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Showing posts with label essaouira. Show all posts
Showing posts with label essaouira. Show all posts
Thursday, 11 September 2014
Soaring
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(Words and images copyright MaverickHeart 2014)
Thursday, 5 June 2014
Essaouira
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(Words and images copyright MaverickHeart 2014)
Monday, 1 November 2010
Something fishy
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Wednesday, 1 September 2010
Essaouira
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Thursday, 1 October 2009
Sixteenth
It was a real shock to wake up after a good night’s sleep in the tent and find that she was missing; at first the other Australian nurse thought her friend had simply wandered down to the ocean, or gone the other way to quietly undertake an essential bodily function.
But when she hadn’t returned for breakfast, the remaining girl was starting to become hysterical, and was not listening to our attempts at offering some rational explanation. The guides were fairly calm, and simply suggested she might have strolled back along the beach to Essaouira.
The English family were keen on calling the police, but those that had mobile phones couldn’t get a signal or were out of battery; our guides told us we should all return to the ranch and stables where we set-off, and telephone the local bobbies from there. The Australian girl just wouldn’t stop crying, and refused to leave the camp, so one of the guides and the mother from the family stayed with her, promising they would make a thorough search of the surrounding area.
There was a sombre mood in the camel train returning the last few miles to the ranch, though still the possibility she had been so fed-up with roughing it that a longish walk back to a cafe or her riad felt like the best option on a beautiful and cool morning.
‘What do you reckon, Jess ?’
‘I’m not sure, but it seems odd just to take-off without speaking to her friend.’
‘Yes.’
‘They both appeared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves last night.’
‘No sign of any problems at all.’
It was strange now we were almost back to feel that we’d finally mastered the art of being a camel jockey, or at least learned how to minimise the discomfort of having your legs spread so widely, accompanied by continuous jolting. What should have been an occasion to celebrate the small triumph of a successfully completed trek was completely overshadowed by the unexpected development, and the continued uncertainty about the seriousness of the situation.
‘I’ll be glad to get back to the bloody riad’ I said.
‘The police might want to question us.’
‘Well, they’ll know exactly where we are.’
‘If English coppers are anything to go by, they won’t do anything much for at least twenty-four hours.’
‘The stupid bitch is probably sat in some cafe enjoying a nice, big breakfast.’
But when she hadn’t returned for breakfast, the remaining girl was starting to become hysterical, and was not listening to our attempts at offering some rational explanation. The guides were fairly calm, and simply suggested she might have strolled back along the beach to Essaouira.
The English family were keen on calling the police, but those that had mobile phones couldn’t get a signal or were out of battery; our guides told us we should all return to the ranch and stables where we set-off, and telephone the local bobbies from there. The Australian girl just wouldn’t stop crying, and refused to leave the camp, so one of the guides and the mother from the family stayed with her, promising they would make a thorough search of the surrounding area.
There was a sombre mood in the camel train returning the last few miles to the ranch, though still the possibility she had been so fed-up with roughing it that a longish walk back to a cafe or her riad felt like the best option on a beautiful and cool morning.‘What do you reckon, Jess ?’
‘I’m not sure, but it seems odd just to take-off without speaking to her friend.’
‘Yes.’
‘They both appeared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves last night.’
‘No sign of any problems at all.’
It was strange now we were almost back to feel that we’d finally mastered the art of being a camel jockey, or at least learned how to minimise the discomfort of having your legs spread so widely, accompanied by continuous jolting. What should have been an occasion to celebrate the small triumph of a successfully completed trek was completely overshadowed by the unexpected development, and the continued uncertainty about the seriousness of the situation.
‘I’ll be glad to get back to the bloody riad’ I said.
‘The police might want to question us.’
‘Well, they’ll know exactly where we are.’
‘If English coppers are anything to go by, they won’t do anything much for at least twenty-four hours.’
‘The stupid bitch is probably sat in some cafe enjoying a nice, big breakfast.’
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Eighth
We found Essaouira beach a wonderful escape from the madness of the souk, the sands stretching endlessly by the side of the chill Atlantic. Occasionally we were bothered by young men selling a variety of cakes, but it was not the kind of hassle you get on the beaches of Goa, where they want to perform all kinds intimate services, from ear cleansing to vigorous massage. Maybe those kinds of things were available in the peak season; but now we were able to lie back on the splendid soft sand, mostly undisturbed.
It was probably the paranoia of a tourist, but I always felt like we were being watched in the market areas, sized-up as potential victims for some surprise scam. Jess kept telling me to relax, because she was incredibly laid-back during daylight hours – it was only after dark that her imagination got going.
She’d already bought several small wooden objects, including a couple of camels, a donkey, and a special box from which a snake miraculously appeared. I have never had any interest in shopping, spending most of the time pacing up and down outside such outlets, while Jess examines everything in minute detail for what seemed like hours in the cavern-like interiors. She was fairly hot with the bartering too, which I also couldn’t be bothered with after a lifetime of mostly fixed prices in England.
I would always prefer just sitting or lying on the beach, watching fishing boats, children playing football, camel rides in the distance, local women covered from head to toe while a few tourists pranced about virtually naked. The sea was not really suitable for bathing, but windsurfing or kitesurfing appeared to be quite popular amongst more affluent local men and the young chaps newly-arrived from Europe.
At times you could almost forget being in a Muslim country, until the call to prayer drowned the cries of seagulls or shouts of children as a goal was scored.
‘Do you fancy the museum later ?’ Jess asked.
‘I’m more interested in something to eat and drink. Do you know what the three strands of Moroccan cuisine are ?’
‘I expect you’re going to enlighten me.’
‘Tagine dishes, couscous, and the Laughing Cow cheese triangles.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘It’s more or less what we’ve had so far.’
‘Anyway, getting back to the museum – they’ve got jewellery, costumes, weapons, musical instruments and carpets.’
‘I bet it’s not so good as the Castle Museum in York.’
‘Try forgetting England for a few days.’
‘I will if you buy me some nice coffee and a sweet croissant.’
‘A chance to practice my French, I suppose.’
It was probably the paranoia of a tourist, but I always felt like we were being watched in the market areas, sized-up as potential victims for some surprise scam. Jess kept telling me to relax, because she was incredibly laid-back during daylight hours – it was only after dark that her imagination got going.
She’d already bought several small wooden objects, including a couple of camels, a donkey, and a special box from which a snake miraculously appeared. I have never had any interest in shopping, spending most of the time pacing up and down outside such outlets, while Jess examines everything in minute detail for what seemed like hours in the cavern-like interiors. She was fairly hot with the bartering too, which I also couldn’t be bothered with after a lifetime of mostly fixed prices in England.I would always prefer just sitting or lying on the beach, watching fishing boats, children playing football, camel rides in the distance, local women covered from head to toe while a few tourists pranced about virtually naked. The sea was not really suitable for bathing, but windsurfing or kitesurfing appeared to be quite popular amongst more affluent local men and the young chaps newly-arrived from Europe.
At times you could almost forget being in a Muslim country, until the call to prayer drowned the cries of seagulls or shouts of children as a goal was scored.
‘Do you fancy the museum later ?’ Jess asked.
‘I’m more interested in something to eat and drink. Do you know what the three strands of Moroccan cuisine are ?’
‘I expect you’re going to enlighten me.’
‘Tagine dishes, couscous, and the Laughing Cow cheese triangles.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘It’s more or less what we’ve had so far.’
‘Anyway, getting back to the museum – they’ve got jewellery, costumes, weapons, musical instruments and carpets.’
‘I bet it’s not so good as the Castle Museum in York.’
‘Try forgetting England for a few days.’
‘I will if you buy me some nice coffee and a sweet croissant.’
‘A chance to practice my French, I suppose.’
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Seventh
I only have to sniff the jar of tagine mix spices in the kitchen at home to be instantly transported back to the dark, covered market in Taroudannt, where we were taken by an apparently helpful young man, who only guided us to his father’s stall to extract large amounts of money in exchange for a few stale spices and a small block of sandalwood.
That was a few days after we left Essaouira, and it should have perhaps served as a mild warning of how things can unexpectedly go awry in somewhere like Morocco. Inevitably, they will try to get the better of you in the bartering process, and almost always succeed, but to be guided through the alleys of a town for the sole purpose of fraud is another matter.
There was still plenty of time before that upsetting episode to savour the refreshing atmosphere of Essaouira, though it did really stink in the area of the harbour, which was possibly also an outlet for any effluent emerging from all the chaotic human and animal activity behind the city walls.
Of course we had a map of the fairly small town, but it was just so completely different from the neat street patterns of England, or even America, where a simple grid arrangement is used.
‘I’m not going out after dark’ Jess said at first.
‘But we have to go outside to get an evening meal.’
‘Not if we buy chocolate in the day time.’
‘Now you’re just being ridiculous.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, you’re not an attractive, pale-skinned English woman !’
‘I can’t deny you’re attractive.’
I remember pulling her close, and trying to offer some reassurance.
‘It’s probably much safer than Leeds or Manchester out there.’
‘We’re bound to get lost.’
‘True, but when that happens we’ll just head in the direction of the smelly harbour with all those noisy gulls.’
For some reason this dubious logic seemed to improve her mood, though the truth was that without some kind of satellite navigation device we’d possibly have to doss down in a filthy alley overnight.
That was a few days after we left Essaouira, and it should have perhaps served as a mild warning of how things can unexpectedly go awry in somewhere like Morocco. Inevitably, they will try to get the better of you in the bartering process, and almost always succeed, but to be guided through the alleys of a town for the sole purpose of fraud is another matter.
There was still plenty of time before that upsetting episode to savour the refreshing atmosphere of Essaouira, though it did really stink in the area of the harbour, which was possibly also an outlet for any effluent emerging from all the chaotic human and animal activity behind the city walls.Of course we had a map of the fairly small town, but it was just so completely different from the neat street patterns of England, or even America, where a simple grid arrangement is used.
‘I’m not going out after dark’ Jess said at first.
‘But we have to go outside to get an evening meal.’
‘Not if we buy chocolate in the day time.’
‘Now you’re just being ridiculous.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, you’re not an attractive, pale-skinned English woman !’
‘I can’t deny you’re attractive.’
I remember pulling her close, and trying to offer some reassurance.
‘It’s probably much safer than Leeds or Manchester out there.’
‘We’re bound to get lost.’
‘True, but when that happens we’ll just head in the direction of the smelly harbour with all those noisy gulls.’
For some reason this dubious logic seemed to improve her mood, though the truth was that without some kind of satellite navigation device we’d possibly have to doss down in a filthy alley overnight.
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Fifth
It was lucky that our cheerful taxi driver walked with us all the way to the riad accommodation, because we wouldn’t have had any hope of finding the way alone. We were also accompanied by a man with a trolley, which wasn’t really needed for our wheeled cases, but it’s hard to say no.
The entrance through the fortified walls at the Bab Marrakech reminded me of the very similar arrangement in my home town of York. Perhaps Morocco was not so different from the UK after all ? We were both too exhausted to really take-in all the sights, sounds and smells assaulting our overloaded senses; any thoughts of a quick shag were fast disappearing in favour of a late afternoon snooze.
After ten minutes following a route down so many dark and dirty passages we arrived in the heart of the medina, and stepped through an ancient, tall wooden door into a most delightful courtyard with a fountain in the centre. This central area was open to the brilliant blue sky high above, and surrounded by four floors of rooms leading off pillared balconies draped with climbing plants.
A young woman greeted us warmly in English, offering some refreshment in the cool interior; these buildings were certainly cleverly constructed to escape from the heat and filth outside – it can reach fifty degrees Celsius in the summer months.
‘This is more wonderful than the pictures’ said Jess.
‘About as far away from the Travelodge you can get !’
We had both perked-up a bit after arriving at the riad, and Jess was happily reclining on the giant, shiny cushions scattered everywhere. I was gripped by a desire to explore, and almost bounded up the marble staircase to the roof, which offered a spectacular view across the bustling town to the ocean.
A few minutes later we were shown to a fairly compact room with high ceilings on the first floor, which was beautifully decorated in green, red and gold. It seemed that none of the bedrooms were very big, leaving the lovely, large open courtyard at the centre for residents to congregate in.
Jess immediately went into the large, open shower, where our thoughts of sleep evaporated like the hot steam. We kissed passionately as the wonderful water washed away all the grime and exhaustion of our journey; it finally felt like we’d arrived in a place better than our imagination.
The entrance through the fortified walls at the Bab Marrakech reminded me of the very similar arrangement in my home town of York. Perhaps Morocco was not so different from the UK after all ? We were both too exhausted to really take-in all the sights, sounds and smells assaulting our overloaded senses; any thoughts of a quick shag were fast disappearing in favour of a late afternoon snooze.
After ten minutes following a route down so many dark and dirty passages we arrived in the heart of the medina, and stepped through an ancient, tall wooden door into a most delightful courtyard with a fountain in the centre. This central area was open to the brilliant blue sky high above, and surrounded by four floors of rooms leading off pillared balconies draped with climbing plants.A young woman greeted us warmly in English, offering some refreshment in the cool interior; these buildings were certainly cleverly constructed to escape from the heat and filth outside – it can reach fifty degrees Celsius in the summer months.
‘This is more wonderful than the pictures’ said Jess.
‘About as far away from the Travelodge you can get !’
We had both perked-up a bit after arriving at the riad, and Jess was happily reclining on the giant, shiny cushions scattered everywhere. I was gripped by a desire to explore, and almost bounded up the marble staircase to the roof, which offered a spectacular view across the bustling town to the ocean.
A few minutes later we were shown to a fairly compact room with high ceilings on the first floor, which was beautifully decorated in green, red and gold. It seemed that none of the bedrooms were very big, leaving the lovely, large open courtyard at the centre for residents to congregate in.
Jess immediately went into the large, open shower, where our thoughts of sleep evaporated like the hot steam. We kissed passionately as the wonderful water washed away all the grime and exhaustion of our journey; it finally felt like we’d arrived in a place better than our imagination.
Friday, 18 September 2009
Third
It felt like it was going to be a long, hot drive to the coast and Essaouira, and the driver only had a few words of English and a big smile. The road out of Marrakech was very uninspiring, with human and ordinary junk scattered everywhere; perhaps if we’d gone first to the mountains it would have been a more delightful outlook.
We were both tired after an extremely early flight from Manchester, and I was particularly keen to get to the ancient riad accommodation and remove the black underwear barely concealed by Jess. She was nodding-off all the time, which was probably for the best as she wouldn’t have to witness the risky overtaking by our driver in the face of oncoming lorries and cars.
There were many police checkpoints on the route, but they always seemed to wave the tourist vehicles through, concentrating on giving the locals a hard time. Guns were always very prominent, and again I thought that it would not be a good idea to get on the wrong side of the law.
After a couple of sweaty hours in the back of a maxi-taxi, Jess asked the driver in her schoolgirl French if we could stop somewhere for refreshment. He was happy to break the journey, and after a further fifteen minutes we parked at a large hotel and restaurant complex.
‘I couldn’t have coped much longer in that vehicle.’
‘Nice to get a cold drink’ said Jess.
‘Not very exciting countryside so far.’
‘I hadn’t really noticed.’
‘No, you’ve actually been snoring at times !’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, a lady doesn’t snore.’
‘Exactly.’
As far as I can remember the scenery after that stop was much improved as we left behind all traces of modern life, leaving only goats, a surprising number of trees in the arid landscape, and the occasional camel. With the boost given by our pit stop, and having finally worked out how to open the windows, we sped on through a unique and unfamiliar environment towards the Atlantic Ocean.
‘I’m excited about seeing the riad, it looked really special in the pictures.’
‘Do you think they’ll have all mod cons as well ?’ I wondered.
‘No, you’ll have to wash and crap in a bucket.........course they’ll have good facilities – it’s a luxury hotel.’
The driver eventually stopped again on the high road above Essaouira and the vast ocean, inviting us to admire the splendid view. It felt a long way from all the hustle and bustle of Marrakech, even though the drive had only taken about five hours, including the break for drinks. It was the last chance to take a breath of fresh air before once again being thrust into the chaos of a Moroccan town.
We were both tired after an extremely early flight from Manchester, and I was particularly keen to get to the ancient riad accommodation and remove the black underwear barely concealed by Jess. She was nodding-off all the time, which was probably for the best as she wouldn’t have to witness the risky overtaking by our driver in the face of oncoming lorries and cars.
There were many police checkpoints on the route, but they always seemed to wave the tourist vehicles through, concentrating on giving the locals a hard time. Guns were always very prominent, and again I thought that it would not be a good idea to get on the wrong side of the law.
After a couple of sweaty hours in the back of a maxi-taxi, Jess asked the driver in her schoolgirl French if we could stop somewhere for refreshment. He was happy to break the journey, and after a further fifteen minutes we parked at a large hotel and restaurant complex.
‘I couldn’t have coped much longer in that vehicle.’
‘Nice to get a cold drink’ said Jess.
‘Not very exciting countryside so far.’
‘I hadn’t really noticed.’
‘No, you’ve actually been snoring at times !’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, a lady doesn’t snore.’
‘Exactly.’
As far as I can remember the scenery after that stop was much improved as we left behind all traces of modern life, leaving only goats, a surprising number of trees in the arid landscape, and the occasional camel. With the boost given by our pit stop, and having finally worked out how to open the windows, we sped on through a unique and unfamiliar environment towards the Atlantic Ocean.
‘I’m excited about seeing the riad, it looked really special in the pictures.’
‘Do you think they’ll have all mod cons as well ?’ I wondered.
‘No, you’ll have to wash and crap in a bucket.........course they’ll have good facilities – it’s a luxury hotel.’
The driver eventually stopped again on the high road above Essaouira and the vast ocean, inviting us to admire the splendid view. It felt a long way from all the hustle and bustle of Marrakech, even though the drive had only taken about five hours, including the break for drinks. It was the last chance to take a breath of fresh air before once again being thrust into the chaos of a Moroccan town.
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