Politics is supposed to be the second oldest profession.
I have come to realise that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.
- Ronald Reagan -



Map base: ©Microsoft Encarta World Atlas




An uplifting experience

Looking back, the last five months have been riddled with some strange feeling of frustration and despair. It was a struggle to get Aliisa ready for the road again, it was freezing cold when we left and the first three months were nothing but a battle against the forces of the Baltic and North Sea. The misery of the worst English summer in recorded history vanished once we crossed the Bay of Biscay and arrived under the Spanish sun. But it was only temporary. A few weeks later we had a night-time low of 11 C, one degree less than in England. Just two weeks ago, in southern Portugal, the mercury went down to a dismal seven degrees C. We were constantly feeling the winter on our backs and it wasn't a warm feeling.


One thing the weather charts don't really show, is the rain squalls. Well, there was a few trough lines on the chart but I thought that was going to be just drizzle and grey skies, after all, there was no real pressure gradient. I was wrong.


I had had enough of Finland, enough of Sweden and Baltic, enough of Germany, enough of North Sea, enough of English Channel and England. Finally I had had enough of bloody Portugal and its tastless food. I had had enough of the whole Europe and enough of trying to run away from the winter. We had been very slow in our progress, mostly because we just do things slowly and take it easy. So I should have been relaxed and happy with a slow and easy-going pace. But I wasn't. I wanted to be back home. That means anywhere inside the 22.5 degrees from the equator, somewhere between Capricorn and Cancer.






We took off on a reasonable forecast. "A bit troughy", said my meteorologist friend Dave, referring to the two short black arcs drawn on the synoptic chart west of Gibraltar, remnants of a weak low pressure. I trusted that to be a bit of drizzle and grey skies. Instead, we had blustery winds, squalls and uncomfortable seas. While Annina lay down feeling ill, I worked hard, reefing and unreefing with the winds ranging from 10kn to 30kn. We made good speed and in three days I got the change I needed so much. Starting from culture. We were travelling again!




Welcome to Essaouira! You'll be greeted with seaguls, smell of dead fish and sewege, a couple of money-begging "agents" who want the job of guarding your boat, a thousand fishermen - some of them greeting you already out at sea - and three officials. But you will be greeted with a smile, a genuine friendly smile.


Essaouira

After more than two years of Europe, I was finally back in the business of travelling in the real world. Morocco was a culture shock, annoyingly wonderful experience. OK, when I say Morocco, I mean Essaouira. I have not seen any other part of Morocco and our choice was - unfortunately perhaps - a choise for thousands of tourists too. There is always a paradox in highly touristy areas. The large number of visitors stains the place and corrupts the original culture. But it also proves that a place is a good place, a good experience, a destination worth visiting. Otherwise it wouldn't be visited by so many.




In the traditional way the 18th century town is protected by a wall 6 meters high.
Those walls - and the old seaside fortifications - guard the city against cars too.
All vehicles must be left outside the city's narrow alleys, leaving a wonderful atmosphere behind the wallls.


I knew the real travelling had started when I tried to dodge the torch light of a small fishing boat at 4am, about 20 miles from the harbour. I could not work out which way the boat was going, until I realised it was chasing us. We were under sail and doing 4.5kn in onshore wind and fairly flat seas. The boat was one of the hundreds of small wooden open fishing boats, about six meters long and powered with a 15hp Yamaha. The boys got within spitting distance and yelled out: "tobacco?". Damn! I meant to buy some in Portugal for this purpose, but I forgot. "Sorry guys, no tobacco", I yelled and watched the boat return to its fishing. It was time to play the sometimes tiring game of haves and have nots. It's a game everyone should play occasionally, just to put things in perspective. If forces you to feel like a millionaire, whether you like it or not! In fact, it's a game we all should know very well: the game of making money and taking any opportunity to do so. In this excercise, you'll be the opportunity.

The Game

Essaouira harbour was almost the experience of Madagascar revisited. "Lassie", Abdul and Omar appeared to be a team but were probably also competing with each other. They "guided" us in, pulled all the lines and did a lot of stuff, not quite sure what they did, but they appeared very busy. The going rate for four days of services and guarding was 20 euros, according to Abdul, the oldest guy. Yeah, right! Twenty euros my ass.




The swell did not reach the sheltered harbour but a gentle surge was rubbig us hard against the search and rescue boat. Without solid handrails, this place would have been a nightmare. Now it was just a pain in the ass. Mind you, our selection of fenders is too small in both size and quantity.


All yachts behave differently in a moment like this. Two examples: Three hours later a large Norweigian yacht with half dozen young men onboard arrived. They only wanted fuel to continue their travels. The price for diesel was 50 cents (euro) per litre from a service station, one kilometer away. Our agents focused fully on the task ahead and worked out a price for 150 litres. "Sir, there are a lot of costs involved with getting jerry cans and transport", Abdul explained and quoted €150 for the fuel and €150 for the job - €300 total. Much to my dismay, the guy didn't want to argue, he just wanted to get out of here and get the fuel. So 300 euros changed hands and our industrious Moroccon boys made a nice profit of 225 euros, more than their national average monthly earnings, in one hour! The Norweigians poured the fuel in and left, with five crew flags flying under the port spreader. "That's our visited countries flags", told one of the crew. Allright...




Omar's younger brother soon gave up on us and returned to his regular activities in the harbour. Here he's putting hooks in salted bait, used by the local trawlers. Or are they long liners? Hmm.... say, fishing vessels?




Two days later a German catamaran arrived. Friendly and lovely, mom, dad, two boys and a cute 4-year-old girl. The captain did not like the idea of giving money away. Reluctantly he gave the boys one can of beer and 20 dirhams, equivalent of 2 euros. That was probably about the right price for what the boys did. They don't do much. (There was no real need for guarding services, the harbour was well lit and safe. The payment was more like a goodwill gesture and a personal participation of foreign aid, a guarantee of being in good terms with those who's playground your yacht is secured to.) The strange bit in the stingy behaviour of the Germans happened when they left. As they were ready to release the mooring lines, the skipper ran to me and said: "Let me give you our last dirhams, it's all useless money for us now..." He put about €10 worth of money in my hand. I was puzzled. The German was happy to give me 10 euros for nothing, because the money was not worth anything to him, but he loathed the idea of giving money to our local helpers. Did this tribal behaviour show that I was one of his tribe? Would he rather throw the money away, than to give it to a local boy? Was he "helping" the locals to avoid the sin of becoming greedy?




Aliisa against the red rescue boat. The harbour was active at all times apart from the early morning. Fishing vesselst arrived and left through the night and the day was one large fish auction with the catch being sold as soon as it arrived.


I'm a softie. I'm not stupid, but I do feel some weird sense of guilt for having born into a world of wealth. I am always conscious of the origin of the wealth. The 10% is wealthy only because over centuries they have milked every possible penny and maximised their profits using the resources of the 90%. I belong to the 10%, perhaps even less. I tend to be too generous and perhaps I was too generous here too. All through Europe we had paid up to 20 euros in harbour fees, every night. I refused the asking price of 20 but felt that €10 was a reasonable profit for the boys. We all want easy money, why would they be any different?

Unfortunately Abdul didn't seem to share the money with the "team". He took off and disappeared for two days. He also got a bottle of wine. When he pulled it out of the bag, his first words were: "How much does this cost in Europe?" He wanted to know the dollar-value of his gift. That put an end to my relationship with him. He returned two days later for more money and I let him know in no uncertain terms how I felt about it. Quoting old Arabian proverbs, reminding him of the huge profit just made on the fuel deal and pointing out that he had done nothing for us, I made Abdul apologise and leave, never to be seen again.

Omar, on the other hand, was earning a few extra coins and a few beers from me. He was always there, always helpful and though he was always asking for stuff, he at least made an effort to do something for it. Had we stayed longer, maybe he could have become a trusted helper who would not disappear as soon as he had few coins in his pocket. Jeez, I wish I had more to give. I wish - like Obama does - that I could remove all suffering, make everyone equal and distribute wealth for the benefit of all. I wish - like Michael Jackson did - that I could heal the world of the pain that is inside me. But now it's time to hit the town, analyze a little less and live a little more...


An old man turns young heads by talking casually on a mobile phone. While Morocco was not the most high-tech society, every man and his dog had the latest multi-media phone.


We took the wrong turn, ending up on the beach. The wide boulevard was partly under development and lined with tourist cafes and a few resorts and hotels. The beach was fairly empty, though sun chairs were available for rent. In the far end of the beach were kite surfers. A street sign was advertising the world series kite surfing championship, happening during our stay. We had moved from Europe to somewhere exotic, but we weren't excactly trekking the Sahara desert.

On our way back, disappointed with the touristy feel and the hassles and inconveniences of the harbour, I was planning to head out to sea and forget about this place. We slipped through the six-meter wall surrounding the town. Aaaahhhh... THIS is Essaouira! We had found the labyrinth of life and within a day, had fallen in love with it. The steady stream of tourists blended with a steady stream of locals. People lived here, worked here and ate here, though the majority of shops were set up for the visitors. Beautiful wood carvings, furniture and other hand-made stuff, colourful fabrics, spices and jewellery. The odd T-shirt shop and loads of little eateries full of food that could only be better than the stuff in Portugal!




Casablanca beer was good, surprisingly good. It better be, at 5 euros a bottle, looking at a backhoe and brown sand that blends to the colour of the water...
(We later heard that you can buy the beer in local shops, under the counter?, for 7 cents a bottle. Never looked. Never mind.





Always time for a prayer. He took the cardboard from the back of a newsagent and laid it on the street. Islam was visible everywhere. It was the good Islam, the friendly, loving, tolerant, accepting and relaxed Islam, adding to my personal experience of Muslims being some of the most wonderful people on Earth.





"Hey, you're travelling on a boat? You definitely need some musk to keep your fabrics smelling fresh. All fishermen use it here!", he said and carefully weighed us two small pieces. The price was per kg.





"And now it's time for Royal Tea", he continued, sitting us down at the back room of his shop. Out of the 150 herbs and spices stored in large glass jars on the shelves, his daughter picked up half dozen for a special blend. "Lot of people don't go to the pharmacy any more for their health problems", he told us, "They come here instead. I've got a herb for every ailment you can think of". Tea was simply the best I've ever had.





Woodwork was plentiful and mostly very good quality. In some of the shops you could see men at work, creating more chessboards, serving trays, bowls, lamp shades, dice, kitchenware, jewelery boxes and furniture. Prices were almost fixed, allowing for bargaining, if you buy more than one item. There was no sign of the Arab style of haggling the price to one fraction of the asking price.





The beanie-man sat on his corner, knitting, of course. I just had to get one!





It started with a hair cut. As I told you before, I'm a softie and couldn't refuse the shave. After all, it was a decent stubble of four days. The knife was sharp and hey, he went against the grain!! No blood was spilled and at the end my face was smoother than the bum of a newborn baby.





This is a clever trick. Our friendly fella here never asked us to buy anything. A lot of smart and lovely people here had realised, that you don't need to push sell anything to a European tourist, you just need to make them feel at ease and have fun. They'll do the buying all by themselves. After we picked up a couple of pillow cases, he offered tea.





Mr. M. from Mali. Half a year in Sahara doing 4WD safaris for tourists, half a year selling his tribal jewelry and other items from Mali for the tourists in Essaouira. The head piece is made with white and black cloth and ... "Yeah, they paid me allright", he laughed, telling us how Citroén had used him in an advert in Mali. I spent my last €10 on a silver neclace that repels evil spirits. It doesn't look like I need one...


The longer we stayed in Essaouira, the more we liked it. The initial culture shock wore off quickly and even the harbour, with all its seaguls, smell of shit and fish and begging "agents" were no more annoying than a couple of flies on lovely summer day. Even the police got a bottle of red wine from me, though he asked for whisky. I wish we had done Portugal quicker and spent more time in Morocco. I was dreaming of a real marina in Essaouira, eyeing out suitable locations. Had the harbour been better, we would have stayed longer. The main problem was the surge and the lack of facilities (we have no shower onboard). I'd hate to think what the harbour would be like for us on a westerly gale. We decided not to find out and leave while the weather was good.


A squall ripped the UV protection from our genoa. The main has a rip. The fridge works intermittently. I hope Aliisa stays together 'til Cairns.





The Norweigian bunch had decided to put flags of visited countries under their port spreader. How big will the collection grow until someone tells them...? But then, paying €150 for someone to visit the petrol station for them was stupid too. Good luck to them. At least they didn't fly a pirate flag...





"Aahh, you put foto in some magazine, yeah?" Our police officer / immigration official was a small man with a big smile. In fact, all the authorities were suspiciously happy and relaxed. What are they on...?





Each day the catch from the hundred boats - big and small - was spread out to the docs and sold with high commotion, yelling and bargaining. The fish ranged from tiny soles to man-size sharks. The variety was eye-catching.





Thinking of Charlie... Muslims love cats. The prophet of Allah had one and cats enjoy a special status in any muslim community, at least compared to dogs. If Annina hadn't stopped me, I would have taken another .... oh, sorry Charlie, I can never look at another cat again!
(We saw three dogs and three thousand cats in Essaouira)


To be an immaculate member of a flock of sheep,
one must, above all, be a sheep.
- Albert Einstein -

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