Spices, seabass and sightseeing

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Geo: 31.5093, -9.76345

Despite what promised to be a sleepless night, the stone walls and high ceilings of the riad bouncing every footstep, word and whisper directly into our room, we slept surprisingly well, and even missed the sunrise call to prayer. Our breakfast was a delight of pastries and hot coffee, served in the traditional dining room, bright textiles adorning every surface - cushions, wall hangings, carpets and curtains all in the distinctive rainbow of vibrant, almost neon, colours. It certainly woke up the two bleary eyed travellers, and set us up for our walking tour in the beautiful city of Essaouira.

We stepped out onto the quiet streets, the weather much cooler and greyer than we had been used to for the rest of the trip. Wrapped up against the cold, we met our guide, a fascinating local Muslim woman called Rashida who gave us a very thorough insight into the history and culture of the city. We learned about the cat population, brought here in a hurry from Spain when the city began to trade with Manchester (the origin of the tea which led to the development of Morocco's ubiquitous drink) as a way to avoid the Bubonic plague. A small island a short distance from the harbour, and walkable at low tide, was also used to quarantine those believed to be afflicted.

Essaouira is a charming city, all white stone walls with blue shutters, doors and fishing boats, discovered by the hippies in the 1960s and attracting a steady, if small, stream of tourists seeking to escape the crowds of Marrakech ever since. Jimi Hendrix and several of his peers made their homes here, and you can still see the small village where they set up their camp, indulging their pursuits in the tranquil surroundings. I imagine that they would be disappointed to learn that their bohemian locale has now been developed into a five star resort with a good course! As we looked out across the beach, the rally cars we had been following on our journey streamed past us, their horns blaring, competitors standing on the pick-up, holding into ropes like modern day charioteers, flags waving aloft in the sky declaring their nationalities. This was the culmination for them of a ten day race through Southern Morocco, and they intended to make their exaltation known!

Our guide led us past the huge expanse of beach, waves thundering onto the shore, and down to the port, where the pungent scent of the fresh catch of the day greeted us. Here, as the waves battered the harbour walls, women bedecked in full dress, with headscarf and veil, sat chatting and holding plastic buckets, waiting for the fishermen to arrive. Normally, women would not be seen out in the early morning, and would certainly not be seen at the port - there is a stigma attached to women who visit the ports - they are rumoured to be women of loose morals who wait for the sailors. These women were wearing veils to disguise their faces and to prevent gossip about their presence there. However, they needed to be perched here, waiting for the boats to dockl, to receive charitable donations from the fishermen. They would then either sell these at a reduced price to the locals, or take some home to eat. In the Muslim tradition, part of the produce you have should be given to those who are in need. Indeed, early morning queues at the bakers' or butchers' stalls have their own hierarchy, with the impoverished at the front of the queue, and usually given the best of the batch.

We moved on, to where people had set up their makeshift stalls, and were doing a good trade with locals lined up to buy the bargain sardines, fresh from the boats. The locals were not the only eagle-eyed bargain hunters, however. Huge seagulls swooped overhead, perching on any available surface to try and nab a tasty free morsel. Laid out in orderly rows, the cobalt-blue fishing boats, standing out in contrast to the stone walls of the bastion behind, created a post-card perfect scene. The government dictates that all fishing boats must be painted this vibrant blue, to deviate from this results in a large fine, and an instruction to paint your boat blue regardless!

From here, we continued on our leisurely stroll, taking in the sounds of the waves and the scent of the sea, reminding us again now far from the desert we had come. We passed the bright blues of the fish shacks, a wide arc of wooden stalls, arranged around a small green, their fresh wares laid out on vast pyramids of ice. Here, lobsters and crabs wriggled and snapped their claws, while the unblinking eyes of seabass, John-Dory, monkfish, and even the occasional shark, stared blindly at us as we passed. Huge boards declared the prices per kilo, while jovial staff prepared the tables for the lunchtime rush, calling out to us in a variety of Europpean languages, appealing to us to try their fish rather than their neighbours'.

We made a mental note to return later, and continued on, stopping for a while to admire the huge tolerance gate - a striking arch which bears the symbols of Jewish, Christian and Muslim faiths, and serves as a reminder of the accepting nature of the city. Here, Jews were given huge tax reliefs for setting up business here, and the city still has a functioning synagogue, as well as two that are currently being restored. Catholicism too, found acceptance here, the faith represented by the seashells - the emblem of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella, and there is still a church in operation in the city. The whole place has the air of being a melting pot of cultures, and this in turn adds to the charm and charisma of the city.

We climbed through the narrow, winding streets, dog legs of cobbled streets, full of treasures of trinkets and art, twisting and turning off the main arteries. Passing under arches and past thick, sturdy walls, there were constant reminders of this city's strategic coastal position. Both the Spanish and Portuguese had taken control of the port in the past, the bastion and the fairy tale ramparts, although medieval in their style, dating back to the colonisation in the 18th century. The trade winds and excellent passageways to the south of Africa were a huge draw to the merchants. We strolled across the ramparts, used extensively in Orson Welles' Othello, and one of the first films to out Essouira on the map as a film-making location. Now, celebrities are a frequent sight in the winding streets - Nicholas Cage, Leonardo DiCaprio and Sarah-Jessica Parker, among others have been seen enjoying the clear skies that lend themselves so well to film-making. However, it is the tax-free status given to studios along with the unique draw of total Non-censorship, the belief in art for art's sake, that draws so many foreign film-makers here.

From the ramparts, we had commanding views of the port and surrounding streets, huge canons leering imposingly over the city. From the round tower we were standing in, two such canons, engraved with the monogram of Carlos III, faced out towards the incoming sea, set at perpendicular angles to one another. These two canons would have been the first line of defence during an oncoming attack, and thus, our guide informed us, a clever strategy was deployed to fool the enemy into the belief that the canons were of a stronger calibre than they actually were. A raised stone circle in the centre of the tower concealed a deep hollow core which acted like a rudimentary speaker, amplifying the sound of the booming cannons. When a suggestion was made about the history we had been taught about the fraught past between the Moroccan and Portuguese civilisations, we were given the Moroccan side of the story - very different to that of the Portuguese tour guide!

After a brief taste of the local peanut brittle, one of the explanations for the country's huge diabetes epidemic, we explored the labyrinthine streets of the medina and the souks, a blend of Moroccan and French styles that are saturated with stunting achitedtural features. The paint peeling from the walls and the bright window frames splintering and bowing only add to its rustic charm. Here, in the food market, olives, fruit and vegetables were piled high, while spices were laid out in bulging sacks, locals bartering for measurements in Dirhams rather than by the gram - the true way to shop, we were informed. We continued on, passing shops stacked with brightly coloured textiles, carved thuya wood boxes and bowls, ornate pottery lanterns and hand painted tiles - this is a shopper's Mecca, and it was all we could do to not buy more and more souvenirs. We even toyed with the idea of buying a small suitcase to enable us to purchase more of the stunning homewares and carry them onto the plane with us! We wandered through the wealthy residential districts, declared a Unesco world heritage site and granted protected status, now bought up and faithfully restored into a vast array of guest houses by savvy foreigners, granted tax breaks if they employ locals. We passed ornately tiled and painted doorways, some ajar enabling us to peek inside them and catch glimpses of stunning interior courtyards, their shaded porticoes, I imagine, a welcome relief from the heat of the summer.

We finished our tour in the jewellery making district, where youngsters who don't have an aptitude for academia begin their training in trades at the age of 12. Attempting several different crafts, if they are spotted as having a particular talent for one style or another, they are given further training in their speciality, the main reason for such a wide range of excellent handicrafts in Morocco at such low prices. We perused the intricate designs of tiny soldered swirls and lettering, engraved onto delicate pieces of silver, impressed by the skills of the artists. We then meandered back to the fish stalls, heading for stall number four, or La Rochelle, where the proprietor posed for photographs with our choices - fresh, plump seabass, the silver scales shimmering, huge langoustines - red and juicy, and a mountain of large prawns, their beady eyes black pinpricks in a sea of pink. Moments later, it appeared on our table, blackened and steaming from the barbecue just behind our chairs. We soaked it up with a groaning basket of fresh, springy bread, a delicious salty salad the perfect accompaniment to the sweet, charred flesh.

Our belt buckles straining, we paid the modest bill and then made our way to the wide, palm-fringed main square - the Place Moulay El Hassan - where locals and tourists alike we were sipping their mint tea and enjoying watching the huge variety of people wandering by. Locals wheeled carts, robed men stopped to exchange the traditional double cheek kiss, and women in stunning traditional dress, all white to demonstrate their widow status, black to show their religious beliefs and vibrant to show their wealth, gossiped and chatted to one another while going about their daily lives. As the call to prayer blared out from the minaret directly above our heads, more and more people began bustling about, heading for their second prayer of the day. Tourists bantered good-naturedly with the traders whose shops lined the tiny ramshackle streets what radiated away from the main square.

With time for a further look around the tiny shops in the medina, we were able to flex our retail muscles again. Unlike many other cities in many countries in the world, Essaouira has a laid-back charm that is both refreshing and intoxicating. As we lost ourselves in the maze of tiny alleyways, some small trinket or other would catch our eye and we would willingly step into the Aladdin's cave of treasures. Here, we could admire, handle and even ask the price of goods in the shop quite untroubled. If we did query the cost of the item, it was merely conveyed to us with a smile - there was no pressure at all to buy anything. Add to this the fixed prices which negate the need for the haggling (down to 20 dirham or so) that tourists can often find so intimidating, and that prices are incredibly low in comparison to the workshops in Marrakech or other cities in the country, and you have a true Mecca for shoppers. Direct flights are due to operate from Luton with Easyjet in May, and so it will be even easier for tourists to discover this charming corner of the world.

As we made our way back to the hotel, I was stopped by traders in two or three shops who admired my Bubba Gump cap. "Lady, how much you want for the hat?" They asked. "Come see what you would like to trade it for in my shop." Sadly, I shook my head, the cap, a souvenir from San Francisco, wasn't for sale. "Come and share mint tea with us then," they offered. I once again shook my head and explained that we were to meet a friend, and so they waved me off with a smile. We met quite coincidentally with Karen, one of our tour group, and decided that we would find somewhere for drinks and dinner.

By this time, a fine misty rain had begun to fall, threatening to dampen our spirits, but as the sky darkened, tiny glass lanterns, their colours shimmering like precious stones, were being lit in the boutiques, lending an exotic, fairy-tale glow to the winding streets. As the rain began to fall more heavily, we found ourselves at a bar with a covered terrace overlooking the main square, and behind it, the picturesque harbour. Here, we ordered carafes of the local white wine, and engaged in conversations with other travellers, here for a variety of reasons: one bohemian girl was here to take a break from her exhausting dual relationship, an Australian couple self-driving through South Morocco en route to a 3 day trance party being held in the middle of the Sahara. We spent a long evening, exploring the different wines which were surprisingly good - dry and light - a never ending supply of salted nuts and chickpeas meaning we quite forgot about dinner. Eventually we were joined by some Moroccan friends of our new bohemian acquaintance and passed a few more hours speaking a tipsy variety of pigeon English, pigeon French and sign language, while a local jazz band played alternative versions of classic pop songs, and intricately tattooed acrobats performed jaw-dropping feats of strength and agility against a backdrop of fiery lanterns.

At 1am, we decided to call it a night, and ambled back through the quiet streets to our riad. En route, a delicious scent of barbecue made our stomachs grumble and reminded us of our lack of dinner earlier, and we soon encountered the source of the mouthwatering smell. A small cart was parked up next to one of the colossal gateways to the old medina. Here, a Moroccan man and his friend, who we later found out was from Senegal, were skewering small, spicy looking sausages. "Ten dirhams," we were told, when we enquired about the price. Before long, we were chatting with our new friends, enjoying delicious chilli flavoured sausages, slotted into pillow-soft rolls, smothered in tangy salad and fiery sauce. It was our very own version of the classic kebab the British so enjoy on their way home from the bar, and, our bellies full and smiles on our face, we continued to our hotel.

When we arrived, the door was locked. No problem, we thought - on the previous night, the group had returned at ten pm and the door then too had been locked. A simple knock had alerted the night porter who had come and let them in. So, we knocked. No reply. We knocked again, more insistently this time. Still nobody came. After seven attempts, each louder and more forceful than the one before, we realised we had no choice but to call Mohammed and explain our predicament. He duly made the right calls, and soon we heard footsteps shuffling towards us from behind the door, and a thick metallic scraping as the bolts were drawn back. After making it upstairs, and a brief detour back to the front desk, to wake the poor night porter once again, so that Karen could retrieve her room key, we all bade each other good night and sunk into the soft beds to slumber.

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