Essaouira days

I arrived in port town of Essaouira just past noon. When I stepped foot in the Place Moulay Hassan I could see the seagulls swarming over the port angling for leftover fish. The ramparts loomed hazily in the background. On the other side, cafes lined the square, the tables and chairs set up for people watching. I shouldered my bag and made my way down the narrow streets of the medina towards my hotel. I didn't like what I saw.

As I left to look for other accomodations, a boy walked up to me. "Want to see hotel," he asked. "100 Dirham. Sea view." At the bus station, people lined up to meet the buses, touting various hotels. I had nothing to lose, and said "Sure." He lead me around the corner to his aunt's house. Climbing the stairs, he showed me a small garret room, barely wide enough to fit the single bed. A window at the foot of the bed looked out over the Skala de la Ville towards the ocean. I told him I'd take it.

I didn't do much in Essaouira; there wasn't much to do. I planned my meals and wandered the town. I took photos of the seagulls and fishermen at the port. That afternoon, I picked a fish out from that day's catch and had it grilled and served with bread right by the docks. As I left, the waiter said to remember his booth. "Number four," he told me. "Number four," I repeated. I looked at the lobster. "Maybe tonight?" he said. I was noncommittal. "Maybe."

That night I watched the sun set from the terrace of my guesthouse. People had gathered on the ramparts below, straddling the 18th century cannons or just sitting on the walls of the fortifications. A haze lingered on the horizon, and the sun slowly disappeared into the fog, a white disc slowly turning red.

I ate dinner in a small restaurant set on the first floor of a residential building. The chef, a former sous chef of the Villa Maroc, had set up shop in this tiny dining room. That night, each setting was booked, and the maitre d' had to turn people away at the door. I ordered the eggplant salad and a chicken cous cous with carmelized onions and dates. It was the best cous cous I had had in Morocco. I ate at a low table. The room slowly filled with tourists and appetizers and tagines made their way around the room.

I ate at the Villa Maroc the next night, a hotel/restaurant comprised of two 18th century homes. I had made a reservation in the afternoon and when I arrived my table was already set for one. The tables were set in rooms around the central courtyard of the riad or in other nooks and crannies dotting the floors. A candle burned on the table, and bread and olives had already been placed on the tablecloth. I had ordered the fish baked with oranges and lime. It was tasty, but not as inventive as the food served at Restaurant Feradous. But what the food might have lacked, the restaurant more than made up in ambiance.

The morning I left, I woke early and bought bread from the baker downstairs. Merchants were collecting their orders as they arrived on bicycles or with carts, filling their baskets with bread. I bought two loaves fresh from the oven; they burnt my fingers. I ate breakfast on the terrace as the sun rose above the ramparts, coloring the breaking waves rose.

The bus for Casablanca was late, and the journey dragged as we made detours for Safi and El Jedida. When we finally arrived in Casa, it was under cover of night. Traffic was snarled coming into the center of town and it took almost an hour to get from the edge of town to the station. It's my last stop before heading back to Paris, having come full circle. And as I sat in traffic, thinking of my arrival, I could see in the distance the minaret of the Hassan II mosque glowing on the horizon, a beam fixed for Mecca at its apex.
Posted by eku at September 29, 2005 7:12 PM