From the stone ramparts of the old medina
you can watch the waves crash against the rocky islands sitting just off shore.
In the maze of narrow alleyways within these walls it’s easy to feel lost, not
as one who can’t get home but as one who is so far away from anything
resembling home that home might as well not exist anymore.
 |
| That long and distant island running off to the left is (probably) the island of Mogador. |
The city sits halfway between the stately
and tempestuous Strait of Gibraltar and the sandy wasteland of as-Sahra al-Gharbiyah,
also known as Western Sahara. The walls can look as old as time itself, making
the colors of the carpets displayed on them seem incongruous, even impossible.
Half-ajar doors leading to dim rooms and hallways lend as much mystery as closed ones. There are cow’s brain
sandwiches for sale.
I arrived in Essaouira not knowing what to
expect. I left with what I take from most places I’ve ever visited: spontaneous
photos, fragmented memories, and, at best, a rudimentary understanding of what
I’d just seen.
Only now, over a decade later, as I
search for things to say about a few of my photographs of Essaouira, am I
understanding what I saw – and realizing what I missed.
