The World's Greatest Dive Bar

by Timothy Vetter (United States of America)

Making a local connection Morocco

I often read of the haunts where my heroes spent their time. The places where artists and outcasts chipped away their late night hours. My fascination with these places must have started in my teen years going to see punk rock bands in the city. These spaces weren’t perfect, they definitely weren’t polished or pretty, but neither were we, and they belonged to us. It may seem surprising to you, and remains surprising even to myself, that for me, the world’s greatest dive exists in the coastal, calm, seaside town of Essaouira on Morocco’s West coast. On our second night in Essaouira, we wanted to have a snack and a drink on our hostel’s rooftop. The moon had a hazy glow which illuminated the alleyways of the medina. After asking around, we were told there was a place that would allow us to have takeaway drinks. A place called The Hole. We end up down a a ride road in the Medina. A man with a wiry mustached a white buttoned shirt slowly creeps past on a rusty creaking bicycle. “What are you looking for” he asks. “Do you know a place called the “Hole?” - He smiles and replies “Yes, follow me” We follow him around a left turn down an alley way in the maze-like medina. He stops at a doorway which is an actual hole in the wall of the medina. We are greeted by the bar’s bouncer. His torso is squeezed into his buttoned up oxford. The long sleeve shirt is tucked into his khaki pants. His broad shoulders and thick biceps bulge to the point that he looks like an extra large tube of tooth paste squeezed into a travel sized miniature. A scar runs from his right eye to his ear. “Yes?” he questions as we arrive. “Uh, we’ve like to go inside for a drink.” He smiles warmly now and asks “Here?” Yea, this is the Hole, right?” “Yes, come on in.” He leads us to a small empty table towards the back of the bar. “If you need anything, just let me know.” Once he leaves, all eyes in the Hole fall upon the two strangers from America. For the majority of our stay, Les is the only woman here and she garners much attention. People are sitting in homogenous groupings around tables. The room has a constant fog of cigarettes smoke as someone lights up at every table. There is the old stale beer smell as the walls, chairs, table, and floor have absorbed thousands of spills over the years. There is a table of guitar playing hippies, white expats with twisted dreadlocks and sandals on their feet. There is a group of men directly to our right, smoking shisha and staying at us, wearing the bright colors of West African flags. Eventually a woman arrives with a buzzed head, talking to a group of men who look like every undercover CIA agent that’s ever appeared in a Hollywood movie. Our bouncer friend brings us popcorn while we chat with our British expat friend. There’s a point when a man in a tan blazer and a teal cap is too far gone. His eyes are closing but he’s staggering about, yelling at no one and everyone all at once. He’s furious at the spirits in the walls or just hitting the peak of madness. A few of his friends try to calm him down while our friend with the purple cap flashes us yet another thumbs up and mumbles some incoherent words. As the hour hand moves back past 12, towards 1 and then 2, on the lone analog clock in the joint, the air becomes a bit more tense. Our expat friend who up to this point had been mild mannered, begins to spat out some racist thoughts, making us a bit uncomfortable. Its at this time we figure, its’ best to leave now, or else we will be telling an entirely new tale about the Hole. We walk out of the Hole, leaving the light of the doorway into the dark alleyway and into the relatively cool breeze of an Essaouira night.