An Ode to Ahmed

Our last day was a bit of a choose-you-own-adventure kind of day, with no scheduled activities besides lunch. I spent the morning wandering through Essaouira with my father, letting myself get lost in Morocco one last time. Today's adventures will be told through photographs.

A skirmish at the morning fish market

My father and I were not the only ones watching the fishermen haul in their morning catch

 

The littlest helper

Who knew sugar had so many virtues? It apparently cures depression and slims your figure, among other things.

Not your average run on the beach

Kite surfing - the one thing we didn't manage to fit into our trip

Fishmongers try to woo you into purchasing their wares, which they will cook for you on the spot. One had a small shark strung up, while others had live crabs clacking around.

Spotted: the best guide ever! This photo is not from today, but it is one of the few that I have of our fearless leader (and Experience Morocco guide), Ahmed Mha. Ahmed was endlessly patient, knowledgeable, and kind. He was as quick to help a stranger in need as to crack a joke. We had a fantastic two weeks with him and I can't recommend him enough. Ahmed, if you're reading this - libitibito!

Who else could pull off the double hat look this well?

Trading Storks for Seagulls

First, let me wish everyone a (belated) happy International Women's Day!

It was hard to tear us away from Richard Branson’s fancy-pants hotel this morning, but somehow we managed to clamber into the car on time to head to Essaouira.

Along the way, we passed through the so-called Argan Forest, a swath of land that is home to about 20 million argan trees that supply the argan oil trade. Apparently, Morocco shares the argan tree with Mexico (similar to how they share the agave plant) because of similar climates and the way the countries used to fit together as part of Pangea. The argan fruits are harvested once a year during the summer and the oil is sold, well, everywhere all year round. Some tips from our fountain of knowledge, Ahmed, on how to make sure your argan oil is the real stuff: it shouldn’t remain greasy after it is applied, and it should freeze like butter if you put it in your freezer.

As we drove through the forest, we saw the goats climbing the trees to eat the argan fruit (perhaps with some encouragement from their herders, who charge for photographs - don't worry, we haggled).

We then continued on to a feminine cooperative that makes argan oil. 

A sea of argan nut shells in front of the argan oil cooperative

Creating these cooperatives was part of a sweeping government plan to make living in rural areas more desirable so that people didn’t move to the cities and create slums. It felt appropriate to visit on a day that celebrates women around the world. One of the women walked us through how the fruits are dried and then peeled, cracked (to get at the small argan nut inside of the larger husk), and either roasted to produce oil for eating or cold pressed to produce oil for cosmetics. 

Step 1: de-fruit the husk

Step 2: hammer the little argan nuts out of their acorn-like husk

Step 3: grind it all up!

The nuts are ground up in a traditional way between two stones and mineral water is added to separate the oil from the paste. We got to sample the roasted nut oil, argan honey, and a substance called amlou that is a combination of ground roasted almonds, honey, and argan oil.

We continued on to Essaouira, a beach town that was also known as Mogador (from the Berber word for “windy”). 

Essaouira was the capital of Morocco in the 18^th century and, before that, was a major production site for blue dye for the Romans (resulting in the so-called Purple Islands off shore). It has had multiple incarnations since, including as a hippie hangout in the 1960s and 1970s that spawned the gnawa music style that is still celebrated annually at a festival in June. Throughout the centuries, Essaouira has remained a bustling port and a relaxing beach town, now enjoyed by both locals, traveling Moroccans, and international tourists alike.

The major crafts practiced in Essaouira are silver work and wood carving, and of course we wanted to see both. We started at the Centre de la Bijouterie Artisanale Maalem Ali, a silver workshop and store. We learned about the three styles of silver work: filigree, enamel (the traditional Berber style), and engraving. 

Bracelets with silver filigree

Apprentices in this craft spend three years learning the three styles. We saw six or seven students practicing in the workshop, many of whom appeared to be blind. They were thrilled when they discovered my sister could communicate a little bit in sign language, though there was only moderate overlap between American Sign Language and the local dialect.

We continued our walk, meandering down alleyways where sea mists had worn the paint off of walls and curled the edges of posters and pictures. 

Big walls lined the city, interrupted by slits for archers or cannons. A few more turns and we arrived at Centre Artisanal d'Essaouira, a workshop for wood craftsmen. The salesman showed us the different colors of the different woods (lemon is light, acacia is dark) and the difference between wood that came from the trunk versus the root (more burled). 

He also showed us the difference between inlay and overlay and how the different pieces are sized and sealed in place. We also got to play with the Moroccan “magic boxes”, which have several hidden pieces that slide out to reveal first a key and then, with another few deft moves, a keyhole. 

The salesman initially said if we opened it successfully we could have it for free, but soon regretted that promise when he saw what good puzzle-solvers we were and started setting time limits to make sure we couldn’t win. The workshop and adjoining store had a wealth of incredible pieces, reminding me yet again how much I love woodwork.

A piece in progress from the workshop

This little box had a surprise inside when you opened it

The rest of the evening was spent walking back through our hotel through the narrow labyrinth of the medina that we have come to know and love in old Moroccan cities. We ended with our farewell dinner at a restaurant that, strangely, forbids guides from dining with their clients. Good thing we’re good at entertaining ourselves! We were sad, though, not to have Ahmed’s company.

Spotted:

Additional photos from our day:

And the World's Most Photogenic Father Award goes to...

Necklaces, including traditional Berber jewelry (center) at the silver shop

Traditional blue wooden boats used by Essaouira fishermen

Casually walking with a squid in each hand

Essaouira street art

Cats are everywhere! In Islam, they are creatures not to be harmed, and many people feed them, scratch them, and otherwise take care of them. As a result, hundreds if not thousands of cats roam the streets of every city.

A beautiful Moroccan metal lamp

Our Bahia on her throne

Rock, then Casbah

We left Marrakech and headed for the High Atlas Mountains to mix things up a bit. In an hour and a half, we had reached Imlil, a mountain town that reminded us of a smaller Chefchaouen without all the blue paint. (Doesn't Imlil sound like something out of Lord of the Rings?)

As the region relies heavily on tourism, Berber rugs were hung outside of nearly every shop and geodes harvested from the rock were scattered on the stoops with cardboard displaying their price. We met our guide, Abdul, and prepared for a hike up the mountain to another Berber village. 

We were starting at about 5,500 feet of elevation and, in about an hour, were climbing to 6,700 feet. If that means nothing to you, suffice it to say it was steep. As we walked through the town to the trailhead, we saw additional shops renting hiking boots and crampons and wondered if we were sufficiently prepared with our sneakers. While the deep mud on sections of the trail – the result of heavy rains over the past few days - did make me wish for hiking boots, it was nothing we couldn’t handle. This region does get a substantial amount of ice and snow but we only saw one melting bank near the end of our hike.

The terrain reminded us all of New England, with its steep ascents and rocky soil. 

As in much of New England, many of the rocks had been pried out and made into low stone walls that ran alongside paths and property lines. Our guide, like many of the Berbers we encountered, was at first engaged and laughing as we asked him about the area and how to translate various words into his language. He soon grew disinterested, however, and had to be reminded to stop and wait for our parents, who were ascending at a slower pace. (We missed Lutfi!) As we wound our way up the many switchbacks, the beautiful snowy peaks of the high Atlas came closer and closer, our view not unobstructed by buildings and cable lines. 

At the very top of the hill we were on sat the Berber town where we were to have lunch. We climbed through the house to the roof deck, where the panoramic view of the mountains and the valley was breathtaking.

Our lunch was simple but delicious and included a sort of potato salad with peas and carrots that made me think of summers at home. Our host had left out large straw hats to protect us for the sun, and this, too, made the whole thing feel like a picnic. 

As we sat sipping mint tea and peeling oranges for dessert, though, we noticed that the sky was darkening and clouds were dropping low over the tips of the mountains. The forecasted rain was finally arriving. We scurried back downstairs to finish the loop of our hike, as we feared that the steep, already muddy paths would become difficult to traverse safely. Down the switchbacks we went, pausing for the occasional photo of an incredible vista, only to scramble back to join the group. 

Abdul charged on and we followed him successfully most because there was only one path. About halfway down, though, a wonderful thing happened. The clouds receded and the sun again beamed brightly. Our weather luck had held! We traipsed down the rest of the mountain and into town at a slightly more leisurely pace, singing our way through all the songs whose lyrics we knew.

Hike complete, we headed to our lodging for the night. Let me tell you, it was quite the place to spend a free afternoon. We were dropped off in front of a casbah built on a spit of land sticking out from the road and overlooking the surging river and the towering mountains. But that’s what you’d expect, right, from Richard Branson’s Morroccan retreat? Kasbah Tamadot (tamadot means soft breeze) is gorgeous and built for relaxation. The meandering riad style was fully evident as we were toured around the three pools (although one seemed to be more of an decorative fountain and was filled with roses), the hammam (Moroccan bathhouse), outdoor dining area, indoor dining area, library, and various other nooks and crannies meant for relaxing. 

Then it was on to our rooms, which were pretty darn swanky. There were babouchas (Moroccan leather slippers) waiting by the bed, bath salts by a tub so deep it required its own steps, and CDs of Moroccan easy listening playing from the corner. Color us impressed. We dispersed for the afternoon to relax as we each saw fit: napping, knitting, reading, doing puzzles, or going for a run (guess who?).

At seven o’clock sharp, we met to walk to dinner. At the last moment, though I had to make a phone call back home and left my sister to guide my navigationally-challenged parents to dinner. About fifteen minutes later, just as I was about to head over to the dining room, I got a text from my mother recommending I wear the bernous (giant, warm, hooded cape) in our closet given the long walk in the rain. Confused, I nevertheless swatched myself in the heavy cloak and walked the 20 feet under cover to the dining room. It turns out my parents and sister had only arrived a few minutes before me. From the moment they had left our door, things had taken one comical twist after another. Originally thinking they were going to the outdoor dining area, I said I thought the dining room was down the stairs and then to the left. On they went, and they proceeded to get horribly lost. I’m pretty sure they wandered the entire property in the dark before finding a sympathetic hotel employee to lead them to the dining hall. Meanwhile, the most direct path was to walk about ten feet from their bedroom door – the covered route that I eventually took. Suffice it to say that wearing the bernous was unnecessary, but it did make for a dramatic entrance to dinner.

Dinner was delicious, as we had expected. The most interesting dish was the dessert ordered by my mother and sister: a fruit tagine with rass el hanout ice cream. Rass el hanout is the spice mix (the number of spices in the mixture varies depending on who’s talking about it, but about 25-35 are in any given mix) used for tagines, couscous, and red meat dishes. Therefore, it was a surprising choice for an ice cream flavor. It was a gamble that paid off – the spiced ice cream was delicious!

Spotted 1: baby goats! We saw lots of them. First, we saw a herd of ~6-month-old goats heading down the steep mountain. The herder used little pebbles to redirect errant kids. Next, at lunch, we saw tiny baby goats hanging out on a neighbor’s roof, quietly bleating to make their presence known.

Spotted 2: donkey parking lot! One of several. Well, there were some mules, too.

Additional pictures from our day:

The return of trekking pole kwan do!