ESSAOUIRA (13-14/11/23)

On the Atlantic coast, a three hours bus ride away from Marrakech, Essaouira is a quaint port city and a very good option to wind down after a few days spent in frantic Marrakech.

I left the hostel and made my way through a sleepy medina towards Jeema El Fna, which is almost unrecognisable in the morning for how quiet and empty it looks.  Getting myself a cheap taxi ride to the bus station proved to be a dummy level task: no nerve wracking bargaining needed before midday apparently. Which translated in me making it there way ahead of time and allowing me to get a very underwhelming (but at least inexpensive) Moroccan breakfast and catching up with Jakob and Hanna, a couple I had met two days prior.

The bus broke down literally five minutes after hopping on it.

By the time I realised that we were actually not moving, another bus pulled over and took me and the other passengers on board. I would imagine Europe non being capable of dealing with a similar situation in such a fast and efficient way.

The way to Essaouira tricked me into believing that the whole Moroccan landscape consisted of a barren landscape and occasional dusty crumbling villages (that had to make me think, once more, and surprisingly for the last time, of India).

I made it there in the early afternoon and immediately walked towards the big city walls under an unforgiving sun, willing to check in at Chill Art Hostel, my accommodation for the night, and get ready to explore the city. As much as I absolutely loved the buzzing streets of Marrakech, walking around Essaouira’s Medina felt way more relaxing: the vendors were nowhere as pushy, the streets were brighter, broader and nowhere as packed, everything felt very crafty, artsy, but sadly potentially touristic. I remember immediately regretting not having done my shopping in Marrakech and wondering if I was ever to bump into similar handicrafts.

The hostel was cute but its lounge room was taken over by a bunch of urban nomads making it more of a silent co-working place. Which honestly kinda got on my nerves. I mean, my job doesn’t allow me to do any home office or remote work, I am granted a limited amount of days off a year which I mostly use for traveling. On those days I absolutely hate to be reminded of work. I find it very disrespectful and self centred from those who impose such vibe on others. That’s why I didn’t indulge for long there, I dropped my backpack, shed some of the clothes I was wearing and allowed the excitement of being in a new place to get the best of me. Before I knew it, I had gotten around most of the city, potentially ignoring the touristic main streets and very much drawn by picture-perfect small alleys with ubiquitous sleepy cats, white walls and blue shutters. The air smelled of fish and the sound of my steps was quieted by the noise of the waves crushing on the city ramparts and seagulls’ cacophonous squawking. I somehow made it to the main square which opens onto a wide promenade with a marvellous view on the medieval part of town and leads straight to the fishing harbour. An hectic show of fishermen selling their catch of the day to a myriad of locals, all framed by dozens of stray cats and impatient seabirds trying their best to put their claws on the scraps.

Too late for lunch yet too early for dinner, my stomach gurgling reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Restaurant options were of course many, but nothing that felt either local or real. Eventually I picked a small cafe run by women, something that I hadn’t seen that often, and ordered a not so cheap and fairly dry chicken tagine with mint tea.

I didn’t indulge there long, and left right in time for sunset which unfortunately turned out to be a bit too hazy to allow me to take the pics I had in mind. I still waited for the sun to get swallowed by the ocean, and, as the blue hour hit, I found the local farmers market. God knows how much I love this kind of places. Actually love and hate at the same time because each single time I struggle so much to capture their soul in a few pictures. As I was trying to do so, one camera on one shoulder, one on the other, hundreds of locals staring at me in disbelief as I took an infinite amount of time deciding how to frame a loaf of bread or a cart of veggies, or a cat sleeping in a crate, a seagull had nothing better to do that taking a big shit as he flew over me and my black trousers. I bet those people didn’t expect me to start laughing at myself the same way they did.

At the hostel the guests were still busy “working” or simply succeeding in killing my vibe, so I took a shower, failed at making small talk with a roommate and swiftly made my way out again to meet up with Jakob and Hanna with plans to dine somewhere fancy-ish to celebrate his birthday. D’orient et d’ailleurs, a restaurant very close to the ramparts was our pick. We were allowed to order wine (which would become my last alcoholic drink throughout the holiday), a fact that  clearly cast a light on the tourist-oriented vibe of the place. Still, I ate a delicious fish tagine with caramelized onions which was somehow worth the European price I paid for.  We walked down to the ocean and, as midnight hit, chanted happy birthday to Jakob. Time to call it a day.

One of the workaholics’s alarm went off repeatedly at 7 AM (I thought I couldn’t hate her more when the previous night she stated “I love my job” without being asked about it. I was very wrong). I slept like a baby though, and for once since I landed in Morocco had no nightmares.

As I went down for breakfast and finally had the chance to talk to the other guests, it turned out that I wasn’t the only one to be annoyed at the imposed co-working space vibe.

I left shortly afterwards for a photowalk as the city woke up, one of my favourite things to do when I travel and, as expected, was extremely worth it. I walked back to the harbour, this time inhabited by cats and seagulls only, and to the ramparts, where I bumped into only a couple of locals getting their shops open. It all felt very calming and it gave me the feeling that, after less than 24 hours, I could navigate around as a pro.

At the hostel I declined the offer of a German lady that asked me to pay 20 euro to share a taxi to Agadir. My plan was actually to play super cheap and get a shared taxi directly to Taghazout, dubbed by many as Morocco’s surfers heaven, further down south west on the Atlantic coast. That would have saved me time and money. I have to admit I felt very stingy.

I checked out from the hostel at around noon and waved goodbye to the receptionist, a stoner that had called me Russo the whole time thinking it was my first name. After not saying anything the first two times I somehow felt I had missed my chance to correct him. I walked along the farmers’ market and reached the edge of town, out of the walls, where things got way less touristy and slightly dodgy. The collective taxi worked out beautifully and for less than 9 euro I was soon on the road. The system is easy: you tell them where you want to go, they give you a token of a specific colour, and when 6 people have the same token, the taxi is ready to leave. Not that fast and simple though if you happen to pick an off-the-beaten-track destination (ask the only other tourist I came across at the taxi station, who had already waited two hours in the sun…). The landscape out of the taxi was once again very barren and there wasn’t really much going on. This time around it brought back memories of Naxos inland. What stood out apart from a few minor villages and the occasional honey seller on the street, was an entire banana plantation taking over a whole valley right before the turn on the coastline. The ocean part got slightly more interesting, even though I was quite surprised to witness clusters of locals camping in extreme poverty at the side of the road.

TAGHAZOUT (14-15/11/23)

After being poisoned with a puff too many of a fellow traveler’s cheap perfume, I suddenly got dropped from the taxi on the main road and had to walk downhill on a steep pathway through dry branches and goats to reach my destination, which immediately gave away the most laid-back vibes. I was quick to find the Ocean View hostel, where I immediately met Silva and Daniel, two siblings from London on a surfing holiday, and, won over by their enthusiasm and the 23 euro cost (including gear rental) of a surf class, booked mine for the following morning. It was extremely hot there, and I really felt the need to wear less clothes and went for a tank top and shorts combo for the first time since I had arrived. To be very fair, this place gave me the idea of being born to please foreigners, mostly hippie surfers and beach goers. The few locals I encountered were mostly running businesses in hospitality and didn’t seem particularly bothered by the beach attires that most people chose to wear.

On my way to the beach I stopped at La Pax cafe and ordered an orange juice, a Moroccan salad (fresh peppers, tomatoes, onions and cucumbers), and grilled chicken skewers with rice. Sadly for a foodie with pretty high expectations like yours truly, I had to admit that, by day 5 of my trip, food hadn’t been mind-blowing: I really missed some salt and a good mix of herbs and spices. Slight solace: everything was fresh and healthy…

A narrow staircase winding down through the village led to the beach, which immediately took my breath away. Hugged by traditional white washed houses at the foot of a slope leading to the ocean, it combined the charm of a traditional fishing village and the sass of a hip surfers town, all drenched in Moroccan folklore.

I arranged my stuff next to the other beachgoers, somehow worried it could be unsafe to play the lone wolf,  which, of course, turned out not to be the case. Got in my speedo, which unfortunately was my only swimwear option (that was no Ipanema, Andrea… and being the only guy in a speedo on the beach didn’t necessarily make me feel at ease), and laid in the sand listening to TS’s “1989” and carrying on reading my book about Morocco’s storytelling heritage. I finally felt extremely relaxed and grateful as I first took a dip in the ocean and acknowledged how strong the waves were and then strolled along the shore to steal some snapshots of the camels and horses some locals were trying hard to have tourists riding onto. As the golden hour hit I kept on shooting, trying to get the best angles of the village and its shore. I ignored the restaurants packed with tourists in their fanciest attires and picked a shack, chosen only by a few locals, for a mint tea instead. I set down there sipping my boiling hot drink as the sun went down and Taylor sang in my ears. Maybe one of the highlights so far? 

At the hostel I took a long hot shower, washed my dirty socks and underwear, hang the laundry on the rooftop (I ignored the side of me that said it wasn’t polite…), and left for a walk, where I realised my stomach was still full from my late lunch.

I joined Daniel and Silva on the hostel’s terrace instead and, as they had dinner and I sipped another super sugary mint tea, we exchanged stories about our travel misadventures. My roommate, a fairly experienced surfer, eventually joined and started to count down all the things that could have gone wrong on my first surfing class. Not understanding if he was for real or if he was simply taking the piss, and fairly annoyed by his full display of tactlessness, I left for bed and started overthinking about all the things he said. Things didn’t get better as Google let me know that great whites and other aggressive sharks inhabited Morocco’s waters…

A few turbulent dreams after, I woke up, way before my alarm was meant to ring and opted to kill time by hanging out on the rooftop, going for a disappointing short morning walk on the very misty shore and finally enjoying the best Moroccan breakfast I got served during this trip.

Looking back now I feel quite embarrassed for how stressed the idea of the surf class made me feel (to the point I struggled to fall asleep and had one nightmare after the other). Especially in light of how much I actually enjoyed the whole experience and how those three hours spent surfing in the ocean with Silva, Daniel and Shane and learning the basics of this sport got me completely hooked. I was expecting to fail miserably at every attempt but, as things very often go as we set the bar very low, I actually surprised myself and managed to ride quite a few not so little waves. Funny enough I got worse with time, got pickier with the waves and tended to either choose the wrong ones or simply have bad timing. I bet it really goes hand in hand with tiredness because, no matter if you don’t even notice time passing, it is very demanding on a physical level (especially paddling and  fighting against the current in order to pick the right waves). I left the beach extremely proud of myself for venturing out of my comfort zone despite my initial worries and motivated not to make it a one-time life event.

We made it back to the hostel in time for me to take a very quick shower and devour an extremely onion-y tuna sandwich before getting the taxi for Agadir I had reserved earlier that morning and almost missing the four hours bus ride back to Marrakech.

The landscape from the bus, this time around, caught me completely by surprise: the golden hour light painted everything in the most intense shade of orange. I guess it was the best way to be introduced to the Atlas Mountains.

Miranda Sensomat RE, Lomochrome Purple 100-400 (35)

Canon EOS 300, Kodak Gold 200 (35)