Essaouira - Day 1

Hammoud. Handsome, happy, helpful Hammoud. Mitch’s houseman comes to find us at Hotel Tachfine and proves to be every bit the gem Mitch had described. He swiftly takes us under his wing and suddenly the somewhat scary, stinky place that is Marrakech seems quite livable. Hammoud not only takes our 4 hefty suitcases to Mitch’s house for storing during our trip to Essaouira, he also rents a car and drives us the 2.5 hours to this fishing village. Hammoud’s mother is Arab and father a Berber, and he speaks not only Arabic and a Berber dialect, but French and English, too. He seems one of those perennially sunny sorts, ever helpful and easygoing. He only bristles when we say we’re not sure where we’ll settle and want to check out both Essaouira and Fes before we return to Marrakech. It’s clear he’d like us to stay in Marrakech for the job that’s in it and frankly his presence tips the balance in favor of the Red City. He even takes me aside when Samuel is off doing something to ask me if I how I like Marrakech and to assert that this is where we must stay. We’ll see . . .

Essaouira feels a bit like Bar Harbor in the summer, or Playa del Carmen in the winter – touristy, but with its own funky charm. The city is all blue and white, a crisp, clean color combo so pervasive that even Coca-Cola is cowed into translating its logo to Mediterranean blue and white. Roger, to have your color vocabulary now would be helpful in describing the ranges of blue that all of the city’s doors and windows are painted in: think aquamarine to cobalt. The effect in its simplicity is stunning. The houses, because of the sea’s wet salty air, are quite decrepit, but still gorgeous. Our hotel sits on a very noisy square, which has slowed our jet lag recovery, or mine, at least, as the drinking, singing and chatter continue until about 3 a.m.

We arrived in Essaouira just as the fishing boats were selling the last of the day’s catch. Glorious fish are splayed over tarmacs on the street on small vending carts and in wheelbarrows. The stench is quite phenomenal, with such depth in this humid air that it’s hard to draw a breath without feeling queasy. Along the wall that separates the city from the sea, a throng of cats is lined up devouring discarded fish parts. Cats are pervasive here, and scrawny kittens, too, laze in the sun and scramble in and out of baskets, bags and bowls outside the souk’s stalls.

Before dinner we wander the medina, smaller and less confusing than that of Marrakech, but we still manage to get quite lost. We laugh at our lack of direction, knowing that compared to Fes’s reputed maze of a medina, Essaouira’s is pure JV. At least we’re doing some warming up before heading off to the big challenge.

At dinner, our waiter turns us on to Argan oil, similar to olive oil, but with a sweeter, smokier scent and taste, not unlike a hazelnut oil. Argan oil comes from the nuts inside the argan fruit, which is eaten by the famed tree-climbing goats. We’d hoped to catch a glimpse of them on our drive into Essaouira, but they proved elusive. The road to Agadir, further south, is a surer bet for a sighting, we’re told. Anyway, our waiter offered to drop by a bottle of argan oil at our hotel tomorrow morning, and since the oil was delicious we decided the 150 dh price tag wasn’t too steep. We’d read that it takes the fruit of 30 argan trees to make just a litre of the stuff; what we won’t think about as we dunk our bread into the auburn-colored liquid is that the argan nuts are collected from goat dung since the goat’s digestive system is essential in removing the fruit from around the nuts.