Out of Africa: A journey fit for a king

“The King’s guards,” the amiable porter at Dar Les Cigognes announces knowingly, nodding his head in the direction of the uniformed men outside the gates to the Royal Palace. “The King is in town,” he explains with pride as he helps us with our bags and guides us into a light-filled central courtyard open to the sky.

From rattan chairs on the roof terrace where we take breakfast and soak up the warmth of the winter sun, we have views over the Marrakesh medina and the rooftops of the Mellah, the Jewish quarter. As it’s Eid Al Adha, we get to see the butchering of lambs, the burning of their bones and the hanging of their bloody carcasses on clotheslines, alongside the family laundry. We are also eye-to-eye with the royal storks (after which our hotel is named) nesting on the palace ramparts.

It’s our second trip to Marrakesh, and this time we’ve brought my mother. For five days, we shop in the atmospheric souks and revisit our favourite places: the Place Djemma El Fna (where snake-charmers, storytellers, child-boxers and dancing transvestites never fail to shock and delight), the pretty Palmerie, Yves Saint-Laurent’s exquisite Jardin Majorelle and the enchanting Menara, behind which the snow-topped Atlas Mountains beckon.  Nights we return to our hotel room, where the porter lights a fire. After pre-dinner drinks by the fireplace, we head out for a lavish long meal at one of the city’s magical restaurants – Le Foundouk, Dar Moha, Dar El-Yacout, to name a few. 

But after five days of buying too many trinkets and eating too many elaborate meals in this exotic but noisy city, we’re craving a change of scenery, some fresh air and simple homecooked couscous. It’s time to take to the road.

So we work on an escape route. At a tiny table in a pavement café in Ville Nouvelle, we paw over a Maroc road map. A waiter pours us mint tea, holding the teapot high, not spilling a drop, as we discuss our intentions. My mother wants to see the famous ‘52 days to Timbuktu’ sign at Zagora. I want to visits the kasbahs of the Draa Valley. My husband says he’ll be satisfied with some good surf and clear weather.

From Marrakesh we drive to the ancient fishing port of Essaouira. The eucalyptus trees along the way remind us of the bush highways in Australia. The excitement of being on the road, of being spontaneous, of having the freedom to stop wherever we want, begins when we spot our first Argan tree. The golden Argan oil is delicious, especially with bread. It’s thought to slow down the aging process; you can buy Argan oil soap and skin products all over this region. The trees are dotted black with hungry goats balancing themselves on the sturdy twisted branches of the tree to eat its tasty leaves.

We drive off the road for a closer look, and take photos, until the young goat herder approaches us for money. We give him some dirhams so we can take pictures of him, too. Soon we arrive in the pretty white-walled town of Essaouira on the Atlantic coast, and park near Orson Welles Square (his Othello was filmed here) just outside the city walls. We soon regret staying at the well-known but, we think, over-rated Villa Maroc, where the rooms are freezing in winter and where it’s compulsory to eat from a very average set menu.

Wandering Essaouira’s atmospheric streets we stumble upon Casa Lila, an extraordinarily charming riad (a traditional Moroccan courtyard house, generally belonging to wealthy merchants). Colourfully painted, with rich drapes and lots of scatter cushions about the place, and sunshine streaming into its centre courtyard, it could almost be a little sister to Dar Les Cigognes. We make plans to return for the summer. The traffic-free streets of Essaouira’s medina, with their vegetable, spice and jewellery souks, are wonderful to explore. The many sunny squares make great places to chill out – Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley used to hang here in the 70s.

But it’s also a fabulous place to shop. Fragrant speckled wooden Thuya products are handcrafted in workshops in the barrelvaulted munitions stores under Essaouira’s ramparts. Brassthreaded bread boxes, marquetry serving trays and motherof- pearl inlaid boxes are hard to ignore, as are the musical instruments, tribal carpets and collectibles. But art is what the town is becoming famous for. Inspired by Arab-Berber history and local myths, the naïve style of Essaouira’s artists is akin to Australian Aboriginal ‘dot painting,’ but more colourful, mystical and symbolic. I invest my dirhams in the work by Tifri and Amal Bouhali, two rising self-taught stars, and load the boot of our car with six of their paintings.

We eat a delicious fresh seafood lunch at our favourite spot, Le Chalet de la Plage, a popular terraced restaurant by the beach. From our seaside table we watch the tide creeping in, local kids playing football and tourists taking camel rides on the wide sand beach. We head to the old citadel to walk off the calories on Essaouira’s sqalas (sea bastions) where we enjoy the smell of the sea and the sound of seagulls. At the docks we watch fishermen perched by their blue boats mending their nets. Essaouira is windy – they say there are good winds here for 260 days of each year – and as a result it is renowned for its surfing (wind and board), April through to September being the windiest (and therefore busiest) time of year. The winds keep this part of the coast cool in summer and cold in winter. In the evening, we have Champagne by the hearth at the Hotel Heure Bleue, before savouring divine French cuisine at its elegant restaurant.

Because it’s low season and occupancy is down, the friendly staff give us a tour of the palatial hotel’s hammam, rooftop pool and luxurious suites. As we leave Essaouira and drive along its splendid beach and estuary, Wadi Qsob, we see the crumbling foundations of the city’s defence walls. We stop at the village of Diabet where Jimi Hendrix used to live.

By Lara Dunston

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Courtesy of lifestyleandtravel.com