Agadir, the Saint-Tropez of Morocco

Morocco is in a festive mood. Just before our arrival, the Atlas Lions qualified for the World Cup in Russia, at the expense of Marc Wilmots’ Ivory Coast, and it shows. Even days after the feat, men crowd in tea houses in Agadir to look at the decisive goals of Nabil Dirar and Mehdi Benatia from every possible camera angle, to watch replays of the exuberant celebrations and to listen to endless analyses. It colours our first days on African soil. Not that there’s a lack of colour.

Agadir may be known as the Saint-Tropez of Morocco, but we’re staying in an Airbnb near the souk, the local market, and the surrounding working-class neighbourhood contains enough local atmosphere to satisfy us. Old gentlemen trudge around in brown hooded robes, armed soldiers guard the market building and traffic is crazy. Not as crazy as in Asia, but crossing a street nevertheless feels like a suicide mission. Cargo motorbikes and rickety orange petit taxis zoom by on all sides. There are many white Renault 4s and old Peugeot motorbikes, the type of moped that was especially popular among Belgians who listened to hardstyle. Ramshackle is the keyword. The sunshades of cars are often home-made from cardboard, the pavements are uneven and contain potholes, and empty water bottles, packaging and cigarettes are lying around everywhere.

Germans in Bermuda

Alright, but wasn’t Agadir the Saint-Tropez of Morocco? Yes, the view of the city changes completely when you get near the Atlantic Ocean. A nine-kilometre beach with a wide pedestrian boulevard next to it, surrounded by flower pots and palm trees, white luxury hotels with swimming pools, expensive restaurants, casino’s and discotheques: it’s a different world. Agadir is the resort capital of Morocco, but leaves no doubt about its values: “Allah, king, country” is written in giant letters on the flanks of the hill with the remains of the kasbah, clearly visible from the beach. Although the inhabitants of Agadir may be happy to turn a blind eye in exchange for enough dirhams.

Do not think that devout Muslim women throw off their headscarf ritually and run to the beach for a topless tanning session, but still: the morals are slightly lighter around the beach compared to the rest of the city, and – by extension – most of the rest of the country. Agadir tolerates Germans in Bermuda shorts and damsels in two-piece bikinis. Some restaurants sell alcohol fairly openly. We read on the internet that Moroccan tourists come to Agadir for everything they can’t or dare not do in their hometown. Think: drinking, smoking, partying and shagging. We did not notice that, although couples are perhaps sitting closer together than usual.

Annoying flies

Every Moroccan tries to sell you something. It starts at the airport, with taxi rides to the city centre. No matter how determined you are to take the bus, cars keep halting at the bus stop and will automatically lower their prices — until the minimal extra charge of a taxi barely outweighs the inconvenience of a local bus. On the beach and on the promenade, hawkers sell mint tea and coffee, fruits, doughnuts, surf lessons, jewellery, amethysts and other hollowed glittering stones, T-shirts and balloons. Some of the vendors are stubborn – like an annoying fly that keeps coming back after you’ve swiped it. Most are respectful and remain friendly, one throws an Arab curse at us.

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On our first afternoon in Agadir, we walk towards the beach when a man named Ibrahim starts a chat. He is Berber and walks with us in the direction of the Berber souk, the market where he sells spices. Agadir is the capital of the Moroccan Berbers, the original inhabitants of North Africa.

“It’s socially appropriate for Berbers to marry at the age of 20”, he says, “At 37, I’ve been married for almost 20 years now. When my parents thought it was ready, they went into the Sahara to find a wife for me.”

“And, did they choose well?” I ask.

Ibrahim shrugs his shoulders. “Bof, I’ve had my problems. But so do men who can choose for themselves. I have my tactics of dealing with it. Whenever my wife bursts into tears, I’ll leave her alone. By the time I return in the evening, the situation has usually cooled without blowing.”

Ibrahim points out the difference between Moroccan and Belgian Moroccans. “Here, we are much more relaxed, calm and open to foreigners. The Moroccans over there are much more competitive. Of course, they all compete for the same jobs.” After which he kindly invites us to come and drink tea at his home. Anete’s face, however, is a thundercloud. She wants to go to the beach straight away. To maintain the peace in the household, I reject the man’s offer. Only afterwards do I learn that it is considered very rude to say no to an offer of tea.

Moroccan whisky

It is a missed opportunity to learn more about the tea culture in this country. The rituals are so extensive that beginners need a manual to avoid mistakes. If you order tea in the south, you will receive a metal saucer with a small silver kettle with green tea. You’ll also get two glasses – one with a bunch of fresh mint in it, the other turned over – and one or more bricks of sugar. You can take that literally, they’re huge lumps of sugar.

You have to put the mint in the kettle, grind it well with a brick of sugar and then pour the tea, letting it drop into the glass from a height. Then you pour the tea back into the kettle. Repeat the procedure about three times, to mix the sugar well. There you go, you are a Moroccan tea master. Mint tea holds a central place in the life of Moroccans. They even call it Moroccan whisky. Wherever you go, you see men – only men – sitting in tea houses, tables facing the street. Usually, you don’t see women.

Rock the Casbah

We start our trip through Morocco in Agadir for a reason. Agadir is famous for its intense sun, 300 days a year. It’s a matter of resupplying the vitamin D deficiency we gained in Estonia. But Agadir is more than just the beach. After a swim, we run up the mountain that towers above the city, over a gravel path among arid bushes, trees and cacti, in a hurry to reach the kasbah in time to enjoy the views of the marina and the fish harbour, and the sunset which colours the rugged landscape in pastel pink hues.

And, just because we can:

Life on the rhythm of a city like Agadir certainly has its peculiarities, which tickle the imagination of the traveller. The garlic sellers who trade their wares on terraces. The shoe polishers who go around with a wooden bench on which they brush up the footwear of anyone who requests it. Just like in the black and white films. The garbage collectors that pull out with horse and cart after dark. But Agadir is also a new city. An earthquake destroyed the old version in the 1960s and killed a third of its inhabitants. We will only fully realise this later during this trip, when we visit other parts of Morocco, like Marrakesh. But about that, dear reader, you will hear everything in the next part.

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First published in Dutch on Tom’s blog.