Happy New Beard!

Essaouira, Morocco. Unlike the States - where the ringing in of the new year tends to involve a raucous party mixing equal parts alcohol and vomitus - New Year's is not a particularly important holiday in Morocco. In the quite seaside village of Essaouria, one could easily miss it. It is a beautiful town and my favorite so far. Surrounded by towering ramparts which abut a dramatic coastline, the medina is clean and spacious. The western shore is sandless; a heavily pitted, volcanic bedrock. Large, craggy specimens errupt straight from the sea, where waves explode upon their impenatrable bulk, sending geysers of foam and spray into the air. The eastern shore is no less dramatic, but in an entirely different manner. An endless beach arcs from the southern edge of the peninsula all the way around to the mainland, silky sand replacing hard earth. The sand was incredibly fine, like walking on flour. I was surprised when the cake I decided to make from it was gritty. In the distance sit several islands on which one can spy ancient ruins. Surfers, windboarders, and kayakers ply the deep blue water. Like I said, the place is a real shit-hole. At the southern edge sits the fishing fleet, where the fresh catch is brought in daily and displayed proudly on the docks; by which I mean the fish were laying either directly on the floor or in a rusty wheelbarrel. Still, the selection was good: stingrays, shark, squid, shrimp, and a variety of other seafood that starts with the letter S.


Every day we trolled the market looking for something new and interesting to eat. On New Year's Eve, we found a wonderful treat - a gargantuan, live spider crab. This collasal crustacean had a carapice that was roughly the size of my face and weighed in at approximately five pounds. When we first spotted him he was busy taking off the arm of a dockworker. After a bit of haggling, in which we successfully argued that something so ugly shouldn't cost much, we managed to secure the operating rights for only 40dh - in more colloquial terms, the price of a Big Mac Meal Deal. One of the most enjoyable aspects of Essaouira is that you can not only get fresh seafood straight from the dock, but they will cook it for you as well. Inside the medina is a central fish market with a small grilling station in the back. Bring over anything you can find and they will gut it, scale it, broil, bake, or fry it for a couple of bucks. Such was the fate of our newfound travelling companion, who, although not much of a conversationalist, was definitely somewhat of a chick-magnet. We sat patiently while he boiled, munching on some bread, till he emerged from his lethal stew, aromatically steaming. Part of our fee goes towards the presentable plating of our meal, so the cook set about carefully dismantling him. The shell of this mammoth crab, both spiny and sharp, presented a problem for the cook, who could not seem to break it by hand. Far be it from me to criticize the use of certain cooking utensils - for I am neither baker nor chef - but I was a bit surprised when he pulled a large, greasy crescent wrench from under the counter and began to bash upon the crab with such force that bits of shell and flesh flew across the room with each swing. Sundered and undone, the crab was delivered on several plates. It was the best piece of shellfish I had ever had the pleasure to dine on, and a fitting meal with which to end the year.



Over the past few weeks, as we explored various cities, we have often heard a tout cry out to us, "Ali Baba!". This would be often be accompanied by a stroke of the chin and a nod at my heavily bearded face. On rare occaisions someone would pass by and exclaim: "Bin Laden!". Though it's true that Bin Laden is actually a distant cousin of mine - thrice removed on my father's side - I hardly think I look like him. Besides, I liked my beard, and after a few months of untamed growth several species of birds had taken up permanent residence. Still, maybe it was time for a trim - though I was going to miss having fresh eggs for breakfast. I picked a salon that looked suitablely clean and sat down. The barber was friendly and spoke a bit of English, which was nice. I carefully explained that I just wanted a quick trim. "No problem", came the heavily accented reply. On the counter was a tape deck, which he popped open. Three cockroaches quickly scuttled out of the tape slot and vanished beneath the counter. The barber laughed heartily. "They live there", he said as he popped some Bob Marley into the deck. God knows how many critters got ground up in the spindles when he hit the play button. He plugged in his electric razor, snapped on the plastic attachment, and took a quick pass across my face. Along the razor's path my beard had been brought low, like a thresher through a field of wheat. Where once stood a proud four inches now meekly lay no more than half an inch. "Is good, yes?" queried the barber, pausing to point to the cut he had made. I nodded yes, for it was too late to go back. Satisfied with the shearing, the barber set his sights on the rest of my head. My hair, also uncut for several months, now looked ridiculously long. I decided to allow him to trim that as well. As he started on my head, a man brought in two cups of tea. It is incredibly difficult to drink a cup of hot tea while in the midst of a haircut; you need to avoid getting sliced when you tilt your head to drink and you are constantly moving your hand around to avoid having hair fall into your cup. With a bit of luck I managed to avoid both. When he finished I looked in the mirror and saw a shorn sheep, naked and cold.



With a signficantly lighter head we headed to the Ville Nouvelle (new town) to check out a mythical story we had heard whispered about - the town had a liquor store. As I've mentioned in the past, this is a very dry country; mostly due to a strong Islamic presence which forbids the imbibing of alcohol. However, one might have noticed - perhaps from the name of the Web site - that I am Jewish, a religion that actually enourages us to get drunk. It being New Years, it seemed a good idea to get as drunk as humanly possible and generally reinforce every negative stereotype people have about us. As it turned out, the store was real, though their stock was limited to a few simple items: wine, beer, gin, and vodka. I'm not sure exactly what one can concoct with such liquors, but it would no doubt go well with a bowl of salted peanuts.



As the New Year approached we ran to the top of the ramparts, where powerful canons once used to defend this strategic port now rust, forever pointing to sea. With us was a Indian couple, and a Moroccan man we had met. We drank vodka and wine; we sang songs in Hindi, Arabic, and English; we clapped our hands to the beat; we toasted the new year and everyone in it; we stared at the sea and the stars; we got horribly drunk and urinated off the edge of the ramparts; we stumbled home without injury. New year, new look, why not?