Essaouira, Morocco, Day 241

Our initial plan had been to make the long journey north from Dakhla in Western Sahara to Essaouira in Morocco over two days with an overnight stop in Laayoune. This would therefore avoid another miserable overnight bus trip (Christi and I had endured enough of those in South America). However on reaching Laayoune there seemed little point getting off the bus. Christi’s unruly bowels were behaving well enough, plus we had no idea where to stay or how to arrange our onward transportation tomorrow morning. The prospect of yet another uncomfortable night on a bus is not that appealing, but the carrot dangling just out of reach is a long, relaxing stay in the fishing port of Essaouira. It means being back on the tourist trail, which means (even more so than Dakhla) convenience and services (and no doubt a few hawkers). We bite the bullet and jump back on the bus.

Moroccan buses are nothing like those delightful Andesmar vehicles we experienced in Argentina. As I mentioned before Moroccan buses do not have toilets onboard, nor do they offer a meal service, and worst of all the seats barely recline. The space is limited and it is impossible to stay comfortable, which is a challenge considering we’re on this CTM bus for another 12 hours (in addition to the 9 hours we have done so far). Perhaps the most annoying thing is that the bus continues to stop for bathroom breaks and meal stops. The countryside changes as the dawn breaks as we finally exchange the desert for the mediterranean. We arrive in Agadir at 7.30 am. We stay in this large coastal resort town for as long as it takes to catch the first bus on to Essaouira. Considering we have just spent 20 hours in a bus (longer than any of our South American bus rides note) Christi and I feel not too bad. The 8 am bus to Essaouira is a complete rust bucket, something you’d expect to see in Bolivia rather than Morocco. This has to be the lowest class of bus. The driver is a maniac who appears to care neither for his own safety nor that of his passengers. Mind you the passengers are a rum lot. One, sitting across the aisle from us appears to be having a bad reaction to whatever illegal drugs he’s using. He’s loud and obnoxious and almost gets into a fight with the bus conductor. The crazy driving also provokes an avalanche of vomit (fortunately into bags) which are then tossed out the window. God forbid you’re at the back of the bus and are looking out the window! If there was time to experience the views, then they are quite idyllic. We speed through pretty little villages, dice with death on the bluffs overlooking sweeping vistas of Atlantic ocean, while inland we see an explosion of wildflowers in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains.

Everyone is relieved to arrive in Essaouira after 3 miserable hours and exactly 24 hours since Christi and I left Dakhla. Without doubt we have earned a long relaxing break in this idyllic seaside town. And an army of touts board the bus before we can even get off. The only way to avoid confrontation is to choose one to help us. We explain to our new fixer exactly what we want and he races off into the maze of streets that comprise the medina, the heart of Essaouira. It’s also possible to rent a wheelbarrow and driver to cart your luggage around (the medina being largely free of traffic) so all of us are chasing after our fixer. We actually walk for some 15 minutes before reaching the Dar Mounia hotel deep within the medina. To our complete amazement we are given a two-room suite for 500 Dirham (US$60) per night. At last, after months on the road, Christi and I get to relax – which is not the same as doing nothing.

We begin by visiting the water front where our Lonely Planet guidebook promises us a seafood feast. Christi appears to have recovered from her dodgy tummy in Dakhla because she is eager to sample the large selection of freshly caught fish and shellfish from any number of stalls. Whatever you select is immediately barbecued and served in minutes. It does not get much fresher than that. Christi is drawn to the sea urchin, which is bright orange in color and slimy on the taste buds. As usual Christi pronounces it de-licious. I on the other hand am trying not to gag. Later I decide to get a haircut and cut-throat razor shave in the medina. This is my first haircut on this African leg of the trip. Haircuts in African are risky from an aesthetic perspective. A few years ago I went to a barber in Victoria Falls (Zimbabwe) who offered haircuts for only 50 cents. How could I go wrong. It must be the cheapest haircut in the world. I guess an alternative view would be: you only get what you pay for. The barber knew how to use clippers, but not scissors. Consequently the only cut he knew was the buzz cut. I had no desire to look as if I was in the military so I took my half-finished haircut to an expensive salon in the Victoria Falls Hotel and paid lots of money to rescue my luscious locks. I’m glad to say the barber of Essaouira was a skilled artisan and I now have an immaculate haircut to go with my immaculate good looks. God I think I must have inhaled some of whatever that bus passenger was consuming. Time to retire to our deluxe accommodation. Our bedroom has 3 beds. What are we going to do with 3 beds, let alone a couch and a TV that has English-speaking programming. I think Christi and I have died and gone to travelers’ heaven.