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All Along the Ramparts"Beautiful Essaouira is a Moroccan Marvel"By Jamie RossMy wife and I had traveled to Morocco, I suppose, to find Rick's Cafe American, a quiet, romantic place where Sam plays "As Time Goes By" on the club piano, while we sip mint tea in the soft shadows of a corner booth. Our Bogartian fantasy first took us, of course, to the coastal city of Casablanca, but here our romantic notions were shattered by the noise and bustle, the western commercialization, and the belching smokestacks of industrialization. We visited Rabat and Marrakech and Agadir, the centers that attract most of Morocco's foreign visitors, but still did not discover the romantic local charm we were looking for. Locals directed us towards a small city up the Atlantic coast from Agadir called Essaouira. Not that we disbelieved them, but wasn't this the place that had so enraptured Jimi Hendrix in the 1960's? Were we to discover a quiet, relaxing slice of Morocco, here, where the king of noise is still idolized?
Mehdl El Mezouari, the manager of the Hotel Des Iles, smiles at me proudly as he speaks, and then beckons my wife and I to follow him to a quaint cabana in the courtyard. The Atlantic Ocean can be seen from our window, with a beautiful, crescent beach. With the tide out, a trio of football games takes place on the hard sand. When the wind blows it becomes a haven for windsurfers.
The essence of Morocco is not to be found within our accommodations, no matter how reasonably priced, so we are quick to head to the heart of the town, the marketplace. Medina, (Arab for 'city'), refers to the old section of town built before French rule. The Essaouira Medina is neat and orderly, the most charming and least imposing we visit in Morocco. It is enclosed by the city's ancient ramparts and the medieval bastions of the historic Portuguese fort; friendly and laid‑back in its royal trim, whitewashed walls and alleys of blue cobblestone. Along the atmospheric, old market streets, local specialties include leather, silver and the lovely, mottled thuya wood carvings. And carpets ... At the Maison De Sud, we sip tea as carpets are set before us. We barter on prices and settle on two. The chunky shop manager, Mustapha, invites us back in the evening for dinner. We return to the shop after the work day and sit cross‑legged around a low table amongst the carpets. Tajines, a lamb stew enjoyed from a communal, earthenware pot, is set before us, and following example, we scoop food to mouth with bread held in the right hand. Though this is a very memorable meal, we found the dining to be consistently wonderful during our stay in Essaouira, from a zesty plate of grilled seafood right off the boat at one of the harbourfront stands to the main square's Essalam restaurant, where the couscous is superb and the substantial menus start at five dollars. While in Morocco, one must experience tajines, harira (a chicken and chic pea soup), and couscous (a semolina grain dish).
An old wizened man walks down the narrow alley, a hood shrouding his face and a canvas sack slung over his shoulder, chanting in a loud squeaky voice. I am told that he is asking for the dry, stale leftover bread from dinner, to take home and make into a cake to sell to the children at school the next day. Just as the market's tempo seems to be reaching a crescendo, the calls to prayer ring out over loud speakers, echoing through the narrow cobbled lanes, and all is quiet. Morocco is not the black and white classic, the subtle shades and shadows of Rick's Cafe, and the quiet romance. It is activity and colour, the kind of vacation that deserves a short holiday at its conclusion. And Essaouira is a place not to be missed, as Jimi Hendrix well knew. If You Go ...Visit the Tourism in Morocco web site: http://www.tourism‑in‑morocco.com Images by Jamie Ross |
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"Essaouira,
the only place in Morocco where the church bells are allowed to ring on
Sundays." 
In the hotel
courtyard, guests lounging on their patios are served drinks by smartly
dressed waiters in cotton jackets, while others splash contentedly in the
spacious pool, or admire the manicured gardens. It is a picture of
unadulterated luxury, but comes at the price of only twenty‑five dollars
American a night.
The Medina
at night paints another world, a surreal picture. Veiled ladies swirl
through the narrow streets, while fakirs and mendicant, old men sit under
woven umbrellas on each corner. The marketplace is a symphony of whirling
colours, incomprehensible chanting, the babble of bartering, and a clash of
aromas ‑ the sweet smell of the spice shops and the sometimes putrid smell
of butchers row, where horse hocks hang from hooks and cats slink at the
foot of cutting tables.