Morocco trip 2023: Part 4
Essaouira, or, All’s well that ends well
Our last update left off with me stuck on the couch, with a recently sprained ankle and still getting over a cold, figuring out what my next move would be.
While my group ran off to dinner for their last night in Marrakesh, I stayed behind and considered my options. I called up my parents, who were wonderful in commiserating and advising me as I was freaking out.
Option 1 - I could stay in Marrakesh for the next 3 nights and wait for my flight home to London. This would allow me to rest sufficiently (both from the cold and from the sprain) and give me the best chance of surviving a 1+ day travel back to the States. The journey home entailed: a 5-hour flight to Heathrow London, an overnight stay in a hotel outside the airport, then an 8-hour flight back to Atlanta.
Option 2 - I could stay with the group. I would sleep in Marrakesh that night, then go to Essaouira for 2 nights. While this would require more energy of me, the group would ostensibly help me.
At one point during these deliberations, I got up and went to the restroom. I put weight on my ankle for the first time. And — I could do it! The ankle held my weight, and I could hobble around. This was an immense relief, and soon enough I decided I would do Option 2. I would do this because:
I was sick of Marrakesh. I got take-out for dinner that night, and the thought of doing that for 2-3 more days was horrible to me.
I wanted to mentally relax. I couldn’t wait to get back to the States where you were a normal person and people weren’t treating you like Ms. Moneybags and asking for handouts. The group was the closest I could get to feeling like a normal human being — even if a slightly neglected one.
There was safety in staying with the group.
I calculated up all the times I would need to walk, and it wasn’t that much. Walking around to pack, walking out to the taxi from the current riad, then walking 10 minutes through the medina to the Essaouira riad, then back again 2 days later. The 10 minute walk through the medina was the most daunting to me, but I figured I could make it work. The organizer assured me they could get a tuk-tuk if I needed one.
One of the members of the group had an extra Ace bandage just hanging out in her suitcase, from a previous industry. This was clutch. It helped the pain greatly to wear it when walking around.
So we were off! I was excited to be leaving Marrakesh. I packed up my room (and took all those empty, messy room photos from 2 posts ago). I loaded up on Advil and hobbled to the taxi.
I made sure to tip Zora, Hasseneah and the hotel manager well before I went.
The road to Essaouira
I was in survival mode this day. I didn’t take many pictures of the road out to Essaouira. We headed due west for the ocean.
The countryside reminded me of California wine country. Here are two pictures I found on the internet.
Lovely open roads.
Probably the most famous thing we learned about in this stretch of countryside was the argan trees and the goats. The goats climb the argan trees, eating the fruit. The large nut/seed passes through their digestive system and, softened, is used to produce argan oil. (Although they can and do extract the argan seeds more directly too.)
We never saw any goats like this, but it was fun to keep a lookout for.
And then, we came to Essouira!
The redoubtable 10 minute walk
Up to this point, everyone was being mostly attentive and concerned about my ankle. When we alighted from the cab, the group leader asked me if I wanted a tuk-tuk. My options were: (1) Walk 10 minutes to the hotel, or (2) Wait 20 minutes for the tuk-tuk, and keep the whole group waiting with me — or wait alone. (Why didn’t we have a tuk-tuk waiting for when we arrived? I don’t know.) There was an emphasis on the preference of me walking.
I told the group, “I think I can walk, as long as we walk slow.”
They agreed.
Did we walk slow?
No.
If you’ll recall, the last time we went through a marketplace was Jemaa el-Fnaa — the scam capital of the world, if the stories are to be believed. The Essaouira marketplace didn’t have that reputation, but muscle memory is my only explanation for why the group was trucking it through the market.
In their defense, I did not repeat my request for them to slow down beyond an initial weak complaint. I was able to keep up, so I did. It hurt, but I survived the pain by laughing. Yes, I distinctly remember laughing throughout this walk — laughing at how little care or compassion I was getting from them, even in something so obvious as this.
I kept telling myself, “Almost there, almost there.” Because 10 minutes is really not that far, fortunately.
“Okay,” you say, “but how bad was your ankle, really? I mean you’re saying it’s bad and you’re making a big deal about it, but now you’re doing all this walking just fine, and taking pictures too?”
You’re correct, I could walk. But I felt a squeeze of pain in my ankle everytime I put weight on it. And that was with an extra-strength dose of Advil in my system. But I’d say, more than fearing the pain, I was afraid of making it worse. I was traumatized by how easily it had sprained before, when I was just going about my business as normal. It wasn’t a comfortable walk, physically or psychologically.
The roads thinned out as we reached the opposite side of the medina.
Our riad, Riad Mimouna, neighbored the ocean. Click through for pictures, but I stole a few off the internet to show here.
A nice fountain in the lobby — which I nearly fell into during checkout on the last day.
And the room…
I was instantly so glad I came here. The place was beautiful!
My view from the window…
People hanging out on the beach and rocks…
This was far and away my favorite portion of the trip. Even though I felt like crap! It was gorgeous. I could sit here and enjoy the view, something I didn’t have in Marrakesh.
Below, there’s day 2 of my ankle. You can see the line of the bruise where the Ace bandage wasn’t compressing it. Doesn’t look too bad!
Dinner
That night, we walked about 5 minutes to a dinner spot. Now that I’d made the 10 minute walk, I felt more confident about getting around. Above is the only picture I snapped of that place; a really beautiful spot by the ocean.
I did a stupid thing
The next day, I did a stupid thing. On the top of the riad, they had a deck that was bathed in sunlight. I decided a little vitamin D would help with my cold, and I ate lunch out there.
Neighboring houses…
It was wonderful, but I got way too much sun and burned my arms and neck. On top of that, I got the dreaded “travellers' diarrhea” that day — which is normal for Morocco and other developing countries. I’d dodged it for about 6 days, but it caught up with me!
So this was the “lowest moment” I was referring to in the last post. On the day before we left, I was stricken with:
Lingering cold symptoms (runny nose, slight fever)
A sprained ankle
A sunburn that was giving me chills so much I was shivering (possibly sun poisoning?)
Travellers’ diarrhea
I remember tallying all this up and just laughing in my misery, in my hotel room. However, the knowledge that I was leaving the next day got me through it! At a certain point, I made a run to the local pharmacy for Immodium. Advil and Immodium got me home on those flights…
At least my room was gorgeous.
Above is the view of the alley from the bathroom window (see below for full). I was grateful for this window — and the fact that I was on a corner of the hotel — because I could get a good cross breeze with it. Others in my group didn’t have this; just the one window facing the ocean. The hotel did not have AC, and it got warm in there.
Call to prayer
At this point, I’d been in Muslim countries for almost 10 days. I wanted to capture the call to prayer, which played out several times a day in every city or town I was in. On its surface, it’s quite beautiful.
The final night: our salon on the roof
That last night, our writing group met on the roof for dinner, which was provided by the riad. We read from sections of our writing — optimally, writing we had worked on during the trip.
The thing about writing is there is no barrier to entry. Anyone can say they’re a writer, and almost anyone can cobble together a piece of prose. This means that of the people who say, “I’m a writer” and present a work of prose, 99% of it will be awful.
I will admit — probably not very flattering of me to admit but let’s do it anyway — that during this trip, as I felt neglected and mishandled, I sometimes thought, “These people don’t even know I’m a pretty good writer. Why, I might be the best writer here.”
It wasn’t true, as it turns out: D is a great writer. But this instinct wasn’t about accuracy anyway; it was about stoking the fires of my self-pity. (“These people don’t even understand their mistake! Why, they’re not just spitting in Jaimie’s eye! Mine is the eye of a great writer!”)
That last night, I read my writing to the group. People seemed impressed — which isn’t saying much, since everyone was politely impressed by everyone else. However, the group organizer was much nicer to me after I read my writing. Maybe she would have done that anyway; maybe she felt bad. But… I don’t think so.
In the end, I got some satisfaction there.
Cats of Essaouira
When I went to buy some Immodium earlier that day, I was able to limp around and snap some photos of the streets. The common theme was stray cats.
Beauty shots
Essaouira reminded me of Aladdin; it felt like a city in a fantasy story. The dark brown bricks on the left in some of the photos below, that’s the sea wall of the medina.
Going home
At last!
Most of the group left for Marrakesh very early the next morning, 7am. But I was able to split a car with 2 other group members, and we left around 10am, which was nice. These two were kind and attentive to me during this portion of the trip, which adds credence to the theory that the reason I was being ignored the rest of the time was a shared group belief that someone else was looking out for me.
After arriving in the Marrakesh airport, I waited about 3 hours for my flight.
I boarded the 5-hour flight to Heathrow, London. After landing, I checked into my hotel at the Crowne Plaza — which felt like heaven.
It was just a normal room, but it had:
Air conditioning
Set prices for food and drink
People who would help me if I asked but otherwise totally ignored me
Once, I was riding down the elevator to buy some water. There was an older couple, and the man asked me, “Are you here with the cheer groups?” There were a lot of cheer groups staying in the hotel at the time.
“No,” I said. Then I added — because it was a long elevator ride and why not, they started it, “I actually just got back from Morocco.”
“Oh!” they said. “How was that?”
I decided that they could see that I was worn-the-fuck-out, because pity laced the question. I felt compelled to answer honestly, and I said, “It was rough. I’m glad to be back.”
Then, they told me that they’d been to Morocco before and they also thought it was a difficult trip.
And I thought, Ah, that’s why there was pity in your question. And I also thought, I love you. Thank you.
Here’s my ankle, on day 3-4 after the sprain. The bruising was coming along nicely.
Two more minor hasslings
The next morning, I slept in and checked out at 11am. My flight was due to leave around 2-3pm. Although the hotel was just outside the airport, it was a 40-minute walk to my terminal. I asked for a taxi at the hotel desk.
The lady at the desk did not like this. She basically said, “No, you don’t need a taxi, you can just walk,” with the tone of “stupid American.” But I told her I had sprained my ankle. A part of me didn’t even want to say that. Lady, mind your own business.
I was hassling-overstimulated at this point; even a minor hassling annoyed me.
While going through airport security, I got hassled again. Some lady didn’t like that one of my 2 carry-ons was large. She wanted me to go back and check it. I stood my ground — the bag had some things I needed for the 8-hour plane ride, and the other bag was too small to hold them. Plus, for the flight the day before, also British Airways, I had carried-on both of these!
Nearby was one of the metal bag sizers (below). So to end the argument I fit my bag into it.
Meanwhile, as I’m doing this, there’s like 20 people being shuffled around me because I’m holding the line otherwise. She’s dealing with them while also dealing with me. When I got the bag in, I got her attention again.
“You forced it in,” she said.
“I didn’t force it,” I said. “I readjusted it to get the right angle.”
“You forced it.”
“Would you like me to do it again?”
I don’t remember everything else here, but the hassling lasted a little longer than this. I started getting really flustered. In the USA, the TSA is like God and it does you no good to argue with them — in fact, you’ll probably get punished if you do. I’m conditioned to be a sheep during this part of flying. But in the back of my mind, I knew this was bullcrap.
Eventually I summoned up the courage and said, “I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”
And immediately, she let me through. Ha!
But I was shaken. Exhausted. I needed a good stiff drink. (Afterwards, I learned that this is common practice for British Airways. They’re a bit of a cheap airline and their service isn’t up to snuff. Imagine doing this to customers regularly!)
The “good stiff drink” ended up being tea at the Fortnam and Mason’s counter. After settling down here, I cannot express how happy I began to feel. I was, as they say, walking on air. I perused the airport shops. It was fun to get a little taste of London, and I bought some loose-leaf tea and expensive chocolate.
The flight home was uneventful. I went back to work the next day, a slightly traumatized, more grateful version of myself…
… and had very little desire to think about the trip for the next year.
Thanks for waiting until 2024 to see pictures!
In conclusion…
I’m glad I went to Morocco. I’ve always wanted to go, and the countryside and architecture is worth seeing in person. But, the next trip I do is going to be something easier. And probably the next after that, too. I think I only have it in me to do a trip like this 1-2 more times in my life. Why spoil a good vacation?
As far as my ankle, it recovered fine with time. I never went to the doctor. My sister has a degree in physical therapy — or something related to muscles — so she talked me through a few things. It took about 3 months before I could jog on it again, and 4 months before it was back to 100%.
I hope you enjoyed this series! To everyone who told me they liked it, thank you. It made it easier to get each consecutive post out. I’m glad some entertainment could come of it.