Jamie Fehr

This was too wild an experience to not be publicly documented. My pilgrimage to Essaouira, Morocco for the Gnaoua Festival (Music Sample) began halfway through my fifth tour of Morocco in Rabat and while I had bothered to make a few plans about how things were going to happen, there was nothing very concrete. So it was no surprise to me when all my Moroccan friends who had talked about going backed out and what had existed for plans all fell through. I was on my own for accommodations and transport, normally not a daunting task for a seasoned traveller such as myself, it was just that this was a small city with a very limited number of hotels and transport options that was grows exponentially every year for this festival.

So it came time for me to decide if I still wanted to go and I decided that I make a go at it and see what could happen. I still had a possibility for accommodations, an american girl I had meet on the train Tangier offered me to stay with her some friends for the festival. I made the call and the result was inconclusive, but not being one to hesitate I went to the train station to get a ticket.

I already knew that trains were only available as far as Marrakech and after that I would have to switch to a bus. And I guess in the back of my mind I didn’t expect that there would be an available bus to Essaouira that night because I didn’t feel in the least bit shocked that my request for a first class passage to Essaouira turned into a second class passage to Marrakech.

What they hey? I thought to myself. Let’s go to Marrakech. So I boarded the train and got into a cramped un-air-conditioned cabin bound for the edge of the Sahara desert. There were some interesting Moroccans in the compartment who were very surprised to learn that I knew some arabic and made every effort to convert me to Islam. I declined as politely as I could.

As the train was pulling into Marrakech, I just couldn’t let go of the awe I was feeling. The scenery could only be described as other worldly. It was wicked hot (42 degrees Celsius or better) and the scenery reminded me most of some of the Mars photos I’ve seen. I had been to Marrakech before, but somehow this time was different.

And for the record I don’t think that Marrakech is a fun place to hang out in by ones self.

I went and found a cheap hotel without air conditioning or even a fan on noisy side street on one of the hottest nights I’d even experienced. I really didn’t think that hell could be much different. And early the next morning I went to the bus station to see if there was an available bus to Essaouira.  There wasn’t until nine that evening. I was ready to give up. I wanted to leave the heat and the uncertain state of lodgings for cleaner, cooler, quieter Southern Spain (I didn’t honestly think I’d ever utter those words in reference to Southern Spain), but an american guy and his girlfriend convinced me and some French/Moroccan to catch a grand taxi with them to the Festival.

It was on the taxi ride at the last possible moment when I got a text message from my acquaintance (really, to say anything more than acquaintance would be exaggerating) from the train that I could indeed stay with them for the two nights of the festival that remained. The only thing was that she wasn’t going to be there until the following day and someone I totally didn’t know was going to be there to let me in.

So I got to the apartment we all were going to be staying at and introduced myself to the group and realized quickly that I in every way an anomaly. Firstly, I was the only guy, secondly I was the only one that didn’t have a masters in something or other, and lastly I was the only one who didn’t know anyone else from a hole in the wall. The only common factor was that everyone was 24. Pretty random eh?

So in the end I did get to end the festival, the city, the beach, live Moroccan hip-hop music until four in the morning, fresh Moroccan khobz straight out of the oven shortly there after and just some beautiful sea-side summer weather. The only other really weird thing that happened was hearing my name called out while wading through a crowd of fellow concert goers only to find out that it was some Moroccan guy that I really didn’t remember. Yet he knew enough about me without me volunteering information that I accepted him as a friend and we hung the whole afternoon. He also tried to convert me to Islam but to no avail.

Wait. I am almost forgetting the strangest part of the trip. 

After leaving the festival I took an air conditioned bus (thank goodness, I almost never get to travel with A/C in Morocco) to Marrakech where I got to see the half of the Euro Cup game between Spain and Germany and then caught an overnight train to Tanger where I was going to catch the ferry into Spain.  

When the train arrived in Spain I had only a half to get from the station to onboard the ferry, not a lot of time, but I still managed to make friends with a hurried Moroccan man who also desperately wanted to catch the eight o’clock ferry. I boarded the boat with him and as we were looking for good seats a hawaiian man randomly starting conversing with me and I shared a little bit about where I’d been and he where he was at.

He told me he was traveling with an Egyptian man who was living in Spain and that they had been seeing his friends. I said that was nice and continued to talk with my newest Moroccan friend. But then I saw this Hawaiian guys egyptian friend and realized that I had met him before on a small and far away Mediterranean Island over a year ago. I got out of my seat and gave the man a hug. That’s just how good of friends we are.

So I spent the morning with those two and they gave me a ride from the port in Tarifa to Malaga. I was really grateful for that, but it really is a small world.