Africa Travel - Part 8

Egypt: Nubian Boatmen of the Nile

by W. Ruth Kozak

I am on a wooden wharf by the banks of the Nile River at Aswan, in Egypt with my travel companions. There are many small boats tied up along the river bank, their helmsmen eagerly awaiting passengers. We will be the only ones that day – ten of us: six travel writers, an Egyptologist, a tourism rep from Aswan and two burly escorts dressed in business suits.

Strewn along our path are collections of beads, carvings and other trinkets laid out on blankets. We are welcomed by a group of smiling, dusky-skinned men and boys who surround us . They are dressed traditionally in long striped cotton gelabyas, some wear white turbans. They show us the brightly coloured woven scarves, and other wares. “Please, buy!” They thrust out carvings cats and scarabs. “Very nice. Look, alabaster!”

Unfortunately we have no time to bargain and buy souvenirs this morning. We’re on our way to board a boat that will take us to visit the island temple of Philae. Hanan, the Egyptologist explains, “These dark-skinned people are Nubians. They live in settlements along the river.” She tells us that because of the lack of tourists due to recent political unrest, these souvenir hawkers and boatmen are struggling to make a living. Hanan points out a settlement of yellow brick houses clustered under a sandy hill across the river. “That is one of their villages. They call it ‘Elephantine’, perhaps because the hill is shaped like an elephant.”

The Nubians are one of the oldest cultures in Africa and can trace their history back to before 7000 BC. Their name may have originated from an Egyptian word nebu, meaning “gold”. In antiquity, Nubia was a land of great wealth, gold mines, ebony, ivory and incense. Although much of their land was desert, the areas near the Nile were irrigated so it became known for its agriculture. They lived in the area of south Egypt and north Sudan and had their own dialect and traditions. Although most Nubians now speak Arabic, their language is the oldest recorded language of Africa though they didn’t develop a written language until late in ancient times.

With our handsome young Nubian boatman at the helm we sail down the river. These boatmen are renowned for their skill as skippers and fishermen. Most of the small craft including the feluccas that sail on the Nile are commandeered by Nubians. The Nile is a vast river, much wider than I’d expected, and fast flowing.

The descendants of the ancient Nubians still inhabit part of the area that was once ancient Nubia, but after the building of the Aswan High Dam in 1960, most of their ancestral lands were flooded uprooting Nubian farmers and fishermen. Today they are a marginalized people, living on the fringe of Egyptian society. They have been forced to settle in small communities along the Nile. The dam created a 500 mile long lake, Lake Nasser, which flooded ancient temples and tombs as well as hundreds of villages and farmland. The Nubian’s lives and culture were uprooted by this forcible eviction from their lands. Consequently they have felt ostracized. A new constitution promises to bring the Egyptian Nubians back to their original territories and hopefully, if this is enacted, it will improve their future.

Nubia was always a land of mystery and legend. Many of the pharaohs of ancient times were Nubians. At the site of Memphis and Karnak there are Nubian monuments. In 747 BC the city of Thebes, near Karnak, was besieged and the Egyptians called on the Nubian king for protection. Thebes was rescued and for the next 100 years Nubian kings ruled in Egypt. Archaeologists have worked to excavate as many ancient sites as possible and managed to save over 5000 Nubian objects but many of the Nubian treasures still lie beneath the waters of Lake Nasser. One of the archaeological sites that was rescued and restored is Abu Simbal, at the far end of Lake Nasser. Another is the Temple of Philae, restored on a small rocky island once known as Apo, which means “ivory”.

The scene is pastoral and serene as we cruise along the shore. Herds of goats and cattle graze and farmers plod along palm-shaded paths leading donkeys laden with baskets of produce or heaps of cut sugar-cane. An egret flies out of the reeds. It is easy to see how this river has been the life-stream of Egypt from antiquity. The river represented the god Osiris’ capacity to renew the earth and restore life. In ancient times, religious festivals were held as the Nile receded and when it rose toward its flood stage.

The boat rounds a bend in the river past a mound of giant stones that stand like a sentinel. Not far ahead I see the sand-stone buildings of the Temple of Philae fringed by a stand of palm trees.

Philae was once the centre of commerce between Egypt and Nubia. The granite quarries nearby attracted a population of miners and stonemasons. When the first Aswan Low Dam was completed by the British in 1902, many ancient landmarks including the temple complex of Philae were in danger of being submerged. It was decided to relocate the temples piece by piece to nearby islands but instead the foundations were strengthened. In 1960 UNESCO started a project to try and save the temples from the destructive effects of the Nile waters. By then the rising water had submerged up to a third of the island’s buildings. Various methods were used to try and pump the water away but eventually every building was dismantled and transported to a nearby island situated on higher ground.

The temple complex was built during the Ptolemaic dynasty (380-362 BC). Its principal deity was Isis but there are shrines dedicated to other gods. The most ancient temple was one built for Isis, the goddess to whom the first buildings were dedicated. It was approached from the river through a double colonnade. Because it was supposed to be the burial place of Isis’s husband, Osiris, Philae was held in great reverence both by the Egyptians to the north and the Nubians in the south. Only priests could dwell there. On the walls inscriptions tell the story of Osiris and how he was murdered.

Our Egyptologist, Hanan’s enthusiasm and passion for her country’s history makes the past come to life as she tells the stories depicted on the hieroglyphics, how Isis took revenge on her husband, Osiris’s, murderer. “Osiris was slain by his brother Seth and discovered by Isis. She brought Osiris back to life.” The story of Osiris’ resurrection played an important part in the cult that became symbolic of the pharaohs of Egypt. Hanan explained the significance of Isis’ son, Horus, the falcon-headed god. Dead pharaohs were equated with Horus.

The Philae temple was closed in the 6thcentury AD by the Byzantine emperor Justinian. After that it became a seat of the Christian religion. Ruins of a Christian church were discovered on the site. Many of the sculptures and hieroglyphics on the walls of the temple were destroyed or mutilated by these early Christian inhabitants. Most of Horus’s statues were left unmarred but in many of the wall scenes, every figure is scratched out except that of Horus and his winged solar-disk, perhaps because the Byzantine Christians saw some parallel between Horus, the god’s son, and the stories of Jesus.

After our tour we return to our boat where the boatman is waiting to take us back to Aswan. The two escorts decide to entertain us by standing on the prow, playfully daring one another to keep their balance. The boat tilts and I wonder if one of them will plunge into the river, but the good-natured Nubian helmsman grins and keeps the craft on an even keel. It was memorable day on the river and I have learned so much of the history of these proud ancient people who once ruled Egypt as kings.

Guided Aswan Day Trip Philae and Kalabsha Temples and Nubian Museum with Lunch

If You Go:

♦ Temple of Philae: www.discoveringegypt.com/philae1.htm (history)
♦ Temple of Philae: en.egypt.travel/attraction/index/temple-of-philae (Egyptian Tourism)
♦ The Nubians: www.pbs.org/wonders/Episodes/Epi1/1_retel1.htm (history)
♦ Feluccas on the Nile: www.touregypt.net/featurestories/feluccas.htm
♦ Nubian music on a Nile cruise: www.tripadvisor.ca/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g294205-i15743621-Luxor_Nile_River_Valley.html

Private Day trip: From Aswan to explore Komombo and Edfu temples plus Philae temple all with lunch included

About the author:
Ruth was recently invited on a travel writer’s press trip to Egypt, a dream come true for her. The trip to Philae was one of many adventures including a special side-trip to Alexandria; the city planned by and dedicated to Alexander the Great. Ruth’s historical novel SHADOW OF THE LION will be published in August 2014. Book 1 is sub-titled “Blood on the Moon”. Book 2 “The Fields of Hades” will follow in 2016. You can read Ruth’s blogs for her novel at shadowofthelion.com or see her website at www.ruthkozak.com.

All photos by W. Ruth Kozak, except #2 Carriage Driver and #3 Nubian Boatman by Linda Cichanowicz.

Visiting Karen Blixen’s Farm in Africa

Karen, Kenya

by Marcia Walker

Often, as a teenager, before drifting off to sleep, the first lines of her novel floated through my mind: “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills.” I read Out of Africa, Karen Blixen’s memoir chronicling the struggles on her Kenyan coffee farm, when I was sixteen. I read it and re-read it and read it again. Twenty-five years later, it was one of the rare books to survive my fourteen moves. My copy was creased and worn with age, stained from my old leaky waterbed and had so many dog-eared pages it puffed out like a fan. I had not read the book in years but her farm, her Africa, had become part of the geography of my mind. A place forged out of teenage longing.

It is dangerous to visit the places of novels, especially those read in the tender, impressionable years of high school. So it was with trepidation that I traveled to Kenya and found myself driving up the curved brick driveway of Karen Blixen’s farm, now a museum. She moved here in 1914 and was forced to leave in 1931 after enduring a series of cataclysmic events (divorce, syphilis, World War I, the Depression, drought, a fire, and the sudden death of her lover). I knew the place in my mind was probably nothing like reality; yet, I felt compelled to visit.

It took two hours to travel the twelve kilometers from downtown Nairobi to Blixen’s farm. The main highway, currently being re-built by the Chinese government, was under heavy construction. Whatever romance I had expected was wiped out by the intense drive. Horns blared. Thick smog reeked of car fumes. Engines idled without any forward movement. Men selling everything from magazines to bananas pressed up against the car. My driver advised me to keep my window closed so I wouldn’t be robbed. With one of the highest crime rates in Africa, Nairobi has the infamous nickname “Now rob me”.

Once distant from Nairobi, the city has swallowed up the writer’s 6000-acre coffee plantation. It’s now part of a wealthy suburb called Karen (named after the writer), surrounded by posh private schools, palatial estates, and tourist attractions. I asked the driver if there were any wild monkeys or gazelle still around. He shook his head and told me they were long gone.

Still, as we drove up the laneway, my palms grew damp and I felt anxious, like I was meeting someone I had not seen in several years and was worried about making a good impression. Such is the odd relationship between a reader, a novel and the novelist. The reader feels a tenderness that is one-sided. Loving a novel is always unrequited.

As the house came into full view I recognized the stone bungalow farmhouse with the wrap around veranda. The cinnamon coloured tiled roof soaked in the morning sun. The floor to ceiling windows opened up, like doorways, so the wind blew dry dust through the house. I half expected Blixen’s Scotch Deerhound to run up barking beside the car.

When I opened my door, the spicy smell of Cypress stung my nostrils. Norfolk pines and columnar cypress lined the immaculate grounds. Cultivated shrubs with fushia foliage bordered the front lawn. Delicate blue flowers opened to the cloudless sky. The wide lawn stretched across the front and the back of the house. There was a lot of activity as workers erected great white tents in the backyard for a craft fair on the weekend. The property is popular for weddings and special events.

Several tourists milled about the front yard taking photos. I followed a small hand painted sign that said “museum”. Behind a rickety desk sat a young man, looking bored. He changed his face to a smile when he saw me and offered to take me on a tour of the house for a small fee. When I declined, he stopped smiling.

I wandered through the house alone. Like most museums, it was strangely devoid of sound. An occasional bellow from one of the workers echoed through the living room. The dining room table was covered with a cream coloured lace cloth and set with blue and white patterned china as if friends were expected for tea. Red roses wilted in a glass vase next to two unlit candles. In the study, behind a sturdy writing desk, leather bound books with the initials DFH on the spine filled the floor to ceiling bookshelves. A small black and white photo of a young Karen Blixen, taken before her ill-fated marriage to Baron Bror Blixen-Finecke, leaned up against the wall. I tried to imagine the writer living here but found it difficult to imagine anyone living in this staged atmosphere.

I walked into the bedroom. There was a tiny, white bed with a hard looking mattress. A pair of riding boots stood in the centre of the room. Several British tourists shuffled in behind me following their guide. They had paid for a tour and were fans of the 1985 movie, based on the novel, starring Meryl Streep as Karen Blixen and Robert Redford as Denys Finch Hatton, her lover. The guide began his spiel.

“Karen Blixen sold most of her furniture to her neighbours before she left Africa so these are all replicas. One of her relatives in Denmark owns her bed. When they filmed Out of Africa, the film crew generously donated the furniture to the museum. Those riding boots weren’t Karen’s but Meryl Streep wore them in the movie.”

The British tourists and I stared at the polished black boots. No one spoke. I stifled a laugh. My literary pilgrimage had brought me to an abandoned film set.

I slipped out through the small gift shop after buying several of her other books. They’re still published under her pen name Isak Dinesen. After meandering through the front garden I sat next to a juniper tree. Several rusted tools used in the early 1900s for coffee plantation were littered around me. A large wagon teetered with half of its front wheel embedded into the soil. I leaned against it, gazing back at Blixen’s house. I felt no closer to the writer visiting her home. I had no grand epiphany but the warm sun felt good on my body and I felt released from expectation. I peered above the house and recognized the dark outline of the rolling Ngong Hills. They stood, unchanged and immovable, against the vast blue sky.

Out of Africa Tour: Giraffe Centre and Karen Blixen Museum from Nairobi

If You Go:

Museum:
For information on the Karen Blixen Museum in Nairobi

Food:
For a good restaurant nearby try the on-site cafe at the Utamaduni Crafts Centre
or The Karen Blixen Coffee Garden

Interests:
Other worthwhile stops in the Karen area of Nairobi:
The Giraffe Center
Kazuri Bead Factory
Utamaduni Craft Center
The Elephant Orphanage

Nairobi National Park tour David Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage Giraffes And Karen Blixen Museum Tour in Nairobi

About the author:
Marcia’s writing has appeared in the Toronto Globe and Mail, skirt! magazine, Artscape and the CBC radio programs DNTO and The Wild Side. Come visit her at www.marciawalker.ca.

All photos are by Marcia Walker:
The Farm House
Closeup of the Clock
Dining Room
Picture of Karen Blixen
Bedroom

An Exotic Overland Trek From Tangier To Kenya

Africa

by Ian Packham

I was on the Kenyan coast at Malindi, having followed the African coast west from Tangier, Morocco’s seedy port of entrance for so many Europeans. I was attempting to complete the first solo and unsupported overland circumnavigation of the continent by public transport, an expedition I had christened Encircle Africa. But all the while, through eight months of travel from Tangier to Malindi, I was aware others had been there before me. Vasco da Gama reached Malindi in Kenya after nine months in 1498. He was on his way to the Malabar Coast of India. I was on my way back to Tangier, through East Africa and across the Mediterranean coast. For much of his route he followed passages determined by the earlier explorers Diogo Cao and Bartolomeu Dias. But while Dias returned home to a feeling of failure, da Gama returned a hero, celebrated like the Apollo 11 astronauts on their return from the moon.

The three Portuguese explorers I would continually cross paths with may have been the most visible, having positioned padrãos (navigational pillars) around three-quarters of the African continent, but they certainly weren’t the first. It is believed the Phoenicians made it so far, in the sixth century BC, as to be able to provide the first known description of the gorilla. Chinese ships rounded Cape Point from the east in 1421, decades before the Portuguese would do the same from the west. And Kenya’s coastal civilizations had been in contact with other continents for centuries. But it was Europe’s Portuguese explorers that opened up the continent for all that was to come, including my own personal exploration.

The padrãos had several intentions, as did the voyages around the African continent themselves. Portugal, surrounded by hostile kingdoms, turned to the sea to find a new route to India’s spice trade that eliminated greedy middle men. The padrãos not only acted as navigational aids, but proclaimed the land around them as Christian, and belonging to the Kingdom of Portugal. They were also a handy source of ballast, generally only positioned on a voyage’s homeward journey. The carved inscription on the Cape Cross padrão reads: “In the year…1485 after the birth of Christ, the most excellent and serene king Dom John II of Portugal ordered this land to be discovered and this padrão to be placed by Diogo Cao”.Namibia’s Cape Cross was Cao’s journeys end. The next 15 years would see countrymen Bartolomeu Dias and Vasco da Gama forge a sea route to India’s Malabar Coast. Each explorer was dependent upon the discoveries of those who had gone before and the padrãos they had positioned.

My first chance to cross paths with these explorers came after only two weeks, in Western Sahara, at the town of Boujdour. I missed any chance of even a glimpse of the town Cao had visited, since my only way south from Laayoune was a direct overnight coach to Dakhla. It would become a theme of Encircle Africa. Our paths didn’t cross again until Cap Vert, Senegal, the most westerly point of the African mainland.

Cao was able to sail straight to Elmina, Ghana from anchor at Cap Vert. I had had to struggle through the ever improving but often muddy dirt roads of Guinea, Sierra Leone, and Liberia just after the rains.

I didn’t get close enough to feel their influence until reaching Soyo on Angola’s northern border, the southern bank of the River Congo, four months after beginning. It took Cao about the same length of time by sail. Even then I was unable to find the fragmentary remains of his padrão which are said to exist.

Cao and Dias made several different forays into Angola, with Cao stopping at Benguela and Cape Santa Maria, and Dias further south at Tombua. Yet the closest I came to the explorers in Angola was Diogo Cao Road in the heart of colonial Benguela. I reached the end of Cao’s expeditionary advances without getting any closer to them.

I relaxed knowing that for 500 years people like me had in some way or other been following the African coast. Whether it was Boujdour in Western Sahara or Benguela in Angola, people with far less knowledge of their environment had returned home. Those explorers used tiny ships called caravels. I didn’t have my own transport, but I had maps which the explorers didn’t, and a cell phone. We were both dependent on the locals to provide food and water.

Dias used Cao’s discoveries to continue, taking anchor 75 miles further south at Walvis Bay, a town still dependent on ships anchoring today. On its outskirts, monumental stylized rigged ships celebrate the town’s earlier European visitor.

Dias and his crew became the first Europeans to round the southern Capes. A beach at Cape Point, facing south towards Antarctica celebrates this fact, being named Dias beach. It’s a beautiful, blustery, cold place even now. For me it marked six months of travel, and Encircle Africa’s halfway point. Dias was reaching his end.

He landed at Mossel Bay to take on fresh water, on February 3 1488. The town is home to a replica caravel inside the Dias Museum. Dias was eager to continue his voyage, but his crew was not. His three caravels ended their outward journey at Kwaaihoek on March 14.

It was perhaps Dias of the three explorers that knew Africa best. Ten years on, Vasco Da Gama didn’t make landfall on the African continent until Saint Helena Bay, now a northern suburb of Cape Town, where a simple granite monument to his achievement can be seen.

From Mossel Bay da Gama faced unknown seas, passing Dias’ endpoint on December 16 1497. It was coming up to Christmas, so the coast da Gama spotted on his left hand side was named Natal (birth). His four caravels continued up the East coast of Africa eventually reaching Mozambique Island. Here on the island’s eastern end, facing a small, later Portuguese fort, I encountered the remains of his padrão. This was the closest I had come so far to one of the original navigational aids.

Da Gama went on to reach Mombasa in Kenya, a town hostile to his intentions that forced him further north to Malindi. There, after much searching, I found a tourist office hidden around the back of an ugly building complex. I tentatively asked, knowing my success in locating signs of the explorers so far has not been great, if they knew about the padrão placed in the town by da Gama. There were baffled looks as the three staff members conversed. “You mean the pillar?” one of them suggested.

My search for the Portuguese explorers was finally over. I took a three-wheeled tuktuk to the padrão. The intervening years between me and da Gama had not been kind to it. Instead of the slim column of Lisbon limestone, it had been variously altered so it now resembled a giant white traffic cone topped with a Greek cross. Yet there it still stands on a rocky outcrop. One of the only original Portuguese padrãos I had been able to find during my own exploration of Africa 500 years on. From here da Gama went across the ocean to India. His mission complete, he returned home to report his successes to the king of Portugal. I still had to cross to Egypt, and follow the Mediterranean back to Tangier to Encircle Africa.

Mombasa Full-Day Guided City Tour

If You Go:

♦ See the map for details of the original sites of padrãos. A padrão from Cao’s explorations can now be viewed at the museum of the Lisbon Geographical Society, Portugal. The Cape Cross padrão is housed in the Deutsches Historisches Museum (Zeughaus), Berlin, Germany. Dias’ Kwaaihoek padrão de Sao Gregorio is to be found in the library foyer of the University of Witwatersand, Johannesburg, South Africa. These padrãos have been replaced by replicas at their original sites.

♦ The Dias Museum, Mossel Bay, South Africa also houses an aquarium, shell museum, Dias statue and the post office tree dating back to 1501. The museum complex is open daily except Christmas Day and Good Friday. There is an additional cost to enter the replica caravel inside the museum.

♦ The closest International airports to Malindi, Kenya are located in Nairobi and Mombasa. Several airlines provide flights from European and North American cities. Kenya Airways (a division of KLM) is the national carrier. Malindi is easily reachable by road from both cities.

Overnight Shark Cage Diving Excursion for Small Groups in Mossel Bay

About the author:
Ian is a biomedical scientist turned traveler. He is very much a ‘normal guy’ with no specialist expedition training. Encircle Africa was his first expedition. A member of the Royal Geographical Society, London, he enjoys off-beat off-season travel, preferably by public transport. He is still in the process of writing scientific articles, as well as fiction and non-fiction pieces. He aims to build on his current travels to develop a career in writing. Website: www.encircleafrica.org

All photographs copyright Ian M. Packham:
Map of my Encircle Africa route, and the routes of Cao (his second voyage), Dias and da Gama, depicting padrão sites.
Pointe des Almides, Cap Vert, Senegal. The most westerly point of continental Africa.
Dias entered Walvis Bay, Namibia on December 8 1487. A monument on the outskirts of the town marks his visit.
Cape Point, South Africa. Dias was the first European to round Africa’s southern capes.
The remains of da Gama’s padrão, Mozambique Island, Mozambique.
Da Gama’s padrão, Malindi, Kenya.

Morocco: Listening to the Wind and Imdezan in Essaouira

by Inka Piegsa-quischotte

The name alone is pure poetry: Essaouira. Let the syllables roll of your tongue then listen to the sound as it is blown away by the wind. Because, you see, wind there is plenty.

Not for nothing is Essaouria called ‘City of the Wind’ as well as ‘The Moroccan Woodstock’. History, culture, art, crafts, music and a sin fin of water sport — all these things define the Moroccan port town on the Atlantic which has fascinated as diverse personalities as Winston Churchill, Orson Welles and Jimi Hendrix.

It’s a straight run from Marrakesh to Essaouira which makes for a great day trip if you are based in Marrakesh. The distance of 105 miles is covered by a nearly ruler straight highway which cuts through shrubs and the desert. This road is no coincidence though, because Essaouira is something of a historical curiosity.

The present city with its much admired walls and Medina is a creation, a purpose built sea port, commissioned by King Mohammed III during the 18th century. He wanted to develop trade with Europe and beyond and to establish a counterbalance to Agadir, whose inhabitants favored a rival of him. For twelve years, the king instructed and oversaw French engineer and architect Theodore Cornut, who designed the modern city, the medina and the international quarters. At the time, Morocco depended heavily on the caravan trade, which brought merchandise from sub-Saharan Africa to Timbuktu, then from there through the desert and over the Atlas mountains to Marrakesh and, finally, making use of the straight road, to the thriving port of Essaouira.

The word ‘highway’ has to be taken with a pinch of salt though. It’s fine for the first few miles out of Marrakesh, but then there are stretches which are so uneven and full of rubble, they make your teeth rattle. Our diver referred to that jokingly as a prime example for a Moroccan

Despite the more recent design which gives Essaouira its present appearance, the city has a long, long history. Excavations have revealed a prehistoric settlement. The Romans left their traces and, most importantly, Essaouira, then called Mogador was already an important port town under Portuguese rule during the 16th century.

The French followed and finally the Moroccans. Although the importance of Essaouira as a sea port has been reduced when the caravan trade ceased, it’s still a fishing port. One of the first things to do when arriving, is to go to one of the many shacks along the waterfront which offer the latest catch. You walk along the display, point at what you want, sit down on one of the communal tables and enjoy eating with your fingers and chatting other tourists and locals alike.

The long stretched island of Mogador protects Essaouira from the strongest Atlantic winds, but there is still plenty around to make the place a paradise for surfers and kite surfers. The wide, white beaches invite to sunbathing, swimming and any other imaginable kind of water sport.

The medina proper is entered through a vast stone gate and then you find yourself in a labyrinth of small alleys, lined with galleries, craft shops of wood carvers, leather shops and tiny cafes. The difference to the hustle, bustle and noise of the medina in Marrakesh is striking. Not only do clocks run slower in Essaouira, they seem to not run at all. Whereas the vendors in Marrakesh run out and shout, sometimes even grab at you, their brothers in Essaouira just sit patiently in their shops, smoke, drink mint tea and generally couldn’t care less if you buy anything or not. Everything is slightly run down, paint is peeling, the odd window pane is broken and the ambience of a favorite hippie hang out it once was definitely lingers. I call it the’ decadent charm’ of Essaouira which, I think, describes the atmosphere.

Small wonder that this picturesque, sedate and slightly melancholic city attracted such divers personalities as Churchill, Welles and Hendrix. Orson Welles even got honored with a statue, although his nose is now missing.

Music plays a great part in Essaouira culture. Each June there is the gnaoua music festival which not only attracts performers of traditional Moroccan music but also international, contemporary singers and bands; hence the moniker ‘Moroccan Woodstock’.

Imdezan explained

If you miss the festival, you can nevertheless enjoy Moroccan music on a daily basis. As typical as the fish, the imdezan are omnipresent in Essaouira. An imdezan is a group of four Berber musicians, with a lead singer and the others playing their drums and one string fiddle. They walk around the medina, from one café to the other and if you throw them a few dirham, they’ll be very happy indeed.

Full-Day Tour to Essaouira – The Ancient Mogador City from Marrakech

If You Go:

The best time to visit is between May and October. Due to the wind it’ll never be too hot and this is the time of year when it doesn’t rain much.

On your way to Essaouira, stop at one of the cooperatives which produce argan oil products. The argan tree is endemic to Southwestern Morocco and the oil is a luxury item difficult to obtain outside the region. It’s used in fabulous crèmes and lotions which you can buy in the cooperative’s shops. You can also observe the labor intensive process of extraction the oil from the fruit.

Bring your swim suit and make time for a spot of water sport on the fabulous beach.

If you want to spend more than a few hours, there are a few modern hotels along the beach and small, converted riads within the medina. Consult a list of hotels on www.tripadvisor.com.

About the author:
Inka Piegsa-quischotte is an ex-attorney turned travel writer and novelist. She writes for online travel magazines and has two novels and a travel guide to Galicia/Spain published. She lives between Turkey and Miami.

All photos are by Inka Piegsa-quischotte.

Travel in the Time of Coup

Madagascar

by Doug Downie

At the airport in Antananarivo the immigration kiosk was closed. A sign on the window told us that visas were €62. A handful of us waited, promised that someone would be coming to attend to us. It was hot and humid and most passengers had left for their varied destinations. Two men leaned against the kiosk and talked to each other of the business ventures they would be attending to in Madagascar. We smiled and sweated, nodding to each other with a strange air of camaraderie as we waited. I finally got impatient and strolled over to a man in uniform.

“Visas?” I asked, palms up, fingers splayed.

He immediately moved into action, speaking French to a group of loitering officials, and we were herded to the customs desk. The visas would be paid for upon departure.

Our guide to the hotel spoke a bit of English and periodically fed us tidbits about Antananarivo and the Malagasy people but his English was poor – we shouldn’t leave our room because of the political unrest. The traffic was the typical African phalanx of weaving cars and combis, pedestrians stitching their way through the speeding boxes of tin, a breath away from impact, rickety bicycles and rickshaws ambling along the roadside, men pulling carts of produce. As usual I was awed at the absence of collisions from such tight trajectories. We passed through rice paddies with compounds on patches of solid ground looking like hobbit houses. Great cones of dried rice husks sat among the houses. A Zebu or two plodded through the paddies or vegetated on the grass by the roadside. Bright mosaics of laundry were left to dry on the embankments, littering the grassy slopes with shirts and shorts and undergarments. The hills and houses of the city rose before us like a sloppy layered sandwich, rich with life.

We would be at the Residence LaPasoa our first and last nights in Madagascar. The name had a funny resonance for me that would grow over the next nine days, and on our last night, a day after the coup, lush with Three Horses Lager, I went out onto our balcony overlooking the narrow street and called out to the standers and strollers and hawkers below, “Residence LA-PA-ZOaa!”

The kind and gentle Malagasy people below smiled.

We were the only guests at Residence LaPasoa, as we would be elsewhere. There’s nothing quite like the threat of cyclones and a coup d’etat to keep the tourists away. After the coup, the journalists poked their noses into the pub, Ku De Ta, just for the name. It was all quite wonderful for us, but not for those gentle people who lived from tourism. But there was little to be nervous about. Life goes on; people go about their business because that’s what they have to do.

Unlike in Antananarivo, the porters at Ille St. Marie airport knew what the word no meant. A driver was waiting to take us halfway up the island to La Crique.

Marc, the owner, greeted us. “Welcome!”

We were almost alone. A French couple building a bungalow about 10 km up the island were having lunch. Rainy seasons and coups are terrors for the tourist business.

“But you came.” said Marc, as if we were courageous. He’d had more cancellations than he cared to remember.

I’m sure La Crique is lovely at any time of year or season of political unrest, but it’s especially nice in solitude. A group of women came for a night, a couple for a day. Mornings beneath the palms, the sea swaying and drumming a steady beat, the fishermen and sea traffic passing in lithe pirogues, as graceful and smooth as ice skaters, days crunching on broken coral, or ambitious snorkelling around the rocky islands ringing the bay, fine open-air dinners every night to the music of the ocean, nights filled with love and fun, by candle light after the generator was turned off. Marc loaned me his nylon stringed guitar after we’d jammed and I played beneath the herringbone of the thatched roof with rain beating down. It rained almost every night, but the days were filled with sun and splendour.

There are not many tourist activities on Ille St. Marie. Renting and touring on a motor bike is one, and there’s the pirate cemetery, or the zoological and botanical gardens. We chose to walk, in 40ºC heat, to have lunch at La Paradiso. It’s a small island but getting across its 10 km width is a mission. A new road has been built since cyclone Ivan but it’s difficult to imagine anything other than assault vehicles making the trip.

We had the dogs of La Crique with us, three of them, led by a little mutt who was a terror for chickens. With the emergence of a lanky Malagasy chicken from the rice or bush his ears perked and in two seconds the chase was on. The other dogs followed. They killed a chicken on that walk. I felt like I’d stolen from somebody. They weren’t even our dogs.

We passed a small village, people working in the fields, their backsides to the sky. They smiled and waved at us, or asked, “You need boatman?” high above the sea. There were patches of indigenous vegetation but the land has been well worked over.

We were greeted by Florance, who led us to his mother’s restaurant. Throughout lunch he regaled us with the many things he could do for us, for very little Ariary. But we had no wealth to spare; we weren’t that kind of tourists. What a lunch it was! Chicken in coconut sauce, shredded crab in the shell, unprocessed rice, Three Horses, a finger bowl with purple petals, and peace. All harvested locally and cooked fresh, every bite a delight. As we ate the little mutt chased a village boy and bit him on his ankles.

We walked a long way next day, 20 km, looking for a restaurant at the top of the island. But there was no restaurant. We walked through villages with houses built on platforms above the sandy soil that would course with the water that flows to the sea in the storms. Despite a nagging feeling of invasion of privacy, especially with the dogs of La Crique along, I was glad for those walks and the life we’d seen.

When our time at La Crique was over, everyone piled into the bakkie: Joseph, Serafine, Venise, and a mysterious old man who had appeared two days before, with a typewriter perched at his back window. On the one-lane road we encountered a large red lorry and as various manoeuvrings and jockeying for position were executed we finally saw a giant chameleon. Its blue and white body was poised on a fallen palm frond. With left boob on my thigh, C leaned over to take the picture.

You get to the tiny island of Ille aux Nattes by pirogue, though you can walk the channel. The boatmen line up and beseech you to vote for their boat. We stayed at Baboo Village, next to a place owned by a South African, Ockie. He too had only two guests, Dutch with some business on Madagascar. They were aimlessly chilling with Ockie, watching DVDs on the widescreen in the evening and in the mornings sitting on the deck with coffee and whiskey watching the pirogues cross the channel with their cargo.

There’s a sandy trail that circles the island and you can walk it in a couple of hours. Stop by the Maningory Bar and Restaurant and you might see one of the few lemurs left. You can take a pirogue around the island, stop for a bottle or three, for you and the boatman, swim in the clear water where the Madagascar Strait meets the Indian Ocean, and make it back to the lodge before sundowners and yet another French meal.

On the plane back to Joburg about a half dozen journalists were on board. The coup was over and they were headed on to the next story. We waited on the tarmac for twenty minutes for the last of them, carrying his satchel, talking on his cell phone as he mounted the stairway. A woman across the aisle from me lifted her flaccid arms and clapped, slowly but loudly, as he entered the cabin. There were calls and jests. I got the distinct feeling that they all thought that they were the only ones on the plane, the other passengers more like faceless manikins than real live people. At the queue at customs they were whisked off like royalty.

I thought of two little girls who walked with us, trudging barefoot to school ten kilometres across Ille St. Marie, a journey they made every day, with empty hands and stoic hearts, and smiling villagers on top of the hills asking; “You need boatman?” I thought of the woman at a spaza shop; “You want three, four…” I asked C. “…or five…” said the smiling woman as she opened the shop. I thought of Paki the pirogue man of Ille aux Nattes, and Joseph at La Crique, and musty cemeteries with midget crypts, and the lithe climber who pulled down coconuts to fall on the sandy trail, and the shopkeeper who couldn’t understand our requests for the title of the almost rumba music we heard as we passed, and the sage guitar of Manhi at the Zebu Bar and Lounge on our last night in Antananarivo – and many others we’d encountered, and I thought that the journos had missed the story, and I was glad to see them go, like cockroaches underneath the molding.

Coups come and coups go, but the people soldier on, barely blown by the breeze.

Don’t hesitate to go.

Cooking And Cuisine Tasting From Tana-Malagasy Fine Foodie Madagascar Tour

If You Go:

During the coup flights to Antananorivo were curtailed by many airlines. Things have stabilized somewhat since then, and it may be easier to get there. One can always fly to Johannesburg, and then on to Antananorivo on South African Airways or Air Madagascar. From Antananorivo flights are available to Toamasina on Ile St. Marie. La Crique will transport you to their premises. They will also take you to the beach on the south end of the island where you can catch a pirogue to Ill Aux Nattes. Check here for info about La Crique: www.lacrique-saintemarie.com and www.tripadvisor.com. Package deals are available. Languages spoken are Malagasy and French.

About the author:
Doug Downie is a semi-retired evolutionary biologist and entomologist,currently living in Sacramento, California, after eight years in South Africa. He also writes poetry and prose. Four books of his fiction can be found at www.lulu.com

Photo Credits:
All photographs by Claudie Hiles.