petite anglaise

Mike Troubled Diva has had a Very Good Idea. He is compiling an anthology of funny blog posts written by UK based bloggers (and expat Brits) which will be assembled in one week flat, then sold via Lulu in honour of Comic Relief (all proceeds from the book, minus lulu print on demand costs will go to charity).

It’s a very good cause indeed and one which I am only too happy to support. So, I’ll have to dig out a post where I’m hopefully at least moderately funny (and not too long-winded) and get it sent to Mike quick smart. If you are a British blogger and would like to participate, details can be found here. And I’ll put up a link to the book as and when it’s finished.

Breakfast is served on the roof terrace of the Riad Watier. I emerge, still groggy from sleep, at around ten, and make my way upstairs. I have my book and my sunglasses but immediately regret not bringing my camera. The sky is a beautiful shade of periwinkle blue, the view over the rooftops to the Atlantic is spectacular, and the trade wind for which Essaouira is famous, the Alizée, is mercifully absent. The only other people at breakfast are a German mother and daughter; one scribbles, the other reads.

Essaouira is a breath (or gust) of fresh air after the dry heat and bustle of Marrakech. On the bus drive to the coast, parched earth gave way to greenery, red and ochre tones were replaced with whitewashed walls and blue shutters. The medina is small, helpfully laid out in a grid so I can’t get lost, and every single alleyway is named. I still attract a fair amount of attention when I wander around alone, especially in the evening when I eat out, but it’s tame in comparison and deliciously relaxing. I doubt the same can be said for the town in the summer months, but in March, it’s perfect.

A young woman with glossy dark hair brings my breakfast. Pancakes with syrup, yoghurt, freshly squeezed orange juice, bread, butter, jam and coffee. I tuck in, even though my stomach still feels leaden after the previous evening’s tajine. I don’t eat a lot of meat as a rule, but Morocco has been the exception. Lamb with prunes and almonds. Lamb with figs and walnuts. Chicken with lemons. Repeat to fade.

I pour coffee, and take a bite out of my first pancake, wondering what to do with my day. There isn’t much to visit in Essaouira, it’s just an attractive place to stroll around. I had been plotting a trip to a hammam, but I have a little sunburn on my neck and shoulders (which I only bared on the secluded roof terrace of my Marrakech hotel, I hasten to add) and the last thing I need is an over-enthusiastic scrubbing down with scratchy black olive soap and a sandpaper mitt. Other than that, my only firm plan is to eat lunch at one of the stalls by the port where you choose a freshly caught fish and take a seat at a trestle table while it is gutted, grilled and brought to your table with salad, bread, water and a handful of grilled prawns.

A flapping noise to my left startles me out of my food fantasy, and a seagull the size of a cat settles on the roof terrace wall, not a metre away from me. He (for the sake of argument, I’m no birdwatcher) calls to a friend in a raucous voice and is joined by another, slightly less attractive mottled seagull with a mean face. They stare at me, or at my breakfast, to be more accurate. I feel less relaxed. How fearless are they? Bold enough to snatch a piece of pancake from my plate, or indeed my hand? Those slightly hooked beaks look rather intimidating close up. The German ladies and their breakfast don’t seem to have attracted a seagull fan club. Don’t tell me even the seagulls single out lone female travellers in this country?

I pour myself some more coffee, hoping that the clanking of the thermos might frighten them away. It doesn’t. I try muttering “bugger off” under my breath, to no avail. I stare into the seagulls’ beady eyes with my very best Paddington stare. None of this makes a blind bit of difference. In fact, as soon as I set down my cup and open my book the seagull seizes the opportunity to up the ante, hopping onto the railing which tops the wall, opening his wings for a moment and striking a pose which looks decidedly more threatening.

Yikes.

I try flapping my book in his direction. The seagull stares at me scornfully. He mutters something uncomplimentary to his scraggy friend, who joins him on the railing. I take another bite out of my pancake. Somehow, under siege, it doesn’t taste quite so good.

It is when I glance over at the German ladies, casting around for backup, that he leaps onto the table. He lands squarely in front of my plate, only centimetres away from my face and that’s it. Enough. I panic.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK!” I cry, leaping out of my seat, my book raised in front of my face, knocking my plastic chair over backwards in my haste. The German ladies look up, impassive, then carry on with what they are doing as though nothing had happened.

Half and hour and three repeat confrontations later, I conclude that maybe Essaouira isn’t such a relaxing place after all.

I pour my second cup of mint tea. I haven’t quite mastered the technique the waiters use, pouring it into the glass from an impressive height without dripping scalding hot tea all over the table, so I adopt a more British approach. The tea is so sweet that I can feel the sugar coating my teeth. It’s lovely though. Very refreshing.

There aren’t many tables in the museum’s tearooms, so tourists cosy up next to one another. I am soon joined by a French family – a sullen teenage girl, her hen-pecked father and short-haired, leather-skinned mother. From their tans, I suspect they have been here a while, soaking up the sun by a pool in one of the hotels in the Ville Nouvelle, or perhaps at the Club Med just off Djemma El-Fna. They look as shell shocked from the souk as I felt on my first day. I’ve got a little more used to it now, especially since I learnt how to say “no thank you” in Arabic. But I still got lost again today, and when an alleyway brought me unexpectedly to the museum, I couldn’t resist making one last pit stop.

“Oh là là, partout c’est de l’arnaque,” laments leatherface to her husband. “Everywhere we turn people are trying to fleece us. In the souk. In the taxis. Even the mint tea here, I mean, 15 dirham is expensive.”

I hide my smile behind my guidebook. I suppose it’s all relative. 15 dirham (€ 1.50) seems a lot in comparison to a 3 dirham freshly squeezed orange juice on the main square, but really it’s peanuts. The taxi drivers are a pain, I’ll admit that. In the past three days I’ve only met one who was willing to put on his meter, as the law dictates. The trip to and from the Supratours coach station, where I bought my ticket to Essaouira cost me 20 dirhams one way, 30 dirhams back again. On the meter it would have cost 10. But I can’t be bothered to work myself into a lather about it. The sums involved are to small.

“Et puis le Monsieur là, le vieux, qui nous a reclamé de l’argent quand nous l’avons pris en photo…” continues leatherface. I take a sip of tea. I’ve had this experience too. People ask for money, or object strongly when you point a camera in their direction in this country, even if you are just trying to capture a busy street scene. Those who object do so on religious grounds, I think, although an exception seems to be made for the king, whose photo hung on a wall at Supratours. Now I think about it, the poscards I’ve seen for sale here all show close up views of mint tea glasses, details from buildings or pyramids of spices. Only in the modern art exhibition in the museum did I see some paintings of veiled women. I don’t want be accused of disrespect, so I’ve put my camera away.

My ears prick up when I hear English spoken on the table to my left. So far I’ve seen mostly French tourists, although there are lots of German couples in my hotel. A grey haired, linen-clad couple are seated at the next table sipping mint tea. The voice I heard belonged to the woman who has just zoned in on the spare seats opposite. Her husband approaches, brandishing two cans of coke with straws.

“What a relief to find this place,” he says as he plonks himself down. “How anyone can manage not to get lost in that souk I don’t know…” He voice has a faint Scottish burr.

“I can honestly say,” says Mr Linen, who sounds like a BBC broadcaster from the forties, “that I haven’t lost my bearings once.”

Either he’s lying, or he has a far better map than I do.

“Where are you staying?” says Mrs Linen in a friendly attempt to offset her husband’s smugness.

“Oh, out towards the Ville Nouvelle,” replies Mr Scot. “It’s a lovely place, but they lied about how far it is from the main square. You can’t walk it in ten minutes, it’s more like forty. Not that we mind though, the walk here takes us through the most beautiful gardens, it would be a shame to miss those.”

“Ah. You see, my wife and I don’t have time to waste walking,” says Mr Linen. “We’re staying in a riad, a traditional townhouse, right in the middle of the medina.” He pauses to pour his wife more tea, and frowns at the coke cans on the table as though they offend his sensibilities.

“Been on any excursions?” asks Mr Scot, undeterred. “We’ve just come back from a trip into the country. We went as far as the bottom of the Atlas mountains. Very impressive…”

“Yes. We went to the mountains too,” Mrs Linen says quickly, jumping in before her husband can answer. But there is no keeping this man down. He has to go one better.

“We went up as far as the snow,” he announces, smiling broadly.

Mr and Mrs Linen drain their glasses and take their leave, murmuring the usual meaningless pleasantries – “hope you enjoy the rest of your stay” “lovely to meet you,” – and leaving the Scottish couple alone to finish their drinks in peace.

I get up to go to the toilet, but as I pause to push a postcard into the letterbox by their table, I can’t resist a show of solidarity.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” I say. “I’m surprised those two didn’t climb the Toubkal mountain! But then, he and his wife don’t have time to waste walking, do they?”