Essaouria
As I walked into the medina in Essaouria, I felt the familiar warmth of the ancient walls welcoming and comforting me, a feeling of being encased in hundreds of years of history and the warm breaths of the thousands who had lived there. I had taken the bus from Rabat to Essaouria during the last few days of Ramadan. Walking from the tiny bus stop toward the medina, I had passed the kasbah, the medieval wall that once protected old town, wandered across a huge plaza defined by the port on my right and the ramparts on my left and down a street where café restaurants lined the sides. No one except a few obvious foreigners were sitting in the chairs that were highlighted by the sun. The pungent smell of fish and sea creatures swept over me.
Encased in the labyrinth of the medina, I began to pick out landmarks so that I could retrace my way back without getting lost — a store that sold argan and black soap, an art gallery with naïve paintings, and the Café de Paris. I continued down a wider market street. Colorful Moroccan carpets hung along both sides of the street while pyramids of spices in vivid hues of turmeric, cumin, ginger, cinnamon, saffron, ras el hanout, paprika, nutmeg, created a kaleidoscope of bright hues and comforting aromas that tantalized me as I made my way toward my hotel. My spirits lifted as I greeted the shopkeepers and felt like I had found the place where I belonged. My love affair with Morocco always came so alive when I walked down the market streets and felt the hustle bustle of buying and selling and people crowded around fresh produce, household goods, and fresh meats hanging from hooks.
Following my GPS, I turned down a tiny alley and to a tiny black door that announced, “La Maison des Artistes.” I felt at home. I climbed up the narrow steep stairs into a parlor that welcomed the guests. Isabelle, the owner, guided me to my room. Each story of the home swept around an inner courtyard, with rooms built back away from sight. Lined with potted plants and chaise lounges the courtyard comforted me and gave me peace. I so much resonated with the Moroccan style to hide the mysteries of their homes inside, appearing outside only like worn wooden doors going nowhere. The beauty was always revealed inside and shared only with those invited in. My room on the roof had doors that opened up to the roof top terrace, all painted blue with blue and white plastic chairs and chaise lounges and tables. Each room was themed according to a particular artistic style. Mine was impressionistic with a French country floral bedspread and a copy of Monet’s “Woman with a Parasol” and Degas’s “After the Bath” hanging on the white walls. The riad was filled with art, the common rooms packed with Moroccan art, exquisitely carved wooden furniture, leather stools, and paintings by Moroccan artists. Breakfast was served on the roof where I would stare out to the ocean and watch the seagulls land on the edge of the terrace wall. Often, they would squabble before flying back to catch their next prey. Warmed by the sun and surrounded by glorious blue skies and sea, I felt so much at peace, surrounded by the beauty of nature and protected from the stress of the city.
My guide Said was waiting for me at the ramparts. Said was in his early thirties, over six feet tall, with a beard and glasses. He was friendly and welcoming and we immediately became friends. He led me down the fishing pier to lunch on fresh fish caught early in the day. We sat in a small wooden table on the pier watching the fishermen dock their boats and put away their fishing gear. Said had a whimsical style and jumped up on the ramparts wall after lunch and implored me to photograph him. We next went to a café for espresso. With a high ceiling and tile floor, the café’s walls were packed with paintings by Moroccan artists. I became enthralled with the art and Said promised to take me to the largest art gallery in town the following day. We continued the tour throughout the city as Said explained the history of Essaouira and its importance to the maritime world of Morocco. Many European countries influenced the development of the port and a French architect designed the city at the behest of the Emperor in the 18th century, relying on French captives from a French Moroccan war to build it.
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Gnawa music was next on the tour. Essaouira hosts the annual gnawa festival each year so there are a number of the best gnawa musicians living here. Said took me up a narrow stairway into an apartment where the gnawa musicians were waiting for us. The guembri player was the lead and he greeted me with a smile and a bow. He was famous in Morocco and was dressed in a long gold robe and a fez adorned with beads and sequins. He was accompanied by ksrkabas and tbel musicians who were dressed similarly. They excused themselves and began to go out of the door with Said. It was clear they were exiting to smoke hash. I told them to stay, understanding that gnawa music was spiritual music that led to a trance. They smoked and I inhaled as much as I could, wanting to enter into the transformative power of the sounds. The strings of the guembri mixed with the rhythmic shaking of the ksrkabas and beat of the tbel and I began dancing around and around the room. They dressed me in a red robe and gave me the ksrkabas to shake to the beat and I twirled into a trance until I fell languid on the couch. I had gone inside the music and inside the spirit of the Moroccans and my love for the country and culture grew.
The next day, Said took me as promised to the art gallery. A huge space with several rooms, the gallery showed the most famous of Moroccan artists. I wandered for hours through the rooms mesmerized by the styles. My heart leaped for the naïve style paintings, many painted by illiterate and untrained artists. The shapes and colors of the figures, flat on the canvas, gave me intense joy. I bought a painting and a small wooden boat made by the same artists and rummaged through the attic for another painting of a Moroccan woman in blues and greys.
The next few days I wandered and dreamed. I climbed the stairs to a hammam tucked in the medina and basked in the bath while the attendant scrubbed off all my dead skin with black soap and a brush and relaxed with a deep massage, wondering why this tradition is not common in all countries.
I shopped in all the stores along the market street and bargained for silver jewelry with blue turquoise stones. I got a “good deal” from one store owner who I could tell needed money to buy his family feast for Eid. We haggled back and forth until we both were happy and I relished his joy that he would be able to celebrate with the money he got. I sat for hours in another shop while they plied me with tea going through the piles and piles of silver jewelry the owner bought in bulk from a trader. Talking with the merchant was what made the purchase all the more meaningful.
Eid came and the market street turned into a display of burning fires lining the dusty streets. Partially burned heads of sheep lay next to each fire as the sheep crackled in the fires. Sacrifice had taken place and everyone is waiting to celebrate the end of Ramadan, to feast in families, and give thanks to Allah for their abundance. The sweet, smokey and slightly putrid smell of the blackened sheep floated down the street and overcame me as I walked toward the sea.
I walked along the shore as far as I could and sauntered over to the bus reluctant to leave but I had to get back to work in Rabat.
