Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix and Essaouira, Morocco July 2011

I had been advised by my friend Dominic to have a look at Essaouira, some 4 hours away from Marrakech, on the south Atlantic coast of Morocco. So, it was on a fine Saturday morning at 7.30am in the grand square Jmaa El Fna, awaiting my minibus, I observed an old woman collecting and rinsing out water bottles left empty by thirsty drinkers the day before. I had read that some unscrupulous operators refilled spring or distilled water bottles and sold them as unused. So, it was true.

I had booked a day tour of some valleys in the Atlas Mountains, ending up at Essaouira. But an hour into the drive it became obvious, when we drove straight past the turnoff to the Atlas Mountains that we weren’t going there. In fact, this was a return trip to Essaouira only.

I was becoming a little used to these things happening; either oversight, undersight or the booking I desired actually wasn’t available today. “Oh, we’ll just book him in for this one then”.

We passed through semi-arid country with small rolling hills, olive groves with stone-washed walls to keep out the drying winds, and the occasional vineyard. The country became dryer and hot, and more sand and stone and less olives. The ones that did exist struggled to hold on to life with many of their former fellows just greying timber, like driftwood in the sands.

This country is very reminiscent of the mid-north of South Australia. Harsh, dry and hot, it is a place of death and broken dreams. And in Morocco, buzzards, which can be clearly seen circling in the distant sky most days.

A scrubby, bushy, small tree began to appear in abundance, the Argan tree; this is the only place in the world it is found. Soon we stopped at “Le Argan Co-operatives La Femmes”, a small factory in this desertscape, where women picked and processed the latest “wonder oil” to hit the world scene; Argan Oil.

Cold-pressed, it is in great demand for cosmetics and hair treatments. This is the “Moroccan Oil” that everyone is talking about. Hot-pressed it is used as a health-aid, with supposed healing qualities, or just as salad dressing. It is expensive at around 75 Euros for 500ml of pure oil.

The process of extraction is almost medieval. Goats are encouraged to climb in the wild trees and prune the tips back, thus stimulating growth and the amount of fruit. The fruit looks similar to a small apricot, and it is the kernel inside the shell of the fruit that contains the oil. The fruit is picked, the shells are cracked and broken and set aside as cooking fuel, and the kernels are then ground by hand in a circular motion, by a wizened old crow of a woman, who sits in the same spot for 10 hours a day.

Oil is not plentiful, in fact 60 kg of fruit gives 1 precious litre of the stuff, I was told. Any oil left in the ground kernels are squeezed out by hand, and the remaining paste is used as stock feed. Only women perform the work, it is not considered fit for men. I had heard that China is planting thousands of acres of Argan trees. I suspect in a decade they will probably control the world supply of this magic stuff, and another opportunity will have passed these poor, hardworking Moroccan women by.

Essaouira appeared in the distance and we stopped at a lookout and took photos with a couple of camels for company. On the mini-bus with me were Shaz and Aziz; two young guys from London taking a week’s holiday in Morocco. It turned out Shaz worked for the same bank as Wayne, and Aziz was a doctor about to move into General Practice. We had a lively discussion and a few laughs which made the journey pass more quickly.

Stepping out of the bus at the sea wall which separates Essaouira from the cold Atlantic Ocean, was like breathing for the first time. The air was cool and fresh and salt. It was like getting an instant energy boost after the hot, dry and dusty Marrakech environment. The beach was more brown than white, different to what I had expected. Close to the town it was thronged with children and young people enjoying the sun and the water. The island of Mogador lay perhaps a kilometre out to sea, and sheltered the bay from Atlantic swells. The French-built forts were clearly visible from the beach; this was once the major port in these parts, and the closest to Marrakech.

Both Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix had come here in the 60’s. It was when I came here to stay two days later I discovered why.

But this day I walked through the crumbling stone archway into the walled town, through the square, and into the Kasbah. This place seemed so ancient that I half expected Ali Baba to materialise at any moment. The main street or laneway was filled with people shopping at the markets. Men were chopping up carcases of goats and sheep by hand, and vainly flicking away the flies they were attracting. There were watermelon, cherries and plums, and cartloads of pain; flat bread that women would sort through by hand until they found the one that felt the freshest or least stale.

This is where the Arabic world begins to meet the African world. There were large black men dressed in amazingly bright blue and green and yellow fabric, and Tuareg men from the Sahara Desert with their distinctive blue turbans and long robe-like outfits. They sold silver jewellery, jelabas, scarves and curved daggers in carved wood and silver sheaths. It was noisy and bustling and smelly, with storeowners singing the praises of their produce to the crowds, and customers arguing and haggling with them. I wound my way through alleys and eventually found a small hotel or Riyad which was the right price with wi-fi and breakfast included, and booked it for a week.

This happened to be the last day of the annual Gnaoua Music festival, dubbed the “Moroccan Woodstock”. It is an African and Arabic mix of artists, mainly, and many were familiar to me, having appeared at Womadelaide in my home town. The concerts were free, with a large stage in the town square and then another a kilometre away at the beach. I saw a West African band play a set and felt a pang of homesickness; I was half-way around the world but I had been here before.

I was determined to get to the beach and walk to a strange small island I could see in the distance, at the water’s edge.  So I set off through the town square. The square is surrounded by a wall with ramparts and battlements, and brass cannon still sit there pointing out to sea, perhaps expecting Sinbad the sailor or Blackbeard the Pirate to attack the town some time soon. I was in a bit of a dream I suppose, taking all of this in when I was stopped by a woman, a Moroccan woman, probably in her late 20’s.

“Bonjour Monsieur, comment ca va”?

 I was completely surprised at her boldness. Women just don’t approach strange men here.

“Ca va bien, tu est?”

I was struck by three things. Firstly, she was smoking; I don’t think I had seen a local woman smoke. Secondly, her head was uncovered. And thirdly, she had bad teeth, stained and decayed, which is unfortunately the norm with most of the people I had met here. Dental hygiene is not the priority here that it is in the West.

My initial French conversational skills had picked up to a point I could fool most Moroccans I was French. For about a minute, that is. Then my vocabulary and comprehension ran out rapidly. But, it was fun for me!

It didn’t take long to get to the part where I confess not to be French, and request the conversation now take place in English, of which she turned out to be completely fluent.

“Would you like to take a coffee with me, and we could talk and enjoy the view” she asked.

Well, paint me as sarcastic but I had the feeling coffee was not what she was after. I know I’m an attractive man, but even at home women (in a completely sober state) don’t hit on me randomly as I’m walking down the street!

“I really want to go to the beach” I said, “I don’t have much time as my bus leaves at 5 to go back to Marrakech”.

“I understand then” she said, “I have a hotel room, let’s just go there”

I was completely stunned and speechless, this was so out of character for a local woman. Plus it is against the law for an unmarried woman to be in a hotel with a man.

She opened up her purse and took out a card. It was a hotel card. She handed it me.

“Here, see, we can go here, what do you think?”

“You’re right, it’s a hotel card” I replied, “but I think I’m just going to go on to the beach”.

She looked completely devastated.

“But why, why go to the beach?”

“I guess I’ve got my reasons. Au revoir et bon chance” and with that I walked off and left her standing there, mouth agape, in the middle of the small square that precedes the Kasbah.

There was a cool, northerly breeze blowing at my back, and lines of small surf pushed their way across the bay onto the brown sand. This place was painted in soft pastels of blue and white and brown in contrast to the sharp reds, yellows and browns of Marrakech.

I walked past camels carrying tourists, and came to a large group of locals gathered around 50 or so men on magnificent white and grey and black Arabian horses wearing red turbans and carrying lances with flags of different colours. They put the horses in a rough,moving line across the beach and a cannon exploded and belched a smoky boom and they were off, racing down the beach, neck to neck. They turned perhaps 400 metres away throwing plumes of brown sand into the air and each other, and galloped back to the finish and a rapturous roar from the crowd. I kept walking south, I never found out what the horses were doing there, and I never saw them again. When I came back to stay 2 days later, no-one knew anything about them.

They just looked at me rather strangely.