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A Little Peace in El OualidiaOysters, Birds and Conversations on Morocco’s Atlantic CoastBy Pamela Windo
Even I didn’t know about it and I lived in Morocco for seven years—from 1989 until 1996. I lived in Marrakech, and traveled all over the country, but rarely to the coast, deeming it insignificant beside Moorish citadels, exotic bazaars, camels and kasbahs. It wasn’t until the end of my stay that I first discovered El Oualidia on a drive down the coast from Tangier. Although every year since I moved back to the States I vow I will go somewhere else to vacation, and with more reason not to go this time, here I am in Morocco again—to see the lagoon, visit Marrakech and stay with old friends. We’ve been e.mailing and telephoning each other these last few months, to reassure ourselves that the distance between us has not widened more than the miles, that we are not the enemies it might seem in the Press, or from the recent million-strong Moroccan demonstration in support of Palestine. And so I arrived at Casablanca airport at seven o’clock this morning. I swept through formalities and customs in a record fifteen minutes, congratulating myself on my prudently packed carry-on bag, and then stepped out into the sea of sleepy dark-eyed faces in the arrivals’ hall. The plane had come from New York via Montreal and was full of Moroccan nationals with their families, commuting between their adopted land and their homeland. The only hitch had come when I searched among the greeter placards for my name and drew a blank. A friend in Marrakech had arranged to send me a rental car, and I knew he wouldn’t let me down. One young man, leaning lazily against a pillar, was holding his placard against him, the front facing his belly. Chances were that one was for me. I approached him and pointed at the placard. He turned it to face me. Bingo, my name! I didn’t stop to ask how he thought I’d find him without me seeing my name, I was more eager to get to the car and be on my way. I cut across to the coast just south of the airport, from the Berber market town of Berechid, and found myself alone on a thin paved road that flew like an arrow through flat fields of barley, edged with wild flowers, calendulas, chamomile, and carpets of scarlet poppies. Flitting birds and the occasional farmer were my only company. The quiet road eventually met the coast road and soon I was motoring southwards to El Oualidia, passing first through the fortress town of Azemmour and then through El Jadida, a bustling city and resort with gleaming white buildings and ivory beaches. A second small hitch here—I lost my sense of direction in the city’s thrumming heart. At a t-junction, I couldn’t decide whether El Oualidia was to the right or the left? I took the right filter-lane, and still hesitating, called out to a passerby: it was to the left. Unfortunately, on the other side of the road was a policeman in navy serge suit and peaked cap. I smiled at him and shrugged, hoping he would take pity on the foreign woman. But as I made the illegal left turn, his arm flew in the air, signaling me to stop and pull over. I pleaded my case but he must have been deaf, since he began entering car and license details in a big book with many carbon copies. “It’s a 400 Dirham fine,” he said. I pleaded again, saying I hadn’t done anything dangerous. “I’m a nice guy, how about 100?” he replied. For a moment I thought I was in the souk again, but the transaction finished with smiles, and me only $10 the poorer. Just south of El Jadida, I passed the space-age Jorf Lasfar port, wishing I could blink and make it disappear, and then with the Atlantic Ocean still in sight to my right, I was driving through more fertile farmland, this time edged with tall swaying reeds. Once or twice, I caught sight of pairs of white herons daintily picking their way through the hedges in pursuit of tidbits. Mile upon mile of neat parcels of vegetable-growing land swept down the gently sloping hills as far as the sea’s edge. The locals were busy with the crops, washing carrots and turnips at wells and stacking them up in carts and trucks. No Tuscan beauty here; rather an imperfect simple scenery; rough white huts, windows without glass, mules tethered outside, homes and farm shanties overrun by red geraniums, all left half-finished, like works in progress. Just before El Oualidia had come the miles of salt pans, and hillocks of off-white sea salt, and with these I had known I was close to my destination and my driving nearly over. Now, here at the top of the hill, I’m stepping back in time, not only to the time I was here last, but to another era. El Oualidia is a simple place with a faded yesteryear charm, time-forgotten, civilization-forgotten. And that is why I’m here. To forget—will it be possible?—the wearing emotions, mental anguish and soul searching we’ve been through—I can’t seem to say “I’ve been through…”—since last September. I was last here beside the lagoon a month before the planes wreaked their irrevocable havoc.
Ahmed was born in El Oualidia, his family has lived there for generations, and after spending 13 years in Canada as a restaurant owner, has recently returned to his birthplace. He orders me coffee and has my bag taken to my room. I’ve finally come to a stop, and sit down in the restaurant terrace where the trellises cast soft filigree shadows across the tables and walls. We talk for a while. Ahmed has a passion, he has returned home with a mission, not only to make a success of his Inn, but also to encourage the young people of his sleepy town by sharing with them what he has seen and learned in Canada. He plans to organize a festival of everyday arts and crafts, the trades of the local people—from wrought iron, to ceramics and textiles, to cookery and bread-making (anyone who has been to Morocco will vouch for its delicious variety of breads). His idea is for them to wear traditional dress and hold workshops to demonstrate their skills, and to stage the festival in the grounds of the hilltop Kasbah that Sultan El Oualid built in the 16th century. “Our young people, so much untapped potential,” he says. “We must give them a future, and it helps to see themselves through the eyes of foreigners.” I suppose, as it were, in a different mirror. Ahmed is hoping for foreign sponsors to help in his project, and tells me about a Swiss lady in Marrakesh who owns a beautiful house, a luxury Riad Enija B&B. She pays for the schooling of a fatherless boy, and paid for a hearing aid and special lessons for another boy who became deaf and dumb from a virus—her reasoning, to give back to the country in which she is making her living.
Sprawled in an arc around the lagoon are a few beach huts and houses, some abandoned, some with high walls and gardens still inhabited by French colonists who could never drag themselves away, as well as some small seafood stalls and cafes. Among these are two more Inns, whose names, translated, are The Sea Horse and The Greedy Spider Crab. A couple more summerhouses have been built since last year up near the beach, and against the hill, I’m sad to say (very selfish of me) I see the makings of a holiday complex, a series of small white villas with blue and yellow windows and doors. El Oualidia has been noticed; it doesn’t exist just for me! El Oualidia lies on the legendary Barbary Coast, which, according to the Romans, was the realm of barbarians—non-Christians—people known today as Berbers. It stretches from Egypt to Tangiers and then for two thousand miles down as far as Morocco’s border with Mauritania. A coastline coveted through the millennia by Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Portuguese and Spanish traders, to name but a few, it tells a wild saga, littered as it is with the impressive relics of successive colonizers, seafaring conquerors and Barbary pirates. From the north to the south, are the well-preserved remains of forts, bastions, skalas, seawalls, ramparts and even a beautiful gothic-style cistern.
As we drift along in silence in the blue-green water, I espy two other rare species with my binoculars: a small boy, far away, striding across the bluffs, and closer, a man in a rough brown djellaba brewing tea outside his lean-to at the water’s edge—according to Ahmed’s uncle, the guardian of the oyster beds.
Two days later, I drive 40 miles up the coast to Le Relais, a breeze-blown French-style Inn overlooking a wide secluded cove. The Inn stands on a lonely stretch of road, its whitewashed walls, shutters of Mediterranean blue, and flowers of rainbow hues, irresistible to motorists passing by. The manager, Brahim is stocky in build, of cheerful disposition and sports a well-manicured mustache. He seats me at a table with an Ocean view and proudly insists on offering me oysters, thus feeding a habit I will not be able to maintain in New York. These are followed by one of the best paellas I’ve ever tasted, and a tiny succulent grilled fish steak that resembles tuna. Brahim has worked at Le Relais for almost forty years, having seen several changes in ownership since its opening in 1938. He orders us a bottle of local white wine, and reminisces. “I remember when people from El Jadida came for lunch by horse and carriage, before we had cars in Morocco.” He tells me too that in 1941, American boats unloaded their troops on El Jadida’s shores for dispatch to the North African war front. There’s still an American submarine sunk in the port. The port of Jorf Lasfar is now a phosphate plant, the largest in Africa, that ships all over the world, boosting Morocco’s economy as it blights the beauty of its otherwise unspoiled coastline. Brahim also tells me that in 1999 an American company began constructing and operating an electricity-generating plant in the port that will provide 65% of Morocco’s electricity needs. I had planned to leave the coast after lunch and drive back across country to Marrakech, eager to see the friends who know I have already arrived in Morocco, but Brahim asks if I’ll stay for coffee with him and four other lunch guests, CEOs from the Jorf plant. I accept and plunge into a conversation that is quickly established in English—not much chance, I think, that four Americans would be able to speak Moroccan Arabic if the tables were turned. (I speak fluent French, the Moroccan’s second language, but my colloquial Arabic would not have held up). The gentlemen are curious about me traveling alone, and surprised and pleased to hear of my long stay in their country. One of them, Fouad, tells me about a conference he has recently attended in the company of André Azoulay, advisor to King Mohammed VI, and to his father King Hassan II before him. Mr. Azoulay happens to be Jewish, and also happens at this moment to be in the U.S. for His Majesty’s visit with President Bush. And so we segue into what becomes a quite impassioned debate—sustained by good strong espressos delivered by Brahim—about world events, mostly about Israel and Palestine, in which they express their desire for President Bush to act more strongly, to insist the Israelis stop their incursions. The images of Jenin have had their effect. To make sure I don’t misunderstand, the gentlemen tell me stories about the Jewish friends they’ve known all their lives. “I never even knew he was a Jew,” Fouad says about a friend. Jews came to Morocco before the Arabs, a thousand or so years ago, and settled in communities all over North Africa, especially in Morocco, living side by side with Berbers and Arabs ever since. They came too from Andalousia, fleeing the Inquisition, increasing the Jewish population to two or three million, until the State of Israel was declared and a great number went to settle there. In spite of the gravity of the topic, there is also humor in the conversation; an insistence on smiles, on eye contact, on hearing each other out, an exchange that could have taken place anywhere in the world. It ends amicably, without drastic disagreements or harsh words, as we exchange business cards and promise to keep in touch by email. As it is by now nearly five o’clock, I decide to take Brahim’s advice and stay overnight in the Inn, to leave for Marrakech early in the morning, in daylight. This gives me the perfect excuse for one more walk on the wild, deserted beach. As the glowing orange-red sun sinks like a beach ball into the Atlantic, I look West to where America’s coast must lie and sit down on this beach far from home to watch the birds play their last games of the day. They soar upwards inside the spiraling fountains of spray let loose by the crashing waves, and then skim across the sea, as close as they can get to the waves without touching them—avian surfers challenging nature. I too responded to a challenge, and have found a moment’s longed-for peace. E.mail: pamelawindo@msn.com Images by Simon Russell © and Pamela Windo |
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It’s the end of April, the air is fresh and the sun is
shining over Morocco. I get out of my car and stand on a hill that rises
steeply above a sparkling turquoise-blue lagoon. Ahead of me are the
foam-flecked blue-green waves of the Atlantic Ocean, and to my right the
snaking blue channels, inlets and creeks that meander for miles along the
coast. The hill, mercifully, hides this beauty spot from travelers on the
coastal road—you would have to make a small hidden turn in the center of the
nondescript market town of El Oualidia and drive down the hill a ways before
you’d catch sight of the lagoon.
I get back in the car again, drive down the hill and
stop near the seawall, gazing out at the picture-perfect lagoon. It’s high
tide, and the sea lightly laps the biscuit-colored sand on the rounded
shore. A few hundred yards away due west is the small breach that separates
the tidal lagoon from the Atlantic, a blue bobbing line between the rocky
bluffs reaching out from either side of the mainland. A trio of Audouin’s gulls arranges a fly past as if in my honor, and I
see assemblies of sea birds breakfasting over on the sandbanks.
Time now to check in at the
L'Initiale Inn where I’ll be staying
the next two days, down near the coastal beach where the road comes to a
sandy end. The white and blue villa that boasts six rooms and a restaurant
is veiled with bougainvillea, and fringed with hibiscus; the lagoon is to
its right and the Ocean to the front. The Inn’s owner, Ahmed, tanned and
with a nautical air about him, is sitting outside on a wall chatting to
someone who looks uncannily like him. Ahmed, who I met last year, recognizes
me inside my Fiat rental car—I’m clearly not a local—and comes over to open
the car door. He kisses me on the cheek and introduces me to the other man
who is in fact his brother. 
Salt-tasting
ocean breezes, the cries of seagulls, a warm sun on my face, a change of
rhythm. I take my leave of Ahmed, shower, change clothes and then I’m off
for a stroll around the lagoon to see if it’s still as I remember it.
Looking back towards the mainland, at the foot of the hill, there are the
ruins of the once-elegant summer palace of Sultan Mohammed V (the
grandfather of the current King Mohammed VI), its regal steps bringing His
Royal Majesty to within a few feet of the lagoon. Surrounded by a vista of
lofty dark-green stone pines, and tumbled down for half a century now, the
palace has a perfect panoramic view of the whole lagoon and the distant
narrow breach into the Ocean. I notice someone has thought to give the ruins
a coat of pale yellow paint, not sure I like it, the sand-colored crumbling
columns and walls were much more romantic before, like part of the
landscape. 
But one doesn’t really stay in El Oualidia to study
history, rather to soak up the tranquility and stow away oysters. This is
Oualidia’s other well-kept secret: oyster beds. From here, oysters are sent
out all over Morocco. At dinner, I swallow a half-dozen with a chilled
vinegary-shallot sauce. Cracking and eating the luscious spider crab that
comes next requires some sleight of hand and tongue, as I try simultaneously
to keep up conversation with my talkative dinner companions, a young English
couple from Birmingham. On the other hand, it requires no effort at all to
fall asleep tonight, what with my long tiring flight and drive, and the
abundant sea air.
Early the next morning, before the locals stir from
their beds, I take out my binoculars, roll up my jeans and wade out into the
lagoon to clamber aboard a cornflower-blue dinghy owned by Ahmed’s
septuagenarian uncle. A man of dark weathered skin and quiet manners, he
steers me slowly across the lagoon and through the inlets and channels to do
some bird watching—the first time I’ve done this since my childhood. I’m in the best possible place, one of the richest
bird habitats in Morocco. We stop here and there to walk across the
sandbanks, to get closer to some big black and white seabirds, as big as
penguins. I will have to study this bird watching business later. Back in
the boat, I keep the binoculars trained on the banks, where birds with
orange legs like stilts and birds with long curved beaks, and birds with
black rings about their throats strut and peck about for food—in all, I see
a good 15 varieties. (Later, I found a long list written in the visitors’
book by a British birdwatcher that included avocets, cormorants,
oystercatchers—of course—stilts and stints, whimbrels and redshanks. The
birds’ migration route lies over Morocco’s western seaboard, making it a
must-see place for ornithologists. Although I was told varying months by
different people, it seems generally the birds migrate to Europe from Africa
between March and late April—making several stopovers on their way in other
Moroccan marshes and lagoons—and fly from Europe back to Africa between
October and November. Some birds spend the whole winter in Morocco. 
In the afternoon, I walk over to the seaward beach. The
fleet of candy-pink fishing boats lies high on the dunes. Last year, I watched them go out at six in the morning and
returned around three in the afternoon to see the copious catch brought in
and set in the rock pools. I ask a fisherman sorting his nets why they’re
not out fishing today. “The sea’s bad today,” he says, pointing out to the
huge waves breaking high over black jagged rocks. I lie down to sun myself,
feeling quite naked in my swimsuit, although I know the locals are used to
foreigners’ and modern Moroccans’ habits. Three local women are sitting on
the sand a few yards away from me, covered in headscarves and ankle-length djellabas. A few men straddle the seawall behind me, indolently staring out
to sea.