Grabbing a petite taxi in the Siddi Moumoun area of
the Marrakech Medina early morning to Gerliz requires
hard bargaining Morocco style as 2 cabs are needed with
four lots of baggage to get to Supra Tours bus station.
Warnings were heeded to book a day before on this busy connection
as only 2 seats were spare for the $9 three hour trip to Essaouira. The trip is uninspiring in the first hour passing through olive groves
spiked amid the lunar landscape with stone or mud walls separating lonely settlements. In godforsaken nondescript places signs
proclaim a forthcoming residential development in what must be the most optimistic punt in Africa. Moroccan flags wavered at any
modicum of habitation seemingly presenting a cult like
obeisance but explanations the King was on the way to
Essaouira put the fluttering into perspective. A stop for
halfway watering is the first influence of the Atlantic
and the sheep and goats seem to recognise the
appearance of grass with docile taciturnity. At any
vending point, no matter how small ,the loitering
of men seems to be the national sport as barely a
glance is elicited to interrupt the important tea
slurping, handholding and clouds of smoke.
Essaouira appears through the sand hills with
the pale silhouette taking up the skyline and from
a distance looks the archetypical whitewashed
Spanish or Legionnaire image of storybooks. The
bus pulls up out side the walls without fanfare or
announcement and there is a general hustle as
the barrow boys gather to badger the passengers
for baggage cartage into the vehicle free Medina
and souk.
Traipsing into the maze of passageways on a
search and rescue mission to find Villa Garrance
accommodation using undecipherable
maps,speaking bad pidgin-French in an
untranslatable fashion certainly shortens the
synapse. The Villa inside the medina is a cross between hotel and boarding house with 10 rooms on four layers with an internal
opening to a glass topped dome. Two French and Swiss girls run the place with a mix of Moroccans, a majority French clientele and
meals can be taken on the topmost terrace with views over the whitewashed terraces to a glimpse of ocean. The Villa has an intrinsic
charm and ample space at E65 per room but the common ailment of noise intrusion assures an early rising.
The essence of Essa in deference to Marrakech is that it
relaxes the soul at inception and the vendor hassle gene has
been replaced with a humorous banter of laidback
salesmanship. The Medina is far cleaner and the tight
passages are not competing with the pedestrian dodgems
cyclo-mania of the Marrakesh souk. The Medulla carries on
its trade in the open air and even the flies seem cleaner as
the saw pits of open butchery chop their way through good
looking carcasses and camel fetlocks amid the jostle of both
locals and tourists.
General merchandise is gaudily displayed on the sidewalks
with most goods being cheaper than Marrakech and lack of
harassment allows a more languid and controlled wallet
massage. Small eating establishments verge out into the
passages reaching a peak in Moulay Hassan the main
gathering space at the port. Any brochure or web travel
advice espouses the great value of visiting the fish markets
to bargain with the eating shacks so the fresh seafood can
be grilled on the spot.
Unfortunately the legend and its simplicity is better left on
paper as the prices have risen and the flavour of the Lobster,
crab, scampi, whole fish and fillets took on the carcinogenic taint of sameness as the grills crucified the offering. Good restaurants
with expansive views over the area with cold beer and good wines sport reasonable prices and international standards prevail in
Taros and Bab Laachour proving the most hygienic examples. Tourist traffic and cheap airfares makes easy holidaying access in a
Muslim country to sit in a relaxed atmosphere and sip a cold European beer or vino whilst contemplating the next calorific attack.
Today’s fishermen use the same openings in the ancient remains of the port and at least a hundred small boats ply the fish trade that
is a tourist drawcard. Seagulls crossed with vultures perform kamikaze manoeuvres picking up guts and leftovers in a guano
bombing run scattering the shutter buggers.
If any claim of rock fame exists then the fable of Jimmi Hendrix and his
alleged writing of Castles Made in Sand bares credence when
looking over the walls and spying a castle nestling ever so close
on a sandy enclave. It is understandable that the romance is
easily believed as a history of Portuguese fort building and
Moroccan culture is tied up in the town called the home of wind
surfing. The fort is in good repair with bronze cannons,
inscriptions on the barrels from 1600 to 1700, peering out over
the Island where Sir Walter Raleigh victualled while on his way
down the African Coast circa 1550. The stalls and merchants
have turned the arches of the old fort wall into galleries and
workplaces creating a balanced style of artistic charms that
verge on designer chic. The tourist trade from France seems to
have ingratiated its wants into these productions and the
Parisian style emerges as the major influence.
The night moves of locals and tourists gathers steam as all
head to Moulay Hassan fuelling the gyrating and swaying as
the Gnawa Drummers fill the large square. Noise reverberates
across the harbour but the syncopated hammering amplified
across the well patronised space was a little less harmonious
than expected. Every family seemed to have brought the kids
treating them to a happy night out with an alcohol free environment perhaps a very tame offering in comparison to Australian
performances. The charm of these gatherings lies in the seamless insouciance that tourism does not control or enter into the
essential Essaouira lifestyle.
Behold the kiss of death entered the fray as a waxing moon and dreamtime hammering was interrupted by a power outage as crowd
greeted it in a crescendo of catcalls and whistling. The concert stopped and the crowd dispersed into the alleys as candles tried to
put a glimmer of light into the dark shadows. The climb up the steep stairways of Villa Garrance was a fairyland of four floors and it
seemed a small inconvenience.
The next morning with no power and sub Antarctic shower conditions prevailing enquiries revealed a Moroccan dilemma. The King
and his entourage arrive into town to get close to the people, plug the Palace in and suck the grid into submission. The Royal visit
deteriorated into cold showers and candles ensuring the talk of hot showers became the cause celebre plus remarks alluding to the
concubinary and sufficient power for the harem
toys?
No electricity is needed for power shopping and a
blitzkrieg of bargain battering determines a trawl
through the souk for trinkets of arrangement for
both progeny and relatives. Scarfs, rings, exotic
cloths, bangles, leather shoes and minor critter
reproductions dominated as the vendors
succumbed to a beating over minor dollars. This
tourist pentathlon is an exhausting sport for grown
men requiring frequent café co-ordination in an
environment of superb taste testing to assuage the
proffering of meaningless opinion.
Alternatives to town is a hike down Essaouira
beach to Cap Sim crossing the River Ksab making
your way past the Castle in the Sand and from
there the beach stretches all the way to the light
house. On the way you pass a couple of small
fishing villages reminding you that people are still
happy to live out in the sticks.
The beach ends past the lighthouse but following
the trail along the coast leads to “The Cave" a very
popular windsurfing spot. Exiting the area is to
follow the trail inland to the main highway to complete a circumnavigation or continue along the coast to Sidi Kaouki.
Leaving Essaouira without replicating the Marrakech route required negotiation by the proprietors as the journey to Casablanca
along the coast is over 5 hours and a Grande Taxi was arranged. A fee of 1200 Dirham’s ($200) for 4 persons in a 25 year old 250D
Mercedes seemed a risky conveyance but a worthy experience as the driver spoke some English. Four large bags were strapped in
the boot, one bag acting as a counter balance and any trepidation by the female passengers evaporated as the competency, comfort
and ease of the driver emerged.
The route via Safi took on the guise of a Sergio Leone search for a spaghetti western set as the greyness, desolation, degradation
and barren ground was never ending. The rural poverty is pervasive and roadside men loll about in godforsaken, dusty shanty towns
in a never ending parade. Donkeys are tethered in bare patches by their two front feet to thwart wandering in a topography designed
by a prophet of gloom.
A stop at Safi for lunch (“End of Finish” in Arabic) is apt
terminology for a phosphate port surrounded by cliffs,
dirt, filth, haze, and rubbish offering nothing visually
to entice a stopover.
An interesting lunch in a Mac-tagine restaurant
brought the swiftest, smiling and most prompt service
in the whole of Morocco at a set price of 50 Dhms
inclusive of beef and vegetable tagines served a-la-
American style with large salad and fries.
The route from Safi passes yet another Kings Palace
along towering cliff tops and escarpments not unlike
the Australian Bight but blighted by Italianate Villas
atop the exposed rock bare soil. The grotesque
locked mansions perched lonely facing the elements
without intrinsic beauty acting as monuments to
largess and bad taste.
The road forward has little else to perk the soul other
than the frequent military roadblocks which were
explained away as ‘ looking for the ladies with the
beards ‘which accounted for the 10 suicide bombers
loose in the country.
No major settlements broke the journey and the
interesting places became an English Banks holiday Resort at Qualwadi and a drinks diversion into El Jebbidah showing off the
tidiest town of any note. All prior exhortations to avoid the need to go to Sam’s bar proved correct as Casablanca emerged a tortured
tribute to an overpopulated metropolis and is worthy only as an overnight exit port.
Evacuation Stresa meant we could not escape the hearty goodbyes and the night’s infusion of bon voyage blueberry grappa did not
help the Methode extractionaire to Malpensa Airport the next morning. The whole hotel turned out to watch the car on an Atkins diet
trim its “ears” on the tight walls as the nuances of ancient buildings impacted on the curse of modern conveyancing.
The largos give the European flavour to Italy and the pace is of a more mature, decadent lifestyle in antithesis to the walled village
simplicity throughout the southern sectors.
Roscoe King - mob: 0439761815 - a/h: 07-54446000 - email: Roscoetfdq@gmail.com - PO Box 505 4557
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Crash Pads - Check your baggage into flashpackers’
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