by Cindy Ruch
Essaouira is easy-going. “Maybe tomorrow”, it’s what the traders, waiters and cameleers say when we stop them with a wave of our hand because we are currently not interested, “maybe tomorrow”, we reply and smile to part with good intentions. Cats wander through the streets. One has four kitties, they are all lying with closed eyes inside a carton. Each time we pass them, there is a new cup of milk or a slice of pizza next to their home.
I am thinking about an alphabet of smells, cinnamon, charcoal, exhaust fumes to leather, oil and sugar but fail to identify and distinguish them. I should ask on each corner: What’s this smell? And one question would lead to another one, what is it, how do you make it, how do you eat it, where does it come from…
Instead, I go looking for the range of colours with my analogue camera while reading “Secret Son” by Laila Lalami on the roof top (salt), drinking tea (mint) and eating Couscous Seffa (cinnamon, sugar). Soon I am going to find another smell, another colour. Maybe tomorrow.
Cindy Ruch likes to tell stories of travels, places and books with words and (mostly analogue) photos. She lives in Berlin and works as a freelance travel writer and photographer, exploring far away semi-deserts and oceans, local bookstores and nearby lakes for online and print publications – and shares her favourite moments on her blog www.cakeandcamera.wordpress.com and Instagram @cindyruch.