19 Nights in Morocco – IV: Essaouira & the Agadir Coast

With the spontaneous decision to skip my $50 Ryanair flight out of Morocco I was no longer tethered to a schedule. Part of me was content with what I’d experienced here, while another part felt like I was still half-way through a marathon. The social aspect of this trip had turned out to be quite fulfilling, and this is ultimately why I chose to stay longer. However at this point the endless commentary on heat, deserts, camels, Medina scams, and carpets had me craving something different without actually leaving the country.

Deciding where to go was a simple matter – the Atlantic coast. From Marrakech I took a bus three hours west to the seaside port town of Essaouira. As per usual we were let off at a station outside of the Medina. There I was greeted by a strong Atlantic breeze and much cooler air. It was a total relief from the torture of Marrakech. Essaouira didn’t have a special architectural color-scheme like other Moroccan cities I’d been, but what it lacked in coloristic intrigue it made up for in its well preserved 18th century architecture. The walled Medina and adjacent port felt like the site of an episode of Game of Thrones, and in fact – they were! (Season 3, episode 1).

One person from my “Fes Crew” had already been in Essaouira for a night, and I met him again at the Giraffe Hostel. “Leica Guy” (as I referred to him as in my journals) was a French/Dutch citizen living in Zurich, and we had originally conversed a week or so earlier comparing our Leica and Fuji-film cameras. Here he was joined by a friend named Benoit, the two of them were spending a week in the city to surf. Benoit was one of these frustratingly attractive French people – both with the irresistible accent, and the highly sensual demeanor.

Essaouira is not large in any way, and yet it would end up being the city where I stayed the longest in Morocco. On my first evening I took a stroll through the Medina and later along the beach. On the boardwalk I ran into Ema and Mateo, the Czech siblings I’d met earlier in the week on my Sahara tour. I still couldn’t get over how Ema had frolicked with our Brazilian friend right in front of me in the darkness of our desert tent. It was something I couldn’t bring up, but I also couldn’t get it out of my mind. I gave them my Instagram, thinking we’d possibly meet later, but I never saw them again.

Giraffe hostel was both refreshing and a bit annoying. The lively acoustics throughout the stairwell meant that any voices instantly filled the entire hostel, thus insuring a forced wake up time in the morning if the hostel was busy. There was only one very tiny sink on my floor, plus a single shower to split between two dorm rooms. The breakfast, however, was probably my favorite from in all of my time in Morocco – it was a good balance of eggs, veggies, honey, cheese, sliced baguette, and juice. The dorms had also been recently outfitted with custom wooden lockers, and they gave a nice earthy scent to the space.

The first morning at breakfast I met an English guy who was probably a decade older than me. He had a muddled accent that, had he been Australian, I’d consider bogen. For work he was an English teacher – recently in Cambodia, but now in the Moroccan city of Casablanca. As we dug into our generous portions of bread the topic of Belize came up, more specifically whether or not it is an independent country. Despite my knowledge having recently been there, this man was fully convinced that Belize was still a British overseas territory. He spent a good while searching the internet for further clarification.

After breakfast – and by the British man’s recommendation – I headed to a place called Khawa Cafe. Essaouira was the only city I visited in Morocco that teemed with nice coffee shops, including this one. It was an open air space with a small and intimate setting to work or chill. Naturally Khawa became a regular stop for me – I’d come here nearly every morning and write my journal. As is typical of Morocco, Khawa had cats lazing about. One noticeably pregnant cat was quite a troublemaker – she walked atop my journal, jumped high over a gate into the cafe’s food prep space, and generally harassed customers.

That afternoon a couple of the guys joined me for a walk out of the Medina as I sought out figs and avocado at more “local” prices. Meanwhile, my Iranian/American friend Arousha was making her way to Essaouira from Marrakech (she was finally over the insane heat). Later a hostel employee taught me how to make Moroccan tea using a combination of fresh mint and loose green tea, both of which could be purchased practically anywhere in the streets and local shops.

Making tea became a fond pastime, and I enjoyed offering it to whomever was around, sometimes carrying it all the way to the rooftop of the hostel on a tray. That night Arousha, Benoit, and I were in the same dorm room and we talked for a long while. The summer’s presidential dramas in America had Arousha and I sharing our desires to live somewhere else, while Benoit was oddly curious about my dating life (or lack there-of). With just the three of us in the room it felt like a sleepover. Some may find it surprising that not all nights in hostel dorms feel like this.

Essaouira wasn’t a place I’d typically stay for more than two or three nights – but I wound up staying for five. All of the socializing I was doing gave me a reason to stick around. I got onto thinking, how much longer and more fulfilling of stays could I have had in cities elsewhere in the world had I actually connected with more people? Memorable social moments in Morocco were preventing this trip from being yet another dot-to-dot itinerary. And furthermore, being here was showing me that I could fathom an extended stay anywhere if I had the right community.

At the hostel there was a much older French guy staying in the other dorm, he seemed to have no issue whatsoever sharing the space with us younger folk. I bring this up because over the past couple years I’d convinced myself that I was too old for hostels. Earlier this year I’d written a post on my “greying” relationship with travel, and a lot of this had to do with the inconveniences and irritations of hostel life … particularly with that of large party hostels where I struggle as an introvert (it’s interesting to note – Moroccan hostels overall felt very introvert-friendly). Anyhow, I’m learning to stop acting like I’m too old for anything in life.

For my second afternoon in Essaouira I did laundry on the hostel rooftop, and then went out to shop for figs and walnuts (the latter of which are huge, and are sold in carts all over town). Another thing I ate a lot was the fast food style tacos, which in Morocco are more like a quesadilla-burrito hybrid. These were delicious and filling, stuffed with a slightly spicy sauce, french fries, and chicken. I had to convince myself that fast food in Morocco was probably healthier than the stuff in America. These tacos became a guilty pleasure, and they were equally loved by the locals.

Nearly the entirety of my third day was spent playing a figurative game of hide & seek. I wasn’t using a SIM card in Morocco, and while this hadn’t otherwise been an issue it did make it difficult to coordinate activities if people were out and about and not communicating their whereabouts. The Kiwi couple I’d met in Fes had arrived from their Sahara tour, and so between them and the small cohort I already had in town I found myself walking all over while plans continued to change. But if it was any consolation, seven of us managed to gather that night for a very authentic meal of shared couscous inside what appeared to be someone’s home.

Within the span of just a day I went from being really happy to be part of this group to feeling like my mood was a bit off. It didn’t help that everyone I knew had gradually moved to a different, nicer hostel on the other side of the Medina. I suppose it was natural for them all to want something fancier … the one sink and shower situation at Giraffe had gotten old. And besides, they all worked in tech and the sciences and could bear an upgrade. “Just move here! It’s only $10 more!” said Arousha. At this time I was unemployed with no future gigs on the horizon … so I held firm to my own budget and remained at Giraffe.

My last day in town was spent primarily with Arousha. In the mid-afternoon we wandered down to the port, hoping to have some of the fresh seafood everyone had been talking about. However it was past 3:00 PM, and the day’s catch had been left out in the sun for hours. “I want a real restaurant, with a proper chef”, said Arousha (hoping to avoid another bout of food poisoning). We tried one visibly upscale place, but darted out of there when we saw prices comparable to that of America. We then settled at a smaller and more intimately lit restaurant, sharing plates of calamari and salad. Our (attractive) Moroccan waiter told of how he’s moving to Brazil soon to “start a new life” … This was the second sign of this trip that reminded me I needed to re-visit Brazil.

The Fes Crew were planning to move south to the barely-existent surf village of Imsouane. As much as I’d enjoyed many moments with this group I felt like I was slowly loosing my identity as a solo traveler. It was already nice that I kept organically running into these guys, but I wasn’t here to follow other travelers around. I also had no desire to surf, nor sit endlessly on a beach … so I decided to head out alone. I also had a new flight booked on Ryanair out of Morocco that left me with just a few days left. I wanted one place to enjoy for just myself, and so after nearly a week in Essaouira I took a bus south to the more lively surf town of Taghazout.

This region stretching down to the city of Agadir was less windy than Essaouira, and as such it was filled with beach-going tourists. Interestingly Taghazout was the only place I stayed in Morocco (aside from the Sahara) that did not have a Medina. Medinas had been one of the hallmark aspects of my journey, but here on the coast it was all surf towns and simple fishing villages. Each morning I’d wake to cloudy weather, and the sight of dozens of fishing boats out in the ocean. By around noon the clouds would part, and the fishermen would return to shore to sell their catch.

I filled my time in the Taghazout area mostly by walking. I could go south for miles along a boardwalk past resorts and hotels on one side, and endless beach on the other. Being here strongly reminded me of Southern California, or perhaps even the Mediterranean. If it weren’t for the sight of camels, tents, and Tajine jars on the beach I could’ve probably fooled anyone into believing I was elsewhere else.

On my last night in Morocco I hiked up the hill above Taghazout to the local skate park, a place that draws quite a crowd. It was one of the few moments of this whole trip that I was out amongst strangers but content to mind my own business. There were so many past trips I would’ve loved to have been as social as this one, but here I sat alone and relished in the sights and sounds of skaters doing what they do. I sat there vibing and taking photos until the scene before me faded into warmer and darker tones by dusk. This was a good moment to contemplate my gratitude for this trip. I was finally having a summer that was on my terms – going where the winds of standby availability took me, and feeling enlivened by that freedom.

Next post: Return to Rio de Janeiro (favela edition)