Catching Sun in Essaouira
- Noah Joubert
- Jan 17, 2017
- 6 min read
“Right, so you really think that’s worth it?” I say to Lukas, who was avidly arguing over the price of an avocado with the food vendor. We were hidden away from the main street of the medina, in a rather large food market only accessible through two doors hidden in between big piles of mouthwatering olives.
“Well I don’t think we’ll get as lucky as the other day with the avocado cart, I haven’t seen it around in a while. It’s better than no avocados, that’s for sure.” He replies and exchanges money with the vendor. The smell of mandarines; old tomatoes and freshly butchered meat follows us as we depart through the doors to embark on the ordeal of climbing the stairs of our hostel to its magnificent rooftop. Fresh mandarines, delicious olives, bread, avocado and a stunning view over the old medina of Essaouira prepared us for the little trip Lukas and I had planned for today. After having spent six days in Essaouira I was definitely not feeling bored of the town, but a change of scene surely would do me some good. After walking along the beach for a short while we get to a roundabout and a simple glance into the eyes of a passing driver makes him stop for us right away. In broken french and the drivers broken english we manage to communicate that we are trying to hitch a ride to Sidi Kaouki, a small town south of Essaouira.
“So Houssein, what do you do for a living here?” I ask to try and spark up a conversation. He had just prepared a line of tobacco snuff on his left hand, while steering the car. He snorts the line, quickly raises his head to not loose view of the road and replies.
“I’m policeman since 27 years in Essaouira.” At this very moment we pass by a police control and briefly stop as the traffic officer was wanting to greet his colleague, reaffirming Houssein’s reply.
“Ah how interesting, so you’ve been doing this all your life then?” I say, conjecturing based on his young face.
“Yes, nearly. I worked as service social for two years when 19, like youth worker.” The conversation continues, with Lukas enjoying some contemplative time in the back, till our arrival in the town El Ghazoua. From there it only took another ten minutes of waiting, after which we jumped into the back of a white van which was empty except for two large metal boxes.
“These are just the right size to be our coffins.” Lukas says a little worried but in a joking manner. The bumpy road shortly reaches its end and the french drivers open the sliding door. Right in front of us we see camels walking on the straight and wide beach with long barrel waves in the backdrop. We thank the driver and continue by searching for a nice place to sleep. With a budget being constrained to about 100 dirham a night, I wasn’t hopeful that we’d find a nice place, but fortune was with us. The first hotel we went into, which stunned us with the luscious garden in front and a grand entrance hall, was located right by the beach with the most wonderful rooftop view. Karine, the french owner, without much questioning offered us refuge for the price we offered. Thus, our little trip to Sidi Kaouki had all of a sudden become a lot more comfortable than imagined, and further, we extended our stay from the planned two to six days. The following day we spent exploring the beach as far as 15km south of our hotel ‘Auberge de Marabou’. As the sun kisses the horizon we reach the restaurant of a friend’s friend that I had made on the flight from London to Essaouira. Our hungry eyes were met by the most delicious moroccan pancakes. My heart was filled with youthful joy as the honey and Argan oil we had dipped the pancakes in ran down my fingers.
“Wow, this was perfect. Exactly what I had needed. Shukran! Eating like this brings memories of my childhood to me, licking my sticky fingers after lovely pancakes.” I say and do just that. Farah and Youssef, the runners of the restaurant, smile widely in response.
“Oh yes, you can’t imagine how wild it sometimes got in my village.” Youssef responds, “You know, the families with large land they have a huge couscous every night. As a child, and still now, we always ate like crazy. Imagine my hands being covered in couscous, oil everywhere. So good.”
As Youssef reminisced I pour myself some tea, and attempting to do it in the expressive manner of moroccan culture, I end up spilling some of the tea.
“Haha, you would be fired, castrated and never allowed to prepare tea again if you were Moroccan.” Youssef says laughing. “There’s a funny story about this from a friend of mine. He was having to serve the tea at a large wedding and had forgotten to add sugar. As you probably know by now, Moroccan tea has to be served with laarge amounts of sugar. To save his life from the shame he would receive were people to realise his mistake he told everyone that there was only one cup of tea without sugar. Also, he said that whoever would drink the tea without sugar would have to pay for everyone else’s. Of course no one wanted to pay so no one admitted to having no sugar and he managed to save his honour.”
A couple of days of reading and relaxing later we hitch back into the town of Essaouira where our paths part. After dropping Lukas off at the bus station, as he would travel to Fez that evening, I walk back towards the medina in search of my hostel. Shortly after entering through one of the immense gates of the wall surrounding the old town a familiar face approaches me.
“Hey man, how are you? You want hash? Opium? Heroin?”
“Shukran, wolakin la khoya.” (Thank you, but no my brother.) I reply with a standard line I had perfected since the past two weeks.
“Ah you don’t remember me? We met a week ago. Come on. Remember?!”
“Mhm, ah ok yes of course. Now I remember.” (I didn’t)
“I want to invite you for tea khoya, it’s not far. Near the place with the pisara (soup). Near where we met.”
While not interested in the drugs he was offering he seemed nice enough and I follow him through a back alley into a small cafe. We climb the stairs to the top level where he, Mohammed, rolls himself a spliff and I order my tea.
“You know Nuh, life is not easy around here. I just sell this stuff to buy medicine for my sick mother. She very ill, and work here not pay. Maybe buy half this block of hash?”
“Thank you my friend, but really, I’m not in need. I appreciate it, but no thank you. I’m sorry to hear about your mother Mohammed.”
“Yes, ok. No problem. Maybe when you come back you can bring machines? You know, metal cutter from Germany? Like that I could work better here. It’s just difficult otherwise.”
“I’ll see what I can do the next time I come, but I can’t promise anything.”
“Good, very good. You know, I have sister. She about your age. If you want I can connect you two. She not married, you know.”
As I finish my tea and stress repeatedly that I am not ready to marry quite yet, I head back out of the cafe. Walking down the stairs I tread on the dirt that had been engrained into the steps after decades of being forgotten by the cleaner. The rough floor of the back alley leads me out to the main road of the medina and after passing by spice sellers; wood artists; Touareg silversmiths; sugar cane juicers and fruit stalls I take a left. On the smaller path women grinding almonds into a thin paste to make Amlou, a combination of almonds, honey and argan oil greet me; and are followed by carpet salesman and leather crafters. I take another left and then a right. After passing underneath the low ceilings of old pathways I reach the hostel.
On my last day one of the long-term residents of the hostels invites me to see the sunset. With two others we depart and head to the main square of Essaouira. We turn right to a small, yet busy, beach and continue walking closely along the tall, bright orange walls of the medina. After 20 minutes of jumping over sharp edges and across coral grounds we reach the most idyllic spot. With a great range of sight we can observe the hardworking fishermen as their long fishing rods protruded out of the rocks to our left.
“They are crazy man, they come here in any weather. I’ve seen them cross that thin slither of rock over there when the waves were three times their own height. Very risky to fish here.” Sufjan, the long-term resident of the hostel, shouts over the roaring of the clashing waves.
We seat ourselves into different rock faces along the ridge of the cliff and in my mind I let the past few weeks flash by. I watch three birds gliding over the orange moroccan sun while it descends into the depths of the Atlantic and I can't help but think to myself how privileged I am to experience such wonderful moments.
Commentaires