Essaouira:
The Sardine Town

Behind the walls of Essaouira, Morocco

I wanted to keep my head in the clouds for a while longer. Crossing the Kingdom of Morocco's High Atlas Mountains round about noon, I felt the top of my head graze the sky. But the bus spread its wings and swooped down to the central coastal town of Essaouira (pronounced esa-wera) on the windswept Atlantic.

We landed outside Bab es-Sabaa, a main gate on the town's south side, too narrow to accommodate the girth of the modern conveyance. I alighted into a porter's rugby scrum, and randomly dropped my bag in one of their trolleys. Across the road, dusk's golden ribbons adorned the sweep of the kilometres-long beach dotted with ambling camels. The sound of waves calmed my spirit and quenched the melee at my back. Instantly, Essaouira had seduced me.

But it's the unfettered comeliness penned in by its crenellated walls that I was here to let loose on my soul. Unlike most other destinations in this colourful land, the diminutive lanes and souqs (markets) here are free of the wearisome hassles that incense travellers. That liberty is an allure for a swelling number of tourists
and a prize for businesses that are netting a fiscal catch.
There is something special about walled cities. They are at once formidable, challenging curiosity to scale its barrier and reveal what's within, and quaint, capturing the imagination and tempting it to forsake the outside world. The porter off-loaded my bag at the centrally situated Hotel Souiri and immediately I set out to be apprehended by mystique.

I turned right, stopping next door at Hotel Riad al-Madina, celebrated as much for its gracious homeyness as for its famous guests. The registry includes a long list of artists, writers, and musici-ans such as Jefferson Airplane and Jimi Hendrix. The psychedelic guitarist even wrote a song for Essaouira, called Castles Made of Sand. It's about a seashore fort that still today crumbles slowly into the sea at the far-flung end of the beach.

From the hotel's serene courtyard, I stepped into Essaouira's 2,500-year old chronicle. On the offshore Isle of Mogador, Phoenicians manufactured a purple dye from the secretion of molluscs. But the story begins in earnest in the 18th century when Sultan Sidi Mohammed ben Abdallah erected a stone fence to corral
a military port that later became a vital commercial link between west Africa and Europe.

Today, the Medina, or Old Town, is a sardine-packed labyrinth of narrow lanes, nooks and crannies betwixt a rich blend of Portuguese, French, and Berber architecture. The thoroughfares lead to winsome, at times entrancing, serendipity. A bustle in every direction vied for my attention so I capitulated and allowed it to be my guide.

I was escorted down alleys and tunnels lined with timeworn whitewashed buildings trimmed with sky-blue shutters. The spice market's rainbow filled my nostrils with a kaleidoscopic fusion of cinnamon, mint, and olives. Across the way, I paused long enough to see happy flies dancing on bits and pieces of freshly cut animals.
I meandered on, past galleries and carpet shops, artisans' tiny workstations and restau-rants, exchanging glimpses with locals and hellos with fellow travellers till I emerged in the dilapidated Mellah, or Jewish Quarter.

I was immediately invited inside a dusty, unkempt synagogue. Children with no shoes on their feet greeted me as I re-entered the maze. They begged for nothing but a recipro-cated smile, then scampered off into the security of a darkened doorway.
Following the sweet smell of thuja wood, harvested from a local coniferous tree, I redirected towards Rue de la Skala (literally, Street of the Fortress) and Skala de la Ville (Fortress of the City). Here in the belly of the town, I could hear the groan of the sea beyond the wall. Above me, I attended the ghostly footsteps of Orson Welles who employed the ramparts in the film Othello.

I was surrounded by craftsmen huddled in former munitions warehouses, shaping the lumber into fetching, useful items such as chess sets and furniture. I rummaged through the selection for souvenirs and settled on a handful of lustrous, inlaid boxes.

The light at the end of the tunnel was Place Prince Moulay el Hassan. Afternoon's liquid glow was flooding the square circled by teeming cafes and the cheerful sounds of blithe chatter. After a coffee, I headed to the quay but not before I was baited and hooked by a string of alfresco grills offering all the catches of the day.
I squeezed round a picnic table, joining two other couples with bones already piled high before them. I ordered sardines and was served about two dozen. Once full and finger-licked, I exited the smoky scene through Marine Gate into the carnival ambience of the harbour punctuated by an angler's stench.

Under the protection of weather-beaten cannons aimed from the top of the wall, men in rubber boots repaired coarse red and green trawling nets. In the waking hours, they dis-gorge their silvery catch rounded up from the well-stocked shoals nearby into the dockside market. Much of the fish, however, feeds mouths further afield, fetching a tidy profit.

On the far side, behind the skeletons of unfinished hulls squatted on trestles, the Atlantic surf was diligently at work, breaking in white caps that make swimming difficult but give windsurfing an exhilarating edge.

The sport and meteorological conditions have earned Essaouira the moniker “Windy City Africa”.

On twilight's humid breeze, I could hear Jimi Hendrix's tune and just about make out his inspiration in the distance. I strolled with my own elation to a spot behind the fish grills to watch a fire-orange sun extinguish itself in the sea. I am certain I heard it sizzle as it did. But then again, maybe it was just another order of sardines.

Text & Photos: Jono David