Essays from Essaouira

An old fort on an island
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Exactly one month left on my scheduled time of six months.  I have been attempting to change my flight out of London to the 3rd but it appears to be impossible due to the way I bought the ticket.  So what to do?

When does the trail become a trial?

When the journey goes from being the most stimulating experience of a life and becomes a wearisome task.  The memorable events begin to blur like a windshield in a downpour.  Looking forlornly into the luggage at your accumulated wrinklewear.  Another hotel room to negotiate.  The play goes out of the play money of foreign currencies.

Teegar posing on the roof of my hotel
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Tomorrow the festival begins called Gnaoua.  This small town is filling with dreadheads of many nationalities.  I have befriended a woman named Tara who has lived in Oregon.  It is most interesting watching the attention a young attractive woman gets as she walks down the street.  Men call out "gorgeous" to her and eyes dart from her to me as the question of is she with me or available flits across their minds.

I have never been so profligate.  I travel from cafe to cafe.  Yesterday I ventured down the beach past the hoards of Moroccans in town from Marrakech and Casablanca for the weekend.  The beach extends miles until the crowd thins.  Horses for rent and camels to rent and dune buggies to rent and then fewer and fewer people till there is only me and the surf and much cleaner water.  It is impossible to swim with the currents coming in multiple directions but the air is hot and the dunes are fun to scamper upon.

Part of the city ramparts
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I am here with more time on my hands and have been focusing on the details of the place.  Catching up with calling friends and family.  I am having a great rest from moving every other day.