My Year without Clothes : 38. Blown away in Essaouria

The bruises are still evident from the gruesome Marrakech Express that crawled and itched and picked its way through the country packed to the gills: but the agony is passing. I'm now on a daily speedway of so much to say and do that I'm days behind. Currently it's 4.30am and I'm awake in Essaouria, a wave-washed and wind-bent ancient trading town on Morocco's west coast.

While fishmongers shout and barter from their blue and yellow wooden boats moored at the slithering jetty, I'm in a room at the ocean's edge lulled by the crash of waves on rocks, in a four poster bed lined with silk curtains. The Muezzin has just started his fanfare, eliciting a melodic response from across the ancient town. It's not even dawn; I can smell the fish, and there's a glow of lights across the rooftops. Soft spray dampens the air as the light turns deep purple across these walls that have watched the ocean for 500 years.

But back to Marrakech. My last post was about being wooed around every corner: it must be the aphrodisiac properties of mint tea. Luda and my two days in Marrakech were spent primarily in the souks, fossicking around for treasures amongst the dust. The vendors here won't usually budge a dirham in price - complaining endlessly about how the price of silver has rocketed and how difficult it is to get decent silver and how if they sell it to us then they have to pay huge amounts for it now and how can they afford to send their daughters to school if we rob them. Being fondled and propositioned and leered at is working to all of our advantage because I'm getting ridiculous discounts on our purchases. With Luda's help we even managed to reduce the amount of credit card commission, and in some instances, unheard of here, the vendor forgot to charge the correct price as he blushed to the roots of his ears when I kissed his cheek in flirting gratitude.

After being ignored in several restaurants because we don't speak French, we defected from these tourist traps to feast at the local plastic-lined tables where several platters of fabulous, inexpensive food were flung in front of us about fifteen seconds after we'd ordered them. Chops and chips, laced with olives and chunks of crusty breads, tasted like aromatic, smoky heaven.

We moved to the Riad al Sebban, an exotic, stunning riad accessed down crumbling alleys that led into a jasmine scented oasis of calm and beauty where foaming bougainvillea tumbled to the pool's edge and waiters' life purpose is to refill your mint tea or coconut pastries.

Riad al Sebban

This Riad is also sensational - a 16th century old home with rooms spiralling off at many levels, each with terraces, cascading flowers, and tinking fountains, fretwork, rooftops, mosaic, jasmine oil burners, love seats, shutters and iron curleques. After meeting and huggings with Sara, she took us to the Jewish Quarter where I bought some perfume oils which didn't even last five minutes on my skin, and some sensational "amber", which is resin that undergoes a treatment to make it look like real amber. These beads made fabulous centrepieces: if i was buying real amber in this size, I'd be paying thousands and thousands of dollars, They're not cheap, but they don't cost what the real amber costs. Then we walked back through the souks, under flapping recently dyed fabrics that coloured the sky like rainbows, as we wound through the tangled alleys were men spun silk and cotton threads for clothing borders, holding the fragile threads across lanes and around chairs, stretching
for fifty metres.

Now that we've met up with Sarah, a gorgeous ex-circus-firetwirling-gypsy with an encyclopaedic knowledge of beads, the path ahead will be lined with real finds and gems of wisdom. For the first two days, Luda and I visited so many tiny shops packed to the ancient rafters with fabricated and really old amber, Berber and Tuareg silver, Moroccan silver, silver from remote villages, gnarled coral, fibulas, southern cross pendants; many constructed into sensational pieces both old and reworked, and much junk aged to fool the non discerning eye.

Treasure hunting

We bought little, because we were overwhelmed by the quantity and variety, and not as informed as we knew we'd be once we'd connected with Sarah. However, we were immediately aware of the astronomical prices of everything; I pale when I think of what I sold my pieces for when I closed the shop - far, far less than the price here now. That silver has been in the souk for 30 years is irrelevant: the vendors are in the know with the daily price of silver and gold. Everything is sold per gram, from coral to prayer beads and even venetian beads.

It wouldn't be fair to us here to tell you where we found our pieces: some dealers are honest, many tell outright blatant fibs about where they got their goodies, and equally many others haven't a clue so make it up. Luda and I had spent hours in a large, fantastically well stocked shop in the souk, but didn't buy anything because we thought the prices were outrageous, only to find that this is Sara's favourite dealer whose pieces are often museum quality. When we returned there was a bit of embarassment all round because now he knew he had to deal with us ... but everyone was happy in the end: I got some great beads, Sarah's credo rating was intact, and the shopkeepers could pay their rent!

In Marrakech I bought a few strands of good quality collectible Venetians, and some Saharawi silver beads, highly collectible and becoming commercially "fashionable" silver, amber, agate and garnet beads worn by the Saharan women. I don't know how it happened but in one tiny shop, where we were falling over magnificent creations, a transaction took place that I was barely aware of and then I was the owner of fifteen pieces of silver and brass and copper pieces at a fraction of their initial asking price. Sarah was astounded once more - something in the water?

Luda and Sarah went shopping while I was taken to the Jardine Marjorelle, home of Yves St Laurent, a colourful, interesting place on many postcards and in many books. It was too touristy for my tastes, especially when my private tour guide kept pointing me to the best photo places where I had a queue to take the same photo taken by millions.

Moi pole dancing in Essaouria

And so to Essaouria, by luxury four wheel drive, driven by Hussein, Alecia Cohen's fiance - the woman who organised this bead tour. I was last here twelve years ago, with my son Shaun, and always wanted to come back. D and I often talked about coming here to live for a while, so I was really happy to be heading out to the coast. The drive through dust and scrub and desert fringes with mud houses and turretted flat rooftops was painless as we talked beads and history most of the way. The scrub slowly turned to verdant green fields, splattered with poppies, and then the argan orchards (a popular Moroccan oil used for cooking and skin care) where, in season, the goats climb the trees to feed on the nuts. Off season now, tourists still stop for photo ops, helped by men who hoist the goats into the trees, where they stand a little bit dumbfounded as to why they've been plonked there when there are no nuts to be nibbled.

Luda does Essoauria

Then to blue and white Essouaria, ancient ocean ramparts and screaming gulls and our riad in the souk; my room high above the ocean, but close enough to smell the spray and feel the waves pounding on the rocks. We ate seafood on the promenade,, choose the fish and it's cooked and brought to the table. Then wandered the souks, searching for jewellery; I found a Berber husband who promised me a massage to remember as well as the gift of his favourite albino camel. A better off was that of a Tuareg husband who promised me a thousand camels, a hotel with 100 staff and I'd be his only wife if I promised never to eat couscous so I'd stay looking as shapely as a coca cola bottle rather than a 20litre tub of water.

A kiss is just a kiss

I bought some wonderful little pieces of silver, three very old silver beads, a heart of Essaouria pendant and some Star of the Desert silver pendants. It's difficult, with such a large selection of astounding pieces, to know which direction to start collecting. Fibulaes are representative of different regions: some are beautifully worked with filigree, others are quite primitive, many because of their age have been repaired: I found a very valuable one which could be older than 1830. No wonder I look happy! A little kiss like this significantly increases my liquidity in these regions ... and with a shirt off ... wow! A thousand camels can't pay for my worth.

The silver is very expensive, very collectible; I've always liked the fibulae, the "pin" that attaches a scarf, which have beautiful designs and shapes that represent the different areas they come from. They are more collectible in the pairs in which they come; many are beautifully worked. In a fibula shop the following morning, I found a few I liked, but a nod, a wink, a kiss on both cheeks and a promise of a kiss on the lips reduced the price, to Sarah's astonishment again, by half.

Walking from one "bijou" tiny shop to another, I was greeted and winked at, and propositioned every five seconds. My hand was grabbed, my palm was stroked, I was offered massages and undying fidelity, even though I suspected crossed fingers behind a back. A fabulously handsome Tuarag in a gorgeous blue turban and kaftan took my hand and led me into his shop, where a few other men and a western woman were sitting around a small fire of something cooking. They asked me to sit down. They were sexy and beautiful and edgy; music from Mali played while another man drummed.

Credit power to emerged goddess

A large African man leaning on cushions looked at me and said, spreading his arms wide "I will tie you up like a camel. Do you like to be hurt?" Sarah narrowed her eyes which meant, in any language, "get out of here as quickly as you can!". She told me later the group were stoned either on heroin or cocaine, certainly not something as lowbrow as hash. Apparently I owe her for rescuing me from certain misadventure. The following morning, I saw the gorgeous Tuareg again. He winked, and asked me if I slept well .. .sure, I replied, as soon as you'd climbed out the window! He liked that.

Our jewellery stash is increasing by the hour. We are getting informed by Sarah by the minute. My nose is alert for good pieces - my pheromones are out on the prowl to reduce those pieces to manageable currency. I'm working my magic ...

Kalim with Salim's dzi bead

The Travelling Bead has another incarnation! The Dzi from Kathmandu has been exchanged in Essoauria for two Venetian beads - one from the mid 1800's, the other around 1930, to Kalim, a Berber man in a tiny shop opposite the Riad Ramparts where we stayed. He held it to his heart and promised not to sell it.