bear the memories, he moved to Morocco because they had never traveled there together. One mo rning while walking the usual route down the hill, from Cafe Fran ce back to his home, he was struck by a reversing Coca-Cola truck . Unconscious and bleeding, he was rushed to the hospital, where he died hours later. I was too small then to even remember him, b ut I felt a sadness all the same. WE SEARCHED MOROCCO FOR months , desperate to find a house where my delusions of grandeur could run wild. Our starting point was Fes, undoubtedly Morocco's great est jewel. It is the only medieval Arab city that remains entirel y intact. Walking through the labyrinth of streets that make up t he vast medina is like stepping into The Thousand and One Nights. The smells, sights, and sounds bombard the senses. A stroll of a few feet can be an overwhelming experience. For centuries, Fes w as a place of impressive wealth, a center of scholarship and trad e. Its houses reflect a confidence in Arab architecture almost ne ver seen elsewhere, their decor profiting from a line of apprenti ces unbroken for a thousand years. We found the alleyways of the old city teeming with workshops where the traditional skills of m etalwork and leather tanning, of mosaic design, weaving, ceramics , and marquetry, were still transferred from father to son. By c hance we were taken to a large merchant's house on the northern e dge of the old city. It had been constructed in the grand Fasi st yle and dated back at least four hundred years. Six cavernous sal ons were clustered around a central courtyard, each one adorned w ith mosaic friezes, the floors laid with slabs of marble hewn fro m the Middle Atlas Mountains. Around the courtyard, columns tower ed up to the sky, and at its center stood a lotus-shaped fountain crafted from the finest alabaster. High on an adjacent wall was a modest glassless window, veiled by a wooden filigree screen, a lookout point from what once would have been the harem. The man showing off the building was a kebab seller with contacts. He sai d it had been empty for just a handful of years. I balked at the remark--the place was in need of desperate repair. It looked to m e as if it had been abandoned for at least half a century. In Mo rocco, said the kebab seller with a smile, an empty house invites the wicked. You mean thieves? The man shook his head violently . Not wicked people, he said, wicked forces. At the time, I had no idea what the agent meant. Brushing his comment aside, I bega n at once negotiating for the house. The problem was that it was owned by seven brothers, each one more avaricious than the last. Unlike the West, where a property is either for sale or it is not , in Morocco, it can be in the twilight zone of realty--possibly for sale, possibly not. Before even getting to the price, you mus t first coax the owners to sell. This coaxing phase is an Orienta l feature, no doubt brought to the region by the Arabs as they sw ept across North Africa fourteen centuries ago. As you sit over g lasses of sweet mint tea, cajoling madly, the vendors look you up and down, inspecting the craftsmanship of your clothing and the stitching of your shoes. The better the quality of your attire, t he higher the price is likely to be. I must have been too well d ressed on the morning of my meeting with the seven ghoulish broth ers who owned the merchant's house. After four hours of coaxing, cajoling, and quaffing gallons of mint tea, they agreed in princi ple to a sale. Then they spat out a fantasy price and narrowed th eir eyes greedily. My bargaining skills were undeveloped. I shoul d have stayed, sucked down more tea, and bargained through the af ternoon and into the night. But instead I leapt up and ran out in to the labyrinth, cursing. In doing so, I had broken the first ru le of the Arab world--never lose your cool. .
Von Händler/Antiquariat, bookexpress.co.nz.
Bantam. Very Good. 5.5 x 0.8 x 8.24 inches. Paperback. 2006. 368 pages. In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under t he Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true . By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his fami ly's move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore conve rge-and nothing is as easy as it seems.... Inspired by the Moroc can vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a ho me in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chan ce. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir pac ked up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling rui n of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city's caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool , secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seem s sure to fulfill Tahir's fantasy-until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits uniqu e to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence great ly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the begin ning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their prop erty, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes w ith it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph's House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we f ollow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier t o Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrast s that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. Edito rial Reviews Review Tahir Shah's highly readable account of movi ng his young family to Casablanca is.... an outrageously black co medy [written] with the straightest of poker faces.-The Washingto n Post Book Review A wonderfully entertaining book - Tahir Shah' s talent is to make you laugh while you are admiring the insight s given by his most original and lively view of life.-Doris Less ing Reminiscent of Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence.-Entertainme nt Weekly About the Author Tahir Shah was born into an Anglo-Afg han family with roots in the mountain stronghold of the Hindu Kus h. His ten books have chronicled a series of fabulous journeys. H e lives with his wife and two children in Casablanca. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Two r eeds drink from the same stream. One is hollow, the other is suga rcane. -moroccan proverb There was a sdaness in the stillness of dusk. The cafe was packed with long-faced men in robes sipping b lack coffee, smoking dark tobacco. A waiter weaved between the ta bles, tray balanced on upturned fingertips, glass balanced on tra y. In that moment, day became night. The sitters drew deep on the ir cigarettes, coughed, and stared out at the street. Some were w orrying, others dreaming, or just sitting in silence. The same ri tual is played out each evening across Morocco, the desert kingdo m in Africa's northwest, nudged up against the Atlantic shore. As the last strains of sunlight dissipated, the chatter began again , the hum of calm voices breaking gently over the traffic. The b ackstreet cafe in Casablanca was for me a place of mystery, a pla ce with a soul, a place with danger. There was a sense that the s afety nets had been cut away, that each citizen walked upon the h igh wire of this, the real world. I longed not merely to travel t hrough it, but to live in such a city. My wife, Rachana, who was pregnant, had reservations from the start. These were fueled all the more when I ranted on about the need for uncertainty and for danger. She said that our little daughter required a secure home , that her childhood could do without an exotic backdrop. I raise d the stakes, promising a cook, a maid, an army of nannies, and s unshine--unending, glorious sunshine. Since moving from India eig ht years before, Rachana had hardly ever glimpsed the sun in the drab London sky. She had almost forgotten how it looked. I remind ed her of what we were missing--the dazzle of yellow morning ligh t breaking through bedroom curtains, the drone of bumblebees in h oneysuckle, rich aromas wafting through narrow streets, where mar ket stalls are a blaze of color, heaped with spices--paprika and turmeric, cinnamon, cumin and fenugreek. All this in a land where the family is still the core of life, where traditions die hard, and where children can grow up knowing the meaning of honor, pri de, and respect. I was tired of our meager existence and the pal try size of our apartment, where the warring couple next door pla gued us through paper-thin walls. I wanted to escape to a house o f serious dimensions, a fantasy inspired by the pages of The Arab ian Nights, with arches and colonnades, towering doors fashioned from aromatic cedar, courtyards with gardens hidden inside, stabl es and fountains, orchards of fruit trees, and dozens and dozens of rooms. ANYONE WHO HAS EVER tried to make a break from the dam p English shores has needed a long list of reasons. I have often wondered how the pilgrims on the Mayflower ever managed to get aw ay at all. Friends and family regard would-be escapees as crazed. Mine were no exception. At first they scoffed at my plan to move abroad, and when they realized I wasn't interested in the usual bolt-holes--southern France or Spain--they weighed in with fighti ng talk. They branded me as irresponsible, unfit to be a parent, a dreamer destined for failure. The pressure to abandon my dream mounted. It became so great that I did almost back down. Then, o ne dreary winter morning, I passed a crowd of people on a central London street. An elderly man at the middle of the group was bei ng wrestled to the ground by two police officers. He was dressed in business attire--pressed white shirt, silk tie, and three-piec e suit, with a plump red carnation pinned to his lapel. In a biza rre display of eccentricity, he had taken off his trousers and wa s wearing his underpants on his head. The police, who were not am used, were busy cuffing the man's hands behind his back. A young woman nearby was screaming, begging the authorities to lock the m adman up. As the man was bundled into an armored police van, he t urned and shouted: Don't waste your life following others! Be in dividual! Live your dreams! The steel doors slammed, the vehicle sped away, and the crowd dispersed--all except for me. I stood t here thinking over what I had seen, and what the supposed madman had said. He was right. Ours was a society of followers, trapped by an island mentality. I made a promise to myself right then. I would not be subdued by others' expectations. I would risk everyt hing and leave the island, dragging my family with me. Together w e would search for freedom, and for a land where we could be ours elves. CASABLANCA'S EVENING RUSH OF traffic rivals any in its fe rocity. But it has never been so wild as it was on the late sprin g day that I took possession of the Caliph's House. I had sat in the cafe all afternoon, waiting for the rendezvous with the lawye r. He had told me to come to his office at eight p.m. At seven fi fty-five I pressed a coin to the tabletop, left the cafe, and cro ssed the street. I passed a glass-fronted hotel flanked by proud date palms. An empty tour bus stood outside it, a pair of donkey carts beside, each piled high with overripe fruit. A moment later I was climbing up the curved stairwell of a dilapidated Art Deco building. I rapped at an oak door on the third story. The lawyer opened it, greeted me stiffly, and led the way into his office. There was an official-looking Arabic document on the desk. The l awyer ordered me to read it through. I don't know Arabic, I said . Then you'd better just sign it, he replied, glancing at a gold Rolex on his wrist. He handed me a Mont Blanc. I signed the pap er as instructed. The lawyer stood up and slid a hefty iron key a cross the desk. You are a very brave man, he said. I paused for a moment to look him in the eye. He didn't flinch. I lifted the key. As I did so, I was knocked to the floor by the force of a vi olent explosion. The windows blew inward, shattering with spectac ular energy, sending a hailstorm of glass through the office. Dea fened, covered in broken glass, and confused, I struggled to my f eet. My legs were shaking so badly that I had trouble standing. T he impeccably dressed legal man was crouched beneath his desk, as if he had previous experience of this kind. He rose silently, du sted the glass from his shoulders, straightened his silk tie, and opened the door for me to leave. Out on the street, people were screaming, running in all directions, fire alarms shrieking, pol ice sirens wailing. There was blood, too. Lots of it, strewn acro ss faces and over slashed clothing. I was too shaken to be of any use to the injured, who were now streaming from the glass-fronte d hotel. As I observed them in slow motion, a small red taxi pull ed up fast. The driver was calling desperately from the passenger window: Etranger! Monsieur etranger! he yelled. Come quickly, i t's dangerous for the foreigners! I clambered in and he swung the wheel, hurling us into the slipstream of traffic. It's bombers, suicide bombers, he said, they're going off across Casablanca! The red Peugeot slalomed westward, out of the center of town. But my mind was not on the traffic, the bombs, or the blood. Rather, it was on my wife, at home in London. I could see the news flash tearing over the TV screen, and her clutching our toddler to her very pregnant belly. I felt sure she would now be in no mood to embrace a new culture and a dream. She had been fearful of Morocc o's Islamic society, especially in light of Al Qaeda's September 11 attacks and the second Gulf conflict, which had toppled Saddam Hussein only days before. But it was too late to turn back. The money had been paid, the documents signed, stamped once, and stam ped again. In my hands was the key: a symbol of the future or, p erhaps, of a deranged purchase. I stared down at it, taking in th e ancient iron notches, cursing myself for having courted danger so openly. At that moment, the driver slammed on the brakes. We have arrived! he exclaimed. MY REASONS FOR MOROCCO were many. Th ey were endless, and began a long time ago. Throughout my own chi ldhood, my father, who was an Afghan, had wanted to take us to hi s homeland. But the nation's enduring wars prevented us from ever venturing to the lofty mountain strongholds of Afghanistan. So, from the time we could walk, my sisters and I were frequently bus tled into the family station wagon, vinyl cases laden high on the roof. Our gardener would drive us from the dull, serene lanes of the English countryside, through France and Spain, and up into M orocco's High Atlas Mountains. For my father it was a chance to reveal to his children fragments of his own homeland. We found a tapestry of mountain passes and steep-sided valleys, of deserts a nd oases and imperial fortress cities, a culture bound by the tri bal codes of honor and respect. For my mother, it was an opportun ity to snap up all manner of bargains, from caftans to candlestic ks, and to order the delirious heaps of hippies home to their own mothers far away. We would spend weeks at a time trundling thro ugh the mountains, and driving down to the soaring dunes of the S ahara, where the blue men traipsed in from the desert, their dark skin dyed by indigo robes. There would be regular breaks to thro w up in the bushes, to gorge ourselves on cactus fruit, and to tr ade our pocket money for chips of amethyst at the quarries in the hills. My earliest memories are of the great walled city of Fes . Cobbled lanes no wider than a barrel's length, dimly lit and be witching, where street-side stalls sold anything you could ever w ish to buy. There were mountains of spices and fresh-cut herbs--s affron, aniseed, paprika--pickled lemons and mounds of gleaming o lives; small cedar boxes inset with camel bone; fragrant leather sandals and terracotta pots; rough Berber rugs, golden caftans, a mulets and talismans. By far my favorite corner of the souq was where the black magicians would go to buy ingredients for their s pells. The walls of those shops were hung with cages. In them wer e live chameleons, cobras, salamanders, and forlorn-looking eagle s. There were cabinets, too, made from battered Burma teak, their drawers brimming with dried whale skin, the hair of dead men, an d other such things, so my father said. Morocco had brought colo r to my sanitized English childhood, which was more usually cloak ed in itchy gray flannel shirts and corduroy shorts, acted out be neath an overcast sky. The kingdom had always been a place of esc ape, a place of astonishing intensity, but, beyond all else, a pl ace with a soul. With a young family of my own, I regarded it as my duty, my responsibility, to pass on the same gift to my childr en--a gift of cultural color. It would have been far easier to ha ve given in and not to have made the great escape from the island 's shores. But something deep inside me goaded me on: a sense tha t if I did not seize the moment, I would regret it for the rest o f my life. There was another strong reason for Morocco--my fathe r's father. He spent the last years of his life in a small villa near the seafront in Tangier. When his beloved wife died at just fifty-nine, he was broken. Unable to bear the memories, he moved to Morocco because they had never traveled there together. One mo rning while walking the usual route down the hill, from Cafe Fran ce back to his home, he was struck by a reversing Coca-Cola truck . Unconscious and bleeding, he was rushed to the hospital, where he died hours later. I was too small then to even remember him, b ut I felt a sadness all the same. WE SEARCHED MOROCCO FOR months , desperate to find a house where my delusions of grandeur could run wild. Our starting point was Fes, undoubtedly Morocco's great est jewel. It is the only medieval Arab city that remains entirel y intact. Walking through the labyrinth of streets that make up t he vast medina is like stepping into The Thousand and One Nights. The smells, sights, and sounds bombard the senses. A stroll of a few feet can be an overwhelming experience. For centuries, Fes w as a place of impressive wealth, a center of scholarship and trad e. Its houses reflect a confidence in Arab architecture almost ne ver seen elsewhere, their decor profiting from a line of apprenti ces unbroken for a thousand years. We found the alleyways of the old city teeming with workshops where the traditional skills of m etalwork and leather tanning, of mosaic design, weaving, ceramics , and marquetry, were still transferred from father to son. By c hance we were taken to a large merchant's house on the northern e dge of the old city. It had been constructed in the grand Fasi st yle and dated back at least four hundred years. Six cavernous sal ons were clustered around a central courtyard, each one adorned w ith mosaic friezes, the floors laid with slabs of marble hewn fro m the Middle Atlas Mountains. Around the courtyard, columns tower ed up to the sky, and at its center stood a lotus-shaped fountain crafted from the finest alabaster. High on an adjacent wall was a modest glassless window, veiled by a wooden filigree screen, a lookout point from what once would have been the harem. The man showing off the building was a kebab seller with contacts. He sai d it had been empty for just a handful of years. I balked at the remark--the place was in need of desperate repair. It looked to m e as if it had been abandoned for at least half a century. In Mo rocco, said the kebab seller with a smile, an empty house invites the wicked. You mean thieves? The man shook his head violently . Not wicked people, he said, wicked forces. At the time, I had no idea what the agent meant. Brushing his comment aside, I bega n at once negotiating for the house. The problem was that it was owned by seven brothers, each one more avaricious than the last. Unlike the West, where a property is either for sale or it is not , in Morocco, it can be in the twilight zone of realty--possibly for sale, possibly not. Before even getting to the price, you mus t first coax the owners to sell. This coaxing phase is an Orienta l feature, no doubt brought to the region by the Arabs as they sw ept across North Africa fourteen centuries ago. As you sit over g lasses of sweet mint tea, cajoling madly, the vendors look you up and down, inspecting the craftsmanship of your clothing and the stitching of your shoes. The better the quality of your attire, t he higher the price is likely to be. I must have been too well d ressed on the morning of my meeting with the seven ghoulish broth ers who owned the merchant's house. After four hours of coaxing, cajoling, and quaffing gallons of mint tea, they agreed in princi ple to a sale. Then they spat out a fantasy price and narrowed th eir eyes greedily. My bargaining skills were undeveloped. I shoul d have stayed, sucked down more tea, and bargained through the af ternoon and into the night. But instead I leapt up and ran out in to the labyrinth, cursing. In doing so, I had broken the first ru le of the Arab world--never lose your cool. .
2
The Caliph's House (2006)
EN HC NW EB DLISBN: 9780553902310 bzw. 0553902318, in Englisch, Bantam, Bantam, Bantam, gebundenes Buch, neu, E-Book, elektronischer Download.
Lieferung aus: Kanada, in-stock.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family's move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge-and nothing is as easy as it seems….Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city's caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir's fantasy-until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph's House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family's move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge-and nothing is as easy as it seems….Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city's caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir's fantasy-until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph's House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition.
3
The Caliph's House (2006)
EN NW EB DLISBN: 9780553902310 bzw. 0553902318, in Englisch, 368 Seiten, Bantam, neu, E-Book, elektronischer Download.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, الكتاب الإليكتروني للتحميل, الشحن مجاناً.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition., Kindle Edition, تنسيق: Kindle eBook, التسمية: Bantam, Bantam, مجموعة المنتجات: eBooks, ونشرت: 2006-01-31, تاريخ الإصدار: 2006-01-31, ستوديو: Bantam, رتبة المبيعات: 157868.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition., Kindle Edition, تنسيق: Kindle eBook, التسمية: Bantam, Bantam, مجموعة المنتجات: eBooks, ونشرت: 2006-01-31, تاريخ الإصدار: 2006-01-31, ستوديو: Bantam, رتبة المبيعات: 157868.
4
The Caliph's House (2006)
EN NW EB DLISBN: 9780553902310 bzw. 0553902318, in Englisch, 368 Seiten, Bantam, neu, E-Book, elektronischer Download.
Lieferung aus: Kanada, الكتاب الإليكتروني للتحميل, الشحن مجاناً.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition., Kindle Edition, تنسيق: Kindle eBook, التسمية: Bantam, Bantam, مجموعة المنتجات: eBooks, ونشرت: 2006-01-31, تاريخ الإصدار: 2006-01-31, ستوديو: Bantam, رتبة المبيعات: 90765.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition., Kindle Edition, تنسيق: Kindle eBook, التسمية: Bantam, Bantam, مجموعة المنتجات: eBooks, ونشرت: 2006-01-31, تاريخ الإصدار: 2006-01-31, ستوديو: Bantam, رتبة المبيعات: 90765.
5
The Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca (2006)
EN PB USISBN: 9780553383102 bzw. 0553383108, in Englisch, 368 Seiten, Bantam, Taschenbuch, gebraucht.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, Usually ships in 1-2 business days.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Texas Book Depot.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition., Paperback, Ausgabe: Reprint, Label: Bantam, Bantam, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2006-12-26, Freigegeben: 2006-12-26, Studio: Bantam, Verkaufsrang: 80754.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Texas Book Depot.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition., Paperback, Ausgabe: Reprint, Label: Bantam, Bantam, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2006-12-26, Freigegeben: 2006-12-26, Studio: Bantam, Verkaufsrang: 80754.
6
The Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca (2006)
EN PB NWISBN: 9780553383102 bzw. 0553383108, in Englisch, 368 Seiten, Bantam, Taschenbuch, neu.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, Usually ships in 1-2 business days.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Breakout Publications.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition., Paperback, Ausgabe: Reprint, Label: Bantam, Bantam, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2006-12-26, Freigegeben: 2006-12-26, Studio: Bantam, Verkaufsrang: 80754.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Breakout Publications.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. From the Hardcover edition., Paperback, Ausgabe: Reprint, Label: Bantam, Bantam, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2006-12-26, Freigegeben: 2006-12-26, Studio: Bantam, Verkaufsrang: 80754.
7
Caliph`s House
EN NWISBN: 9780553902310 bzw. 0553902318, in Englisch, Random House Publishing Group, neu.
Lieferung aus: Deutschland, الشحن المجاني.
Caliph`s House: In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’ s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge-and nothing is as easy as it seems… . Englisch, Ebook.
Caliph`s House: In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’ s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge-and nothing is as easy as it seems… . Englisch, Ebook.
8
The Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca (2006)
EN HC US FEISBN: 9780553803990 bzw. 0553803999, in Englisch, 348 Seiten, Bantam, gebundenes Buch, gebraucht, Erstausgabe.
Neu ab: $31.60 (14 Angebote)
Gebraucht ab: $0.01 (53 Angebote)
Zu den weiteren 67 Angeboten bei Amazon.com
Lieferung aus: Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, Usually ships in 1-2 business days.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Second City Books.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. Hardcover, Ausgabe: First Edition, Label: Bantam, Bantam, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2006-01-31, Freigegeben: 2006-01-31, Studio: Bantam, Verkaufsrang: 1083879.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Second City Books.
In the tradition of A Year in Provence and Under the Tuscan Sun, acclaimed English travel writer Tahir Shah shares a highly entertaining account of making an exotic dream come true. By turns hilarious and harrowing, here is the story of his family’s move from the gray skies of London to the sun-drenched city of Casablanca, where Islamic tradition and African folklore converge–and nothing is as easy as it seems…. Inspired by the Moroccan vacations of his childhood, Tahir Shah dreamed of making a home in that astonishing country. At age thirty-six he got his chance. Investing what money he and his wife, Rachana, had, Tahir packed up his growing family and bought Dar Khalifa, a crumbling ruin of a mansion by the sea in Casablanca that once belonged to the city’s caliph, or spiritual leader. With its lush grounds, cool, secluded courtyards, and relaxed pace, life at Dar Khalifa seems sure to fulfill Tahir’s fantasy–until he discovers that in many ways he is farther from home than he imagined. For in Morocco an empty house is thought to attract jinns, invisible spirits unique to the Islamic world. The ardent belief in their presence greatly hampers sleep and renovation plans, but that is just the beginning. From elaborate exorcism rituals involving sacrificial goats to dealing with gangster neighbors intent on stealing their property, the Shahs must cope with a new culture and all that comes with it. Endlessly enthralling, The Caliph’s House charts a year in the life of one family who takes a tremendous gamble. As we follow Tahir on his travels throughout the kingdom, from Tangier to Marrakech to the Sahara, we discover a world of fierce contrasts that any true adventurer would be thrilled to call home. Hardcover, Ausgabe: First Edition, Label: Bantam, Bantam, Produktgruppe: Book, Publiziert: 2006-01-31, Freigegeben: 2006-01-31, Studio: Bantam, Verkaufsrang: 1083879.
10
The Caliph's House: A Year in Casablanca (NoDust)
EN USISBN: 9780553803990 bzw. 0553803999, in Englisch, Bantam Books, Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, gebraucht.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, نوع التسليم: Free, التسليم: في جميع أنحاء العالم, موقع العرض: USA, الشحن المجاني.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, silver-arch-books - silverarchbooksstore.
by Shah, Tahir | HC | Good, سعر ثابت.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, silver-arch-books - silverarchbooksstore.
by Shah, Tahir | HC | Good, سعر ثابت.
Lade…