Taghazout 2 April 2011
Surfers' paradise.
The village is bustling with dreadlocked lean tanned bodies, bare feet, boardies that have seen better days, little stalls selling board wax and second hand fins, camping gear and leather bangles. Down by the beach the fishermen are sitting over their morning catch, hoping to get a buyer for their few dozen sardines, the odd crab and a pretty shell or two, so that they can go have a nap and then head down to the beach where the surfers are sitting in huddled groups, gazing out the at the waves, trying to read what they are going to do. Will the breeze change from north easter to a good onshore westerly this afternoon? It is not the right time of the year for big swells, but surely we will be lucky and get at least a few good swells soon?
I threw a red button out of the truck window this morning. I just had to to. This Moroccan coastline from Wadi Tamri, where we slept last night on the beach, down to Taghzout is breathtakingly beautiful.Rugged sandstone formations, pockmarked by the weather and allowing perfect homes for cliff face nesting birds like kestrels and falcons and sea eagles line the wide soft sand beaches that go on forever.
Every here and there a small cove protected from human invasion by high cliffs and crashing waves, or a spot where the rocks go all the way down into the sea and where fishermen with their long long rods sit sleepily, waiting for their first bite of the morning. The water is blue, blue and crystal clear, and form the most beautiful backdrop for the fields of white and purple and orange and yellow flowers on the cliff edges. All along the road we saw women with their donkeys come down into these fields to pick the orange flowers, carrying large bunches of flowers and loading the donkeys' backs with these splashes of colour. Every so often a man on a camel meanders down the road on his way to somewhere – only he knows where – and once in while you see a haphazard tent pitched under the argan trees where a goatherd spends his lazy days. Last night Mark drove us to our bush camp for the night, not able to contain his excitement, his smile hooked behind his ears, so sure that we would all agree that this was the most superb bushcamping spot ever. And it was! High up on the sand stone cliffs with a view of indescribable beauty. This sixth red button has found a worthy home...
Sixth button? Yes, the fifth was bequeathed to the warmth and welcoming charm of the fishing port of Essaioura.
After the constant irritating bluebottlefly-hustling of the Marrakeshites where I finally let their incessant insistence to 'only to look, you don't have to pay', 'this way, this way, no this way,' 'good price, very good price, what do you want to pay?' get to me and almost crack my cool, smiling demeanor that had lasted so well through several medinas and souks – when just one too many young man stepped in my way and insisted on showing me a good time when all I wanted to do was walk at my own pace and explore and discover the fascinating medina on my own, it was a relief to leave Marrakesh behind and head out back into the dry, open countryside with the High Atlas mountains in their glorious snowcapped splendour on the horizon.
We reached Essaouira early afternoon and set up camp in probably the most unattractive bushcamp to date – a parking lot on the wrong side of an overgrown dune at the far end of the corniche. (A 'bushcamp' is where we camp in any old spot alongside the road, i.e. no running water, power, toilet or washing facilities, but often incredible views and beauty - as opposed to a 'campsite' where those amenities are available in a larger or lesser degree.) Most of us pitched our tents and then wandered off to the beach – a colourful picture of turbaned men on camels, offering rides or simply just standing around or taking their camels for a bit of a walk through the waves. I had a lovely long swim – but the water was icy cold and the tide was so far out that it felt as if you were a kilometre out to sea before the water came up to your chin. All the same quite beautiful though with the town of the Essaouira in the distance like a picture out of an Arabian fairytale. Orm and John cooked the evening meal – delicious sardines grilled over the fire served with a fresh salad and topped with bananas stuffed with Mars Bars and cooked in foil on the fire – Yum!
Early in the morning we were up, had breakfast and then we set off to go visit the town. A wonderful walk along the beach of the Corniche – young girls in veils walking and chatting, the odd camel and rider out for an early morning wash, a man and his dog playing with a stick, two sea gulls fighting over a fish. I headed straight for the fishing port as I had noticed that all the little boats were chugging into the harbour while we were walking, and my decision was rewarded with the most amazing two hours amongst the fisherman, weary from their night at sea, the boats – old and weathered and repainted many times in different colours, bundles of net marker flags flying, plastic floating balls bunched and tied to the masts, the fish glistening liquid silver in the sunlight, the ice carts emptying their crushed ice in mounds, ready for the fish, the old sun-dried men sitting sewing the torn nets, the gulls teasing and taunting and trying to steal a fish, squawking their disppleasure at each other, the sellers shouting the merits of their specific catch and the buyers haggling over the prices. Like an oil painting the colours of the boats and all their paraphernalia, the fishermen themselves, the crates in which the fish are loaded, the robes and veils of the women coming to buy – if I had my easel and paints with me, I would have set it up there and then and tried to capture that vibrant scene. And all this in the ancient port where I left a bright red button on the harbour wall – the gulls soon coming to inspect if it was something to eat and one gull in particular, standing over the button and making a heck of raucousness as if telling the world that this bright red jewel was his and his alone.
Perhaps it is not surprising that Essaouira has such special charm and is so different from the other Moroccan walled and ancient towns that we have visited. This is not only a port town which means it is open to the sea – and to the world, wide horizons and fresh ocean breezes, but it is also the town that seems to bridge the divide between Morocco of North Africa and the rest of the vast African continent. This is where one of the biggest music festivals happen every year – spilling over in the general scenery and vibe of the place. People are more outgoing, more diverse, more 'cosmopolitan', I dare to say. The little tea room has pastries that could be from any big European city and has young women with small children sitting there enjoying a morning tea – not only men sipping their strong coffee and looking stern and disapproving when a woman on her own wants to sit down for refreshment. The stalls contain a lot of products other than Moroccan – Moroccan woven fabric mixed with Ghanaian cloth and Senegalese fabrics, woodcarvings and silver more African than local, the rugs hanging on the white painted walls of designs not seen before in Morocco. Many little hole-in-wall stalls with every kind of musical instrument you can think of. I follow the sound of hauntingly beautiful guitar music and an African voice that makes my heart strings pull taut and go into the shop, saying to the keeper – What is that CD? I want it! He pulls down a CD from the shelf and hands it to me, pointing out that it is not guitar I hear, but **** – the strange two-bellied mandolin type of callabash and wood instrument. I pull out the dirhams from my purse to pay and another woman walks into the shop, saying : 'What is that lovely music? I want it!!'. The shopkeeper smiles and pulls down another CD for her. As if on cue, a third operson walks in – the shop keeper looks up and asks; Would you like a copy of this CD?' 'Yeah! How'd you know?' the man replies. My notebook does not have a cd player in – so I will have go wait to listen to my special CD!
I also indulged in my last Moroccan hammam – a tiny doorway down the end of a long narrow dark alley – but filled with warmth and steam and laughter and the Friday morning crowd of beautiful Moroccan women and knowing we are bushcamping for the next two weeks, it felt good to be squeaky clean!
Quick note> We first stopped at a most beautiful site last night where there was a man with a telescope and a notepad. He was guarding the bird nesting on the other side of a very high sandstone cliff~ Bald Ibis nests ! 47 of them, each nest with two or three babies in! They are extremely rare, are only found in Morocco and there they were so very beautiful and special to see! I promise some great shots when next I get to internet! We left to go camp elsewhere and so as not to disturb the birds even though we were a long way away as this is their territory and they are nesting and edgy. Quite a privilege and so lucky to see this!
Chat next when in Bamako *I think!..
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