In the Essouira harbour
Marrakesh is liberally peppered with tour companies and touts and, of course, everyone ‘knows’ someone who is a guide/has a minibus or 4×4 or taxi/can introduce you/owns a shop, etc.
After two or three false starts, including tea in grubby carpet shop waiting for ‘ my friend Hafik’ to arrive (I think not!) a legit company was found and a day’s trip booked to Essouira, about two and a half hours west of Marrakesh.
The next morning, we were off, driven by Abdul, a waft of cheap aftershave and a mixture of Arabic, French and Western pop (a la Lady Gaga and Faith Hill) on the radio. City gave way to a soft golden landscape dotted with olive trees…land, farmhouses, sheep and stone walls all the same hue.
Wait a minute! Was that a goat in a tree?! The van pulled over for a photo op, the entrée to a visit to an argan oil cooperative, run (we were told) by divorced women. Married women, apparently, aren’t allowed to work. (Check out the upcoming Argan Oil entry for more).
Still a fishing village, Essouira (Esa-wera) has grown into a bustling destination for tourists escaping choking Marrakesh, and surfers enjoying big waves whipped up by incessant winds known locally as alizee. At its heart is an old medina with stone ramparts, whitewashed houses, market stalls and artisan workshops.
Stuffed with bright Majorelle blue boats, the harbour bustled with fishermen sorting and selling their catch of dorado, bream, skate, crab and eels; repairing boats and nets. Photography of individuals – true of anywhere here – is not permitted especially those of bearded Berber men. We had to be very careful to photograph only objects or general scenes, approved by our local guide.
Moustafa met our van outside the medina gates. Tall, fast striding and sporting a bright blue head wrap, his weather-beaten faced sported twinkling eyes, and a dark charm and confidence. He kept us in a tight group, guiding us through the labyrinthine medina and steering us into shops in which he obviously earned a commission on sales (a standard practice). A wood carving shop offered a demonstration of inlaid table tops and myriad boxes and carving and a jewelry shop offered high end prices for mid-range work. The pressure to purchase lay thickly in the air. There was no time to browse on our own.
We were charged extra for Moustafa’s services…only revealed once we had arrived in the port. The driver said 30 dirhams each, but at the end, Moustafa demanded 50. When I questioned him, he moved close to my face and asked ‘You not happy? I give you nice tour, good restaurant for lunch, answer your questions!’
I backed off, annoyed and unsure. But, in response to our driver’s question about our day, I expressed chagrin over the discrepancy in price. The short version of what ensued was that tempers flared, spittle and arms flew and, in the end, Moustafa refunded some of us our 20 dirhams. Turns out it wasn’t the first time he had pulled that trick.
This story – of saying one thing and demanding another – of pressure and aggressive indignation when questioned – mixed with a veneer of hospitality (Tea? Cushion?) designed to extract a sale – repeats itself many times in a day.
After a day of wind and sun, in-my-face vendors, Moustafa maneuverings and the long drive, a long hot bath and good dinner with wine was a welcomed passport into blissful sleep.