Agadir is an historic town without history!

In 1960, the city was razed to the ground by an earthquake, killing in excess of 15,000 inhabitants. The decision to rebuild the town as a tourist package centre was taken, and that is Agadir today. But it is a package resort with a difference, because it has attempted to retain a Moroccan feel to it, and certainly once you move away from the tourist centre, you’ll be in the local’s living area. They are, sadly, a major contrast to the hotels and restaurants, and standards of living are poor. Despite that contrast, we never felt threatened here but were subjected, outside of the tourist centre, to insistent offers of help.

We’d been told that the old fishing port was well worth a visit, as we’d be able to watch the boats coming in and unloading. As this was likely one of the only distinctive features of Agadir, we decide to "go for it". It was a pleasant walk along the front towards the site of the old Medina. This is a hill overlooking the port, called the "Ancienne Talborjt", where the majority of those killed in the earthquake have been buried.

Approaching the fish market, we had to cross derelict land and were "caught up" by a Moroccan who wanted to chat and was "going to see a cousin in the fish market." We tried everything we could to shake this man off, but he clung to us like a rash. He wanted to take us "to the best restaurant" in town and introduce us as "new English friends" to his family. We knew that, unless we were rude, we’d lose this one, so we resigned ourselves to the inevitable; he would try to persuade us to eat at the restaurant (presumably he got a commission), and then he’d want a tip.

We were first taken to see the new catch, and our "guide" insisted that I take photos of him, my wife, and a fish. The variety of fish was interesting, and I guess we wouldn’t have made it to here without his direction.

Then we were led to the "best restaurant". The stench was atrocious, and the restaurant no more than a row of trellis tables with plastic garden chairs. There were flies by the thousand (perhaps I exaggerate a little!). We were introduced to "the cousin" and encouraged to choose our meal. Eating here, however, would have been impossible, as the reek was making us green around our gills. We bid our thanks and tried to make a hasty retreat, but our guide was not to be frustrated; if we weren’t going to eat, then he required a tip. I grabbed the few loose coins from my pocket and shoved them in his hand -- he looked down his nose and said, "I need more". I moved to repossess the small tip, but he disappeared, muttering Moroccan as he went to find his next, hopefully more lucrative, victim.

No, his mother is no longer alive. How old? No, he doesn’t know. In those days births weren’t registered.

’I don’t know either on what day I was born. I must be about 50.’

While talking he piloted us skilfully through slowly moving traffic, warns us not to step on fish heads and helps us disentangle from nets.

’I used to have a boat, I’m a fisherman. The engine is broken, I can’t go to sea any more.

Truth or ploy? We decide to follow him thus committing ourselves to giving him some money after this ‘guided tour’.

The port is lively and huge. A forklift truck loads carton boxes from a fishing boat on to a truck. Fish deepfrozen on board ship, ready for despatch to Spain and Europe.

‘Three million dirham (300,000 euro). That is the purchase price of this boat.’

The construction takes up one year. It begins as a tree trunk, the end product is this boat, all made by hand.

The commercial fish auction is in full swing. Tuna fish and sardines are not auctioned. They go straight to the factories. The north European consumer doesn’t know better: sardines and tuna fish come in cans.

‘Le Maitre Renard sur une arbre perche....’ recites on old berber who sells cigarettes per piece at half a dirham (5 euro cent).

‘He learned the fables in school. When Morocco was still a French protectorate’, explains our fisherman-cum-guide.

We buy cigarettes, but we don’t smoke. So we give them back to the old man, so that he can sell them again.

Our fisherman-cum-guide warmly shakes hands. The end of the tour? He doesn’t ask for money, .... yet. We don’t produce money, .... yet. He gets ready to leave. Turns to us: ‘Some money for food?’


All over Morocco crooks and friends will walk along with you, offering their service under the guise of friendship. They like to earn a few dirham.

Decide beforehand if you want to be ‘guided around’ or not. If you want to see things on your own clearly tell them.
I would advise you to have a ‘guided tour’ in the port of Agadir, it’s a huge place and your ‘friend’ knows the shortcuts.
The resort hotels sell this trip as excursion, you pay over the odds for it. And most importantly the money goes to some international hotel chain. Much better to do this on your own, at the same time you help your fisherman-cum-guide.


The fish market of Agadir has been turned into the surprise tourist attraction. The reason is simple enough: with the lack of typical tourist attractions in Agadir, all the tour operators throw in the fish market as an attraction. Impressed by its size and its vitality, the tour groupers take it in as a true gem. I must say it worth seeing but a true gem, I doubt it. Besides, in summer there are too many ‘tourist parties’ walking about to make it attractive for me.