Road to Essaouira: Part V

Maybe it was a loud and annoying Arabic MTv commercial (genre: "Pimp my camel" in lieu of "pimp my ride"), or maybe it was the vocal protests of three disgruntled stomachs that did it, but around 6 p.m. the three of us woke up. Outside it must've cooled all the way down to about 100 degrees F, but a thick layer of tall hibiscus bushes mercifully shaded the sides of the building.

Jay, always pleasant, volunteered to pull a Julia Childs and offered to "make us a meal".

For Jay, this meant: I will make an omelette and we will eat it and you will say "mmmmmmmmm...thanks!"

However the physical manoeuvers of this operation entail an exorbitant amount of butter in proportions approximating 1 to 1 with the eggs, so though tasty and filling, I (who remained blissfully ignorant of the preparation of our repast) received a sharp kick in the shin under the table when I was about the get seconds. Smiling Jay went to help himself to another heart attack whilst my hubby whispered over his half-eaten plate of eggs: "you have no idea how much butter he put in that pan!"

I switched to toast and fruit. Jay might do well to actually watch a Julia Childs show. Or at least his mother in the kitchen...

Douchés, coiffés, et habillés, we were ready to see the sights. Jay's sister is a doctor in Senegal and she had gifted him with a couple of "traditional" dashiki shirts* -one blue and white (how Mediterranean), the other black with writhing orange, green and yellow patterns on it- on her last trip home. The guys put them on and we took a breath of cool air before opening the door.

We couldn't hold that breath all the way to Essaouira, but we tried.

With the sun rolling down to the horizon line we hit the main grande place full stride - it was already packed with families, hipsters, youngsters, tourists, locals and hawkers. Our first order of business was to reconnoiter a spot on a cafe terrace (not an easy undertaking!) from which to watch the final set of a group of gnaouis jamming with a European blues band. They were great and the crowd was swaying along with the music.

We must've climbed over half a dozen laps to reach our quarter-sized table squeezed in with all the others in a primo spot looking towards the stage. There are numerous places to enjoy a tasty meal and watch the crowds but having just downed Jay's plat du jour we really needed a digestive. Voila le serveur in white shirt and black vest with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, as hauty and efficient as his Parisian bretheren, who promptly took our order and seemed to slither like a rearing cobra in between patrons' knees, lit cigarettes and gesticulating hands.

Like magic, a large pot of mint tea with mint springs in the glasses appeared on our table in minutes, along with a glass of ness ness** coffee for me. We sipped.

It was one of those moments were you lean back in your chair, contented and just be present in the moment. Thinking back on it, the lack of honking cars and (Essaouira being a mainly pedestrian city) construction noise was indubitably a big part of the relaxation, but at the moment we only had eyes for this little corner of the world and ears for the alchemy on-stage.


More soon.



*Made in Thailand. Ain't globalization grand?
**Ness ness is half strong coffee, half warm milk in a fist-sized glass. In Morocco it is a man's drink, but since I like my coffee strong and in small doses, I endured endless jibes from my husband's friends to the tune of: "how about some marquises with that?" Marquise being a very foul-smelling, fairly cheap brand of cigarettes, preferred by your average Moroccan male and "bad girls" wishing to shock the establishment by smoking.

Road to Essaouira: Part IV

FINALLY in the Windy City.

It was like reaching the pearly gates (if heaven were fishing village nestled on the shore of an ocean), feeling that chill, salty air on our faces. We were parched but determined to walk and stretch our legs before venturing to our air de repos, the small apartment we'd rented from our friend's uncle, another 10 km outside of Essaouira, and back inside the furnace.

Noticing a sign certifying that the news agency we were supposedly with was indeed present at the festival, we hastily parked and snatched the decals off the side of the vehicle before heading into town. What a place! The festival had already gotten started and cheerful, bouyant groups of people were steadily trickling in towards the city center. From a distance came the low bass beats keeping time to a gnaoui's soaring voice whose strains we only faintly caught an earful of, carried on the winds. The seagulls, surfing on the zephyrs above our heads, cawed out a chorus for the musicians.

I immediately felt at ease there and we strolled along the beach a bit before stopping in front of the huge hotel owned by Azoulay, the Moroccan king's Jewish adviser, a native Essaouiran and the pride of his town. It was beautiful, to say the least: an imposing, French Riviera-esque hotel facing the rolling waves on the beach and built outside of the medina walls.

A family member had a friend working there who was to give us press passes so we strolled in, looking all the worse for wear*, past the red-white-and green liveried “guards” whose faces belied their ambivalence despite their stony poses of fortitude. To our left, I spotted a famous Moroccan television actress and her husband lounging on a divan near the entrance and fanning out before us a genteel and stately lobby made of pale marble, elegant draperies, and good looking staff. I suppose this is de rigeur hotel fare for this level of tourism, but what startled me first was seeing Mr. Azoulay himself darting back and forth in a measured quickstep through the lobby, quietly pointing, giving directions and clearly problem solving before our very eyes. My two Moroccan companions were astounded to be so near one of the country’s most powerful men. Me, I had no clue who he was until my husband hissed at me: “that’s Azoulay!”

But I barely paid attention, suddenly overcome by a wave of orange-blossom scented air, emanating from the marble fountain at the entrance. It had taken a moment to reach my nose but when it did my soul almost vibrated in happiness and calm. Whoever thought of that, thank you. I remember that still, and for me, the place had class.

The people, however, I’m not so sure about. Perhaps because we looked a little scruffy or perhaps becase it was so busy they were stopping everyone trying to go down a corridor, we got stopped twice by hotel staff asking us what we were doing there, even after we had gotten directions from the concierge that the press was HQed in another wing of the hotel. When we finally got back there, we were assailed by a young Moroccan woman who insisted on speaking to us in French** even though we addressed her in Moroccan and she clearly understood it. Ms. Whomever, our contact for the passes, was “desolée, pas du tout disponible. Elle est déja occupée en ce moment. Essayez plus tard” followed by a crisp turn on the heel and march back inside the tall double wooden doors to the banquet room that had been turned over to the press, which she closed behind her. All that was missing was a sniffly “harumph!” and the scene would have been complete.

With a shrug and a certain sense of fatalism (and, admittedly, some anger) we left the hotel and stopped on the sidewalk to stare and sigh at the ocean.

“This is bliss” I thought.

“That b**ch” my husband grumbled.

“I’m hungry!” our friend said.

This assertion was greeted with general accord so we headed back into the desert to brave the inferno and discover what our two-day residence would look like.

We were pleasantly surprised to pull up at a recently-built development of rosy-dune colored multistory buildings adorned with high arches, wrought iron gates and embroidered with red hibiscus bushes all along the walls. We were given a key, shown into the place with all the usual suspects:

-salon with requisite banquettes, check

-mandatory television, set to Lebanese music channels, check

-kitchen with working stove (not standard, but a god-send), check

-tiled bath/shower with windows high up the wall that you can barely reach to open, check

-bedroom with bed nearly as big as the room, check

We were golden! We hurried to thank our friend’s uncle, slapped some cash into his hand before he cheerfully went off to his own home, and turned around to discuss our options.

Except that Jay, the Hungry One, (and the driver) had sat down on the banquettes to watch t.v.

Which was really just a prelude to him slumping down on his side and sawing some wood while he was at it.

So much for lunch. We were exhausted too, so we tossed the groceries into the fridge and flopped down on the bed…I think I must’ve fallen asleep in midair, the shrill, catty lovesongs of a Lebanese chanteuse my lullabies, fading away into unconsciousness.

The festival could wait…

But never fear, we didn’t sleep all the way through it by any means! Return tomorrow for the meat of the story, in which a seroute is lost and found, Lydia marvels at the largest assembly of harem pants she’s ever seen in one place, the men get jealous stares for being the most appropriately attired, and we have a blast until dawn.

*a big no-no in Morocco; appearances are important. Especially when all you have to do all day is sit in a café and make one glass of tea last 6 hours…

** Which is fine, usually, except that in this multi-lingual country, like many others, language often takes on a class and social dynamic that is used to put others down while elevating speakers of the “elite” language.

Road to Essaouira: Part III

How did this not manage to get publish? So much for technology, and hello! human error...

Anyway, back by popular demand* and in anticipation of finishing our oddyssey, la suite!:

So, in the last post, I mentioned the risks of our little method -namely, that people would ask us to get out and film them- so, after driving through what felt like an industrial sized baker's oven with Dolly Parton's blowdrier stuck in our faces for three hours (remember I mentioned that heatwave covering all of West Africa?) we finally, finally reached the desert "gateway" to Essaouira, the last leg of the road that takes you through a baked landscape studded with argan trees, scrub, "christian fig" bushes, few people, and on to the Windy City.

It is inevitable that we should stop at this last police barricade and as we slowed to a stop, a smiling, quite upper-middle-aged man with a mustache to throttle all mustaches in Morocco poked his head into our car. We all plastered fake smiles to our faces and greeted him with a salaam alaikoum - and seeing our decals on the side of the vehicle he asks our friend Jay "so, are you going to Essaouira for work or fun?" to which Jay, inconceivably both shook and nodded his head and said "euh.....oui, oui; la, la*" The car is silent, my husband and I both stare at our friend, glance at the security officer, look back to Jay, mentally hitting him over the head with my notebook, and wait for the mustache's response to thic cryptic answer.

Luckily, the big security kahuna just chuckles, but just as we were about to relax, he wipes the sweat off his brow and asks if we wouldn't get out of the vehicle and film the suffering of the Moroccan security forces in the triple digit (or 50+ centigrade) heat.

We can't tell if he's serious or joking. He's not smiling. We all go stiff and more silent than before. In my head, I'm mentally starting to string out a long "oh, shiiiiii....." while at the same time the cogs are working to come up with an excuse like "we don't have any equipment" or "the equipment van is coming right behind us, soon..." or "please, please, please let us go Mr. officer man!" while the same was surely going on in my two companions' heads - but finally the man's demeanor changed, he guffawed and said "just kidding! Enjoy the festival!" and waved goodbye.

This whole interchange lasted only a few minutes (there were, of course, many other cars behind us), but in my mind I remember it stretching on for an awkward eternity.

Now on this trip we had listened to a variety of music; the radio which plays varietes, chaabi, rai, rock n roll, but as we had rolled progressively further into the wavy lines of heat on the horizon, the sounds only contributed to our discomfort and we turned it off, settling into a languid, dumb-animal kind of silence (occasionally broken by a "wheee!" to loosen everybody up).

In Safi, another seaside town famous for its pottery, we did stop at a supermarket to stock up on provisions, which, with three people on a budget, meant lots of eggs, yoghurt, "kosher" bologna, sticks of butter, a few onions and fruit. Guess who insisted on the fruit. Oh and bread, of course. Guess who insisted on the bread? (Moroccans, like Ukrainians, are "bread people". I live with one who can eat half his body weight in bread in a day, should he be so tempted...)

These snacks came in handy after we arrived...



*All one of you, yay! Thanks for reading :)
"la" = no in Arabic.

Caftani by Daniel Rey

Lucky me, today I get to post on three of my favorite things:

1. Books
2. Photography
3. Caftans

Ran across the somewhat recent photographic book Caftani -in Italian- by Daniel Rey and shutterbug Jacques Paul, and it's got my name all over it...
Vibing with the pared down simple, modern caftan on the cover, all the way to the ostentatiously layered one here, which reminds me so much of the multi-layered kimonos of the Heian Japanese court.

I would LOVE to know more about this book, so if you've come across it, drop me a line and let me know what you think!

Visit this Italian site to see a selection of images from the book.

Uber-modern Turkish Coffee Set

Loving this modern bronze & ceramic Turkish coffee set by Israeli designer Esli Alovi.



Found via International Design Awards and DesignBoom.

Goes great with the modern samovar by Yael Yair that I spotted a while ago...

Prickly Pears - Morocco's next money maker

A BBC article reports that Morocco has another "miracle beauty product" on its hands - you may have already guessed it- "Christian" (a.k.a. Barbary) figs!

The cactus, previously eaten as a fruit or used for animal feed, is creating a minor economic miracle in the region thanks to new health and cosmetic products being extracted from the ubiquitous plant. -BBC

Read more for the full dirt on the cactus fruit - and if you've got a spare moment, check out my retelling of a friend's harrowing experience with a cartful of christian figs.