Ports ofThe Spiral Sea

An Idea Exchange Vehiclefor Contagious Concepts

Vol 1 No 1

August 2001

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San Sebastian

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On My Way To Essaouira

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On My Way to Essaouira... I arrive in paradise - San Sebastian, in the Basque el norte Region of Spain. The travel books are right. At first glance I knew I was going to love this place. The city cradles the Bay of Biscay with miles of tapered, silvery beaches struggling against encroachment by the craggy Highlands - descendants of the might of the Pyranee's.

At the end of a long day of travel, I am walking alone along the beach, listening to the intensity of the waves churning just below the surface, building strength to crash in a crescendo, an aquatic aria, as the spirit of the Basque nature flows before me.

My ultimate destination is still a Mediterranean crossing ahead of me: Africa -- for the third time -- from Morocco in the north to South Africa and all parts in between. I began the trek fully a month ago, from Toronto, staying in London with friends met during my last visit, to Amsterdam, Paris and Bordeaux. But this welcome break in my cross-Europe progress, is a back-packers' dream. I absorb its beauty and tranquility, knowing there are many challenges ahead where such comfort may be hard to come by.

I am in San Sebastian with my friend Pat, a neophyte traveler, intending to travel with me until her funds run out. We started this journey together, and so far she seems to have dealt reasonably well with the peculiarly chaotic living style of a North American nomad.

Evening is coming on. The sun is behind a bank of clouds on the sea horizon, but there is plenty of blue overhead. Hiking up precarious laneways from the beach, Playa de la Concha, I discover narrow cobblestone streets, curving past white stucco houses whose little ironwork balconies are black lace mantillas burgeoning with flowers, to an open marketplace. My walking shoes plop too loud in the quiet evening calm, like construction boots at a dance, over charming avenues that meander throughout the city. Here, the way is edged by houses quaint with time-worn edifices, curved terra cotta roofs, and weather-stained, warped wooden shutters and fences.

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Suddenly the sound of my boots is overpowered by church bells positively shouting with joy at the top of the hour. Nearing the origin of the musical bell-tones, a magnificent bell tower of a Gothic-inspired Church emerges to view, still shuddering from its last report.

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I feel safe here, walking between ornate cast iron streetlamps standing guard, sentries surrounding a castle. The receding line of their blazes guides me on through the city as evening descends, to the brilliant night life of San Sebastian, replete with clubs, dancing, flamenco music and great national wines.

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Although urban San Sebastian is a large, modern city, the old quarter, on the southwestern edge where we are staying, has changed little since pre-War days, save for the occasional face lifts required by any aging dowager. In fact, there are few cities in the world that enjoy such an idyllic setting as San Sebastian; the picturesque oceanic scenery, the cobblestone boardwalk on the beach accenting extraordinarily green cliffs, and splendid red-roofed Moorish and Spanish baroque architecture on the heights.

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Our accommodation is simple - pensíon Amaiur - a downtown rooming house, somehow charming and romantic, a tiny room furnished in the manner of the best European hotels with bright hand made quilts over crisp white sheets. The balcony, hanging like a wrought-iron tear drop from our room on the second floor, overlooks the local square, teeming with people shopping or meeting for caffé con leche. Men wear berets, like we would wear our baseball caps, and sit in courtyards surrounded by lemon and rosemary-scented gardens, playing games or discussing politics.

Our sojourn here is to be brief, but we take maximum advantage of the gastronomic delights, which are substantial. While walking the cobblestones, mingling with the locals, Pat and I enjoy leisurely lunches of marinated topas of anchovies and chocolate con y churros . The churros are deep-fried fingerlike donuts sprinkled with sugar. These tasty tidbits are dipped into an accompanying cup of hot, melted chocolate. -- A tip: try not to scream as you have your orgasm. (You're supposed to drink the remaining chocolate, but for those who aren't accustomed to its richness, it could be dangerous!)

On a second evening, we grab snacks and cañas (beer) along the beach and make an evening of dinner with delicacies of the sea, cooked and served with rice and spices (paella), accompanied by locally produced Rhoja wine.

The warmth of the people is immense and contagious. One delightful midnight eve our balcony opened upon a group of people coming out of a bar, arm in arm, singing. They stopped in front of the church beside the pensíon and lustily thrust their songs to its darkened tower and the stars beyond. It was beautiful, heartfelt and joyous.

And for exercise? I chose a high aerobic tour, promising the opportunity to photograph magnificent sights of sea and surrounding countryside from the vantage point of San Sebastian's 16th Century fortess, La Mota. The fortress, surrounding a towering monument to Christ, once built to withstand Napoleon's marauding forces, is now a combination naval museum and religious site.
		But first I had to climb the steep, remarkable stone stairway, ascending the hillside between ancient walls and beneath arches. The walled path to the heights was built to shield defending fusileers. Its twisting ascent is lined with ramparts whose bronze cannons, dated to the 1500's, are still poised against attack.
Finally, like dessert after a hearty meal, I reach a small chapel, the Cappella di Santo Cristo. I took almost two rolls of film atop Mount Urgull because everything in its own little microcosm was spectacular; more arches and steep staircases, wrought iron bars and railings that never seemed to end.
		The exquisite marble statue of Jesus stands in the open air, his head sixty feet above the parapet pedestal, hand raised in blessing to returning sailors and countrymen--and now to modern day wanderers whose many footsteps have worn hollows into the chapel's stone-paved floor. With lights illuminating it at night, it is a stunning sight, visible far out to sea.

The next evening, a serendipitous event followed a knock on our door by the pensíon owner announcing a visitor - a fellow traveler, from southern Spain, whom I had tried to help to find a hotel earlier in the week. He remembered my hotel, and dropped by to ask if I wanted to go explore the city and have some food and drink. So off we went, Pat and I and our new acquaintance, Juan Pedro, to Garagar Cerveceria for a beer, where we met his friends and tried to converse using bits of the three or four languages we all spoke. Three more travelers, two Italians and an Austrian, soon joined us. We danced to wonderful Spanish-Latino music, then moved on to La Museo del Whiskey (the Whiskey Museum). We watched a man singing with his own hands behind his back while a man behind him put his arms through and did all the hand gestures. It was hilarious! And finally we walked to the water, sat on a pier and listened to the tide rolling in. We watched the tiny white caps break while discussing rock groups and movies - topics easily relayed with our mosiac of languages. Traveling and staying in one destination briefly, only allows fleeting relationships with new acquaintances. We walked back to our hotel knowing we would remember this lovely evening even though we would not likely meet these people again.

Saturday, my last night in Basque country, I stay in to read while out on the streets festivities are tumultuous. A tent in the square houses musicians playing lively, upbeat music all night long, at least until midnight when I could hear bottles breaking, bottle after bottle smashing on the street. Hundreds of bottles! It lasted until about 3:00 am, then the sound of the garbage trucks cleaning up all the broken glass was clear as a bell. We left Sunday morning at 11:30, saying goodbye to Juanita, the pension owner's wife, and the Pensíon Amaiur (a place I've grown to love), stored our packs and did some final sightseeing. Hunger strikers protesting the incarceration of political prisoners sit in front of the Santa Maria Basilica. Their plight struck a chord in me. No matter how beautiful and peaceful a place may seem, you can be sure that there are problems just like the rest of the world. There is no heaven on earth just small portions scattered here and there.

Africa continued to call to me and rather than delay that portion of my year abroad, Pat and I left San Sebastian.

The transition from San Sebastian to Essaouira is vast, not only in distance, passport stamps, and modes of transportation - bus, train, ferry, good old shoe leather and waiting, waiting, waiting - but psychologically. We took a train to Madrid, then to Granada and Algeciras, a ferry to Tangier, train to Marrakech and finally a bus (complete with extra holes in the floor to get a closer view of the country-side) to Essaouira. We couldn't get a taxi at the bus station so an enterprising young man who had a makeshift wheelbarrow put our backpacks in and walked us to our hotel for 20 dirham (about $2 US). Add wheelbarrow to the list of transportation services!

Essaouira is a lazy, little fishing village and I'm happy to be near the sea again.

Psychologically, there is a difference in the way Pat and I are treated without a man present. The 2nd class thing is more obvious and the men stare at us, unsure of what to make of two women traveling without a man. The young men are more forward, trying to chat us up and inviting us to their home for tea (or so they say). In Marrakech we spent time with a group of fellow travelers we met on the train from Tangier - welcome protection.

Our accommodation is cheap (discounted perhaps, because the communal bathroom is at the other end of the hall) but extremely colorful - a second-floor room at the end of a dark, spooky hallway with a big, blue shuttered window leading to the roof of the café below. The window looks out onto the plaza and to the right you can see the square and the harbor's wall, the waves crashing into the rocks during high tide, hurling spray into the wind.

Strolling along the docks, we watch small, weathered fishing craft being built or repaired in dry dock. Stalls line both sides of the road with the morning's catch being barbecued and sold right there on the pier, hot and delicious. The sounds cascade over us: birds chirping so loud that it sometimes distracts me from our conversation; the constant splash of the ocean and banging boats against the docks; the mournful minaret calling for afternoon prayer, its loudspeakers pointing in all directions to be sure you'll hear, and the distant marketplace hum of anxious entrepreneurs. The sense of family is strong here. It's not unusual to see two adult brothers walking hand in hand or arm in arm.

This experience is in counterpoint to our stay in Marrakech, larger and more aggressive in its approach to tourists and tourist dollars. We spent days bartering for goods there in the medina filled with stalls selling everything from leather and ceramic goods, polished wood hairpieces and combs, hand-woven rugs to caftans. So much to see and experience; women hidden from crown to ground in traditional Muslim black galibayya - donkey carts carrying fertilizer to fruits and herbs and carefree young men in jeans and tee's on their motor scooters racing between the stalls and shoppers, creating mayhem. Scattered amongst all this were snake charmers, trained monkeys, jugglers and acrobats, shoe shine boys, lots of orange juice stalls lined up along the entire length of the plaza, great little restaurants and -- oh yes, public washrooms-- an exclosure with a hole, two spots to place your feet and no toilet paper,

Marrakech, like most major cities in any country, is host to its share of more unfortunate people. Around the perimeter of the souq we witnessed beggars with horrific afflictions-- missing limbs, blindness, deformities-- but the worst heart-breaker was the children, begging, racing after you and grabbing your hands, smiling with their toothless mouths, then taking the money back to their guardians. In a land of grand contrasts, the beggars represent the bottom of the pyramid of great wealth and abominable poverty.

In counterpoint, in Essaouira, where the contrasts in economics and social differences are relaxed, we recuperate from the fast-paced, hectic and tiring travels across the Mahgreb. We bus ten kilometers south to Kaouki Beach, with sand as vast as the Sahara, for an afternoon picnic on the beach with locals working at our hotel, Zack and Brahem. They graciously supply our lunch of fish, bread and olives, which we munched on while talking about our favorite movies and actors. Brahem sang, in his warm and melodic voice, an Arabic song and a couple of Queen tunes, too.

Each city Pat and I have visited grandly displays its own charm, ambiance, attraction, each as powerful and enjoyable as the other. As for Essaouira - I really love this city! Now we're off doing what backpackers do best - trying find a reasonably priced mode of transportation which will allow us to visually experience our journey to Alexandria, Egypt - without going through Libya or Algeria. Alexandria is another sea port, we're anxious to see what it has to offer us or, better still, we to offer it!