Can't beat the rhythm

On my first trip to Morocco my slightly infatuating guide recommended the Gnaoua and World Music Festival in the small seaside town of Essaouira. I was convinced and in June I found myself squeezed into a rusty bus with less leg room than a domestic Jet Star flight travelling from Marrakesh to the coast. Luckily I didn’t have a lot of hand luggage.
In Essaouira everything seems to move to its own beat. From the men unloading the fishing boats, rhythmically tossing the fish up the line to the crates, to the women kneading and slapping the bread that will be cooked to go with what seems like every meal here in Morocco. Never more so is the presence of rhythm as prominent as when the estimated 200,000 gathered to witness ancient and modern sounds combine in the 3-day Music festival. There were several stages set up around the town. Some were in open areas on the edge of the town where families could bring their children and enjoy the music while the little ones danced their awkward dance with the drums. Two stages were at the end of dark alleys with room for no more than 50 people, all under the age of 21, and where you were constantly offered a ‘special cigarette’. At night the beach stage came alive where the techo-style music made you dance so hard the sand sunk beneath your feet till you found you had danced yourself into a small hole. At night the main stage, in the city square, was so packed you couldn’t dance, just move in time with the crowd as it swayed around you.
The highlight was an evening performance by a lesser known group of traditional musicians. The average age of the seven mean looked to be 93, though it is hard to tell as time had left its mark on body and soul. The crowd gathered looked to be mostly their friends and family, as obvious foreigners we gained our own form of attention. As the men picked up their wooden instruments and began to play it is easy to understand how it can act as a form of hypnosis in traditional practices. It is impossible not to clap and move along with the hollow sounding drums and ethereal tunes played on the flute like instruments. Sensing our enjoyment the ten or so children formed a circle with us at the centre encouraging us to dance as they joined hands and skipped a ring around us. Unaccomplished dancers to say the least we somehow managed to put together a routine including a few twirls and dips much to their delight. It was the sort of thing you see manufactured to attract tourists on adverts, but for us that was Essaorira.