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Published: July 10th 2005
Fishing Port
Gulls, boats, coloursMy days in the Maghreb drew to a close. Mixed feelings. Anxiety - what lies beyond? Nostalgia - will this country ever leave me? Hurry - when will I get to Kenya?
At Hotel Smara, just off the ramparts, Julie and Geraldine - two frenchgirls I met in Marrakech - waited for me. Despite the grey sky, they had good news. They'd met a nice moroccan guy who invited us for tea at a friend's restaurant.
His name was Hassan. Craftsmanship was in his blood. Son of an artisan, he personified all I'd read about Africa. Tradition, heritage, tradition.
He introduced us to the Gnawa Music. Rituals, soul and physical healing, trances. Animism, voodoo, capoeira? Perhaps. Its more inteligible facet being the Essaouira's Gnawa Festival. Held every year around the 26th June, it takes over squares and beaches, bringing into town musicians and audience from all over the globe. What the Festival lacks in religiousness is promptly compensated by the fun it provides. .
Hassan also opened his doors to the three of us. First at his workshop, where we
Man at work
Citron wood being inlaid saw woodcarved musical instruments, windows, cupboards coming to life. Then, at his house, where his sister welcomed us with a delicious couscous.
I was overwhelmed. I needed another night there to take all that in. Hotel Smara didn't have a room for me, but Hotel Majestic did. Its wonderful views of Essaouira really paid off the change.
I couldn't help comparing the little fishing port village with Chefchaouen. Relaxed feel, narrow lanes, white-washed houses with blue-painted doors. The differences were left to the fish auction, the colourful boats and the gulls struggling against the strong winds.
On the beach, the freezing cold North African waters made me think about the past 2 weeks. Coming from Europe, Africa was pretty much like a journey back in time. To a time when music served spiritual purposes, artists were called artisans, commerce was social rather than market oriented. Life's certainly poorer, but somehow a lot more humane.
Tuesday midday. The girls caught their bus back to Marrakech. Mine left at 3pm, 1 hour late, shortly before crashing against the bus station gate. There was some argument, but, I tend to think, where the bourgeoisie is weak, private property is no big issue!
I had 'Pindorama' (by Exilados, check it out at www.exilados.co.uk) playing on my discman. Meanwhile two drunkmen (yes, you can find booze in Essaouira!) started quarrelling. One continuously pushing the other back to the seat. This went on for about half an hour and reached a climax when the conductor fetched an immense club and went after them outside the bus, just to return giggling. We passengers watched everything. Some perplexed. Some, like myself, in stitches. We could see they were good mates, one looking after the other.
They got off. I slept.
In Agadir I jumped on the overnight bus to Layounne. At dawn we were zooming across troubled Western Sahara. Every now and then, a police check: foreigner's passport?; occupation? student.
3.30pm, Dakhla. Mauritania was just a few hours away.
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Irma
non-member comment
:)
querido irmaozinho..to com mtas saudades e orgulhosa por vc ser meu irmao:)nao deu para ligar pq to na belgica, vamos a alemanha e a praga depois te mando um e-mail..beijinhos nanda e pieter