Life’s a beach and then you dye

(Rest assured: today’s slightly cryptic corny pun will be explained.)

Weeks after returning from Morocco, my feet still have the stripe of a sandal tan across them from wandering around the windswept seaside town of Essaouira. It’s a daily reminder of what a wonderful (but far too short) time I had there.

The central part of Morocco is not as well-serviced by trains as the north is, so bus is the only way to get from Marrakech to the necklace of seaside towns that drapes Morocco’s central Atlantic coast. When we went to the bus terminal to book our tickets, we were told that we could only book our return journey to Marrakech once we got to Essaouira. We soon realised that this was because the bus company keeps track of reservations by crossing off seat numbers in a single big bound notebook. And how could we possibly book seats for a bus whose big notebook was 150km away? Duh, silly westerners.

Our bus left Marrakech’s French quarter on a sunny afternoon, and we gazed out the window as we passed the palm stands of the swish neighbourhood of Palmeriae, kilometres of olive groves, and the towering forest of cranes cranking out new construction on the outskirts of the city.

Soon, we were out in the countryside, which spring had transformed into an aesthetically pleasing palate of colours. Low-slung mud-brick villages were scattered among lush fields exploding with yellow blossoms. The sky had that uninterrupted, dominating presence I’ve only seen in Alberta and Montana. Punctuating the gentle slopes were plucky palms and the odd flock of sheep. And no matter how tiny or remote the village, there was always a group of kids playing soccer in a field somewhere. It was a bit like watching a feel-good FIFA World Cup advertisement.

The only thing spoiling my bucolic trance at this point was the tinny bus radio spurting generic Beyoncé/Sean Paul/Lady Gaga songs throughout the three-hour journey. Why? Why?!

Finally, the bus came up over a crest and I got my first ever glimpse of the Atlantic. The sunset was turning the whitewashed walls of the medina bright orange as we pulled into the bus station at Essaouira. Porters milled around the cargo hold with metal barrows, waiting to relieve travellers of their loads – the town has a vehicle-free medina. The barrows looked big enough to hitch a comfy ride in. This guy was using his to catch up on some zzzz’s.

The riad we stayed at in Essaouira was as amazing as the one in Marrakesh. There’s a line in the Morocco Lonely Planet saying that the term “boutique hotel” seems invented for Morocco’s riads, and I have to agree. Many of these old villas were tucked away forgotten in the back alleys of Morocco’s medinas for decades, neglected to the point of falling down. As the Moroccan government started to dole out generous tax incentives to foreign investors, European couples looking for a sea-change started to buy up these old ruins and restore them to their former glory, reopening them as B&Bs.

Each riad has its own feel to it, imbued by the taste of its owner. In this case, the aesthetic was Berber-meets-rainbow-abstract-art, which I loved.

Early the next morning, we ventured out before dawn to watch the sun rise over the medina. In the tiniest of back alleys, shop owners were picking up the day’s supply of fresh bread right out of the clay ovens of local wholesale bakeries. At the fishermen’s docks, the old sea dogs were having a smoke and getting ready for a day out on the Atlantic. Mountains of tangled netting sat between the rows of colourful, upturned boats waiting on shore.

Essaouira’s fisheries aren’t what they used to be – nowadays, the town lives off the tourism brought in by its World Heritage-listed medina. and the crazy Atlantic winds that draw kitesurfers from around the world to its beaches.

But at one point, the Mediterranean’s most powerful people – Numidian kings, Byzantine emperors, Roman senators – had their eye on this isolated little coastal fort. Why? Because the foam-drenched rocks along Essaouira’s shores were (and still are) home to a unique species of shellfish that were unwittingly worth their weight in gold.

Tyrian purple, that quintessential colour of nobility since classical times, comes from the secretions of a small predatory sea snail called the murex. Ten thousand snails produce little more than a gram of purple dye – enough to give a single robe just a trim of violet. Until I heard that fact, I never truly understood how extravagant it was that Cleopatra had the sails of her royal barge dyed purple.

(And now that you’ve read all that, you can go back and look at the title of this post again, and roll your eyes properly this time.)

But back to the present day, and our early morning walk around town. Essaouira is, as I mentioned, a walled city, and one of the cool things you can do is walk along the old, cannon-lined ramparts facing the Atlantic. You breathe in the fresh sea air, get rained on a little bit, and laugh at the little stray puppies play-fighting over bones. And thereafter, have The Star-Spangled Banner stuck in your head for the rest of the day: “O’er the raaaamparts we watched…”

At lunchtime, we headed for the row of fish grills lining the beach end of Place Moulay Hassan, the main square that faces onto the fishing harbour. Here, a mediaevally-themed sign erected by Essaouira’s “Professional Association of Grilled Fish” states the going price for a seafood lunch.

We wandered past the stalls and solicited prices from each of the vendors. There are half a dozen employees at each stall who rotate between working the barbie and stealing potential customers from neighbouring grill stands.

It’s a cutthroat business – there isn’t really much differentiating one stall from the other in terms of the food served. (That’s why, like the stall holders in the souks of Marrakesh, the grillmeisters of Essaouira have swotted up on as many languages as their brains can hold. The guesses as to my mother tongue tended to follow this order: “Buenos dias? Bon jour? Namaste? Salaam alaikum? Hello?”)

The competition’s great if you’re the customer, though, because for a paltry $5 or so, you are served up a feast of delicious grilled fish, seafood, salad and bread (and some stalls differentiate themselves by throwing in a bottle of Coke).

It’s hard to explain what I liked so much about Essaouira. It certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. I thought it would be a touristy, beachy town, but the beach wasn’t actually that appealing – it was so windy, day and night, that walking there was more forced exfoliation than relaxation. There aren’t a lot of traditional touristy sights to see, and the medina doesn’t have the bustle and excitement of a big Moroccan city like Marrakech. No, what makes you fall for Essaouira is its relaxed, coastal vibe – the chilled outdoor cafés, the rustic, tumbledown buildings, the merchants pushing their barrows around the car-free medina like they’ve done for hundreds of years, and the friendly smiles of every single person you meet. All the while, the sun is ducking in and out of clouds like a confused meerkat, and the unending breeze bends the skinny palms in Orson Welles Square. Life just moves at a different pace around here.

Hunting a bargain

Whenever I go to India to visit my family, it always reminds me how sheltered I am as a result of having grown up in Australia. There are certain skills you pick up when you live in a busy, crazy whirlwind of a city like Mumbai, like how to jump onto or off of an already moving bus. Or how to squeeze your way through a dense crowd without losing your companions. Or how to cross a street that looks like a game of Frogger.

My family has some l33t sk1llz0rZ, and I’ve always been kind of envious. One of the things I was always in awe of was the playful art of bargaining. I would follow an aunt or cousin to the street market at Linking Road, with the mission of finding me a nice new salwar kameez or pair of chappals. I would be under clear instructions not to point at anything or to talk in English. All expressions of interest in an item were to be mumbled discreetly while keeping my gaze and trajectory full steam ahead.

When I saw something I liked, my aunt would stop and give it a casual and critical once-over, as if it might do. Maybe. If the quality was okay, a starting price would be sought and the parrying would begin. There would be gesturing, incredulous expressions, laughter, and sometimes my aunt would tell me we were leaving and we would start to walk away. That threw me off the first time, until I realised it was part of a wider strategy. Finally, a deal would be struck, and I would have my nice new bag/chappals/t-shirt.

Once, the stall-keeper told my aunt that he couldn’t give her his best price, since she was obviously buying for the NRI (non-resident Indian) tagging along with her. Please note, I was wearing a salwar kameez and chappals, and hadn’t opened my mouth a millimetre. And yet the stall-keeper had deduced from the way I walk that I was a firangi. These guys are smart.

In Morocco, I had decided that I wanted to buy something in the souk for my parents, and possibly something for myself. Although I could pass for a Moroccan in appearance, I obviously didn’t even have any traditional clothes or native speaker of Arabic to hide behind. Also, I have no poker face. None. I am really bad at things like this.

It was likely to be as much of a mismatch as Rocky Balboa vs. Apollo Creed, but maybe, just maybe I could go the distance. And if I went the distance, I would know for the first time that I wasn’t just a bum from the neighbourhood.

We skulked around the alleyways of the souk for a while, scoping out what was on offer. As we walked past, the stall-keepers would cycle through languages till they figured what we spoke: “Buenos dias. Bon jour. Hello?”

We went up to a stall that caught my eye and disinterestedly shuffled through the piles of smaller items. The stall-keeper had eyes like a hawk, catching me out every time my gaze lingered involuntarily on something.  “You want this one? How much you want to pay? For you I make special price.” He somehow coaxed me to the back of the stall where the larger bowls and tagines were. I saw one that I instantly loved and knew Amma would love too. I tried to look and sound indifferent. “How much for this one?”

“400 dirhams.”

This was going to put my acting skills, which have historically proven poor, to the test. $50 would probably be a fair price for this bowl in Europe or America. But I somehow managed to emit a laugh, repeat “400 dirhams?!” and contort my face into a look of incredulity. (At least, I think that’s what I looked like. For all I know it came out as a look of “I have no idea wtf I’m doing omg”.)

I had decided earlier that I would settle for 60% of the starting price, so I made a quick calculation in my mind and counter-offered 150 dirhams. Now it was his turn to look incredulous. “I can’t give you this for 150 dirhams. Sorry. This is too low. 350 dirhams, that is a fair price.”

“180,” I countered, boldly. He didn’t raise an eyebrow, but his facial expression said “Bitch, please.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Overcoming my usual desire to break all uncomfortable pauses, I squirmed and waited out said pause until he came down to 300. I inched up to 200.

Then he pulled a classic move. “I ask my boss,” he said, “wait here,” and disappeared into the narrow passageway between his stall and the next one. Sean recognised this as a gambit loved by car salesmen everywhere, and pointed this out to me while trying not to crack up.

Finally, the guy was back. “Ok, we make a price between 200 and 300. You tell me.”

“220,” I said, still holding out.

He held out his hand for me to shake. Yay! Success!

I stuck out my palm, and as he pumped my hand up and down, he said “250”. And gave me a mischievous wink. Oops!

I had to laugh. The guy had made me shake on 250 without me knowing any better. I was dealing with a veteran, and he couldn’t have even been out of his teens yet. I conceded my paltry $3 of ego and laughed along with him. I had my bowl for $30, and that was okay with me. My mum would be proud of me for trying.

As he wrapped the bowl in tissue paper, I asked the stall-keeper a little bit about himself. He was a student, he said. He had lived in the medina all his life, and when he wasn’t studying, he helped his uncle run the stall over the last five years. Which means he must have started doing this when he was 15 or so. That blew my mind. When I was 15, I probably didn’t even know how to order a pizza.

It might take a little longer to buy something in the souk, but it’s definitely rewarding. I’ve never felt post-buyer’s high the way I did that day. From now on, buying from a normal store is never going to feel this satisfying!

(P.S. Tips and feedback from bargaining veterans welcomed :] )

Rock the Casbah

Don’t get me wrong, Deutschland: you’re a pretty great place to live. But there comes a point during your winter when I just want to kick you in the nuts, escape from your icy grasp, and go hide somewhere warm.

That’s how I ended up on a plane flying away from the orderly, efficient rhythms of Munich life, soon to be submerged in the chaotic hubbub of the old Moroccan city of Marrakech.

I knew we’d picked a winner before we even landed. The plane descended slowly over central Morocco to reveal a green and brown patchwork of flat, sun-drenched fields, punctuated by mud brick villages and neat groves of olive trees. By the time we’d had our passports stamped, our jackets were off and our sunnies were on. It was time to soak up some Maghreb culture, with a side order of Vitamin D.

The united, autonomous and relatively peaceful kingdom of Morocco as we know it today has only really existed for the last 50 or 60 years. Before that, the land was colonised and re-colonised over the centuries in many waves of invasion. The original inhabitants of the land are Berbers, the indigenous tribal people of North Africa. Then came the Phoenicians, and later the Romans. In the middle ages arrived the Arabs from the Middle East, and finally came the Europeans, when Morocco was a French protectorate in the first half of the 20th century.

This patchwork of cultures is instantly noticeable when you travel in Morocco. The people we talked to in Marrakech and Essaouira all spoke French and Arabic fluently (few of them knew English). Many Moroccans can speak Berber too, although thanks to the musical chairs of colonising powers in the bigger towns and cities, the realm of the pure, unacculturated Berber speaker has been pushed out to the countryside.

The waves of colonisation are also evident in the layout of Marrakech. Like most big old towns in the Maghreb, the throbbing heart of Marrakech is the medina, the Arab quarter of the city. It’s a beguiling warren of worn, saffron-coloured stone buildings lining narrow streets, each splitting off into even narrower alleyways that a moped could barely pass through, let alone a car.

Many of the medinas in Morocco have in fact banned motorised traffic, but Marrakech’s medina hasn’t. So as you wander the maze of streets, trying not to make it too obvious that you’re actually a little lost, you must navigate the puddles, the mule carts, the wares of street vendors spread on the ground, the kids playing street basketball under a sagging hoop above their front door… and crazy moped drivers with a death wish.

It’s wonderful.

Five times a day, like clockwork, the call to prayer goes out from the dozens of minarets rising from the laneways of the medina. Standing in any one spot, you can hear the warble of at least three or four muezzins in dissonant keys. It’s quite a thing to hear. It was the first time in Africa for both of us, but in the medina we could hardly tell. With Arabic script predominant in street signage, and the majority of women walking with heads covered, Marrakech felt distinctly like the Middle East to us.

In this busy medina, the busiest part of all is the Place Jemaa el-Fna – the “Square of the Dead”. The name comes from the public executions that used to be carried out here. Nowadays, snake charmers, cross-dressing belly dancers, monkey trainers and traditional African musicians wander the square, emanating a cacophony of exotic sounds and extracting spare change from locals and tourists alike.

It sounded a little hokey reading about it before I came, but the majority of the audience for these buskers seemed to be comprised of Moroccans, which made it seem less put-on, somehow. But I dunno. Maybe those guys are part of the show too, and I’m just a gullible Western tourist. Or maybe the performers started out trying to make a buck from the tourists, and ended up attracting locals as well. All I know is those hip-shakin’ lady-men definitely have a sharp eye for curious foreigners hovering at the back of the crowd with cameras.

The Jemaa el-Fna is also a good place to be if you’re jonesin’ for a snack. Stalls selling fresh dates, roasted nuts, dried figs and apricots tempt you from all sides, threatening to spoil your dinner. Colourful juice carts squeeze the freshest, most delicious OJ I have ever, ever tasted. Arequipa, you have been bested.

As night falls, the southern half of the square is transformed into a giant outdoor food court. Stalls replete with picnic tables, white-uniformed chefs and towering piles of fresh ingredients appear out of nowhere and start pumping out the most tantalising smells. At smaller carts, cooks ladle snail soup out of steaming brass vats for diners sitting on bar stools.

The winding alleys surrounding the main square form the covered market area – the souk. Like the square, the souk caters to tourists (souvenirs, spices) and locals (clothes, vegetables, mass-manufactured toys) alike. Morocco is a land of craftsmen, and the beautiful, exotic items sold in the souk tempted even me and Sean – neither of us frequently frequents souvenir shops.

As a tea lover, I went gaga over the intricately-inlaid silver teapots hanging from hooks beside the doorways of the souvenir stalls. It took a bunch of willpower on my part not to buy one. (And admittedly, I still kind of regret that I didn’t.) Sean was debating whether he could justify buying a colourfully painted clay tagine when his kitchen in Seattle is already overflowing into his coat closet. (If you know Sean at all, you’ll know that the answer was a no. But an unusually regretful one.)

I did end up picking up a couple of souvenirs from the souk. The first was a hand-painted Marrakshi bowl for my mum. Buying this was my first-ever experience with bargaining, which deserves its own separate post! We also bought some saffron and mint tea from a spice stall, whose wares were piled up in neat pyramids at optimal sniffing/oohing/aahing height. When I went back and made mint tea in Munich, it made my whole apartment smell minty fresh. Mmmmm.

While in Marrakech, we stayed in a riad, one of the hundreds of old Moroccan villas tucked away in tiny alleyways across the medina. The Moroccan government is investing big in growing the tourism industry these days, and this has brought many winter-weary Europeans across the Mediterranean seeking the ultimate sea-change: to buy and refurbish an old, rundown riad, fit it out with traditional Moroccan furniture, and hire local staff to run it as a B&B.

Staying in a riad in Morocco is an experience in itself. It’s tempting to just spend all day gawping at the beautiful furnishings, talking to the friendly staff and appreciating the cool, quiet sanctuary within its walls. Reading a book over breakfast on the terrace, accompanied by the crowing of roosters and the sun rising over the Atlas Mountains, is a nice way to start the day.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m a big fan of colourful, geometric stuff. Stripy rainbow toe socks, Escher etchings, the Brandhorst Museum in Munich, these are all things that instinctively please me. So I loved visiting the old palaces and schools of the medina, which were all built in typically dazzling Islamic style. The Bahia Palace and the Medersa Ben Youssef in particular were amazing. My photos or descriptions can’t do their beauty justice.

What happens when you wander outside the medina walls, you may wonder? If you head west, you reach the area of Marrakech known as the “Ville Nouvelle” (new city). The walls of the buildings here are still painted an invigorating shade of pink, but the broad, café-lined boulevards and grand roundabouts are an instantly recognisable sign that this is the French quarter of the city.

When the French came to Marrakech, the high-octane clamour and confusing alleyways of the Arab quarter were not their cup of tea, so they expanded the city outside the medina walls in their own preferred style. Apparently they taxed the locals to fund the construction of their ‘oigh-brow new neighbourhood, which was kind of a douche move if you ask me.

But the Ville Nouvelle is an nice place to spend a sunny afternoon, even just to contrast with the atmosphere inside the medina. It feels like a completely different world. There’s more car traffic, but it keeps to some kind of discernible order. There is a smaller number of tourists. and a proportionately smaller number of touts. Our French riad hosts come here when they’re feeling homesick for Europe, or just get a hankering for some McDonald’s. (That was the first time I’ve ever heard a French person admit they like – or eat at – McDonald’s.)

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Marrakech, or at least its medina, reminded me more of India than any other place ever has. When I visited my family in Mumbai every few years as a young ‘un, I never really got to know the city in a practical sense, but what has stayed with me are the visceral things – the smells, the tastes, the unfamiliar sounds, the sense of unpredictability, the strange inherent cosiness of looking like everyone else. I couldn’t tell you what Mumbai smells and tastes of to me, but whenever I encounter those unnamed sensations elsewhere, I am instantly transported to the back of my uncle’s motorbike near Juhu Beach, or the vegetable market where I used to pick up coriander and brinjal with my grandfather, or the stretch of seawall along the Arabian Sea where lovers sit to watch the sun set. Everywhere I wandered in Marrakech, I encountered these familiar feelings. It’s no wonder that it only took a couple of days for me to love this city.