3~Magical Moroccan Memories

Guttural Arabic and Berber sit in contrast alongside the flowery French; the Moroccans we meet appear to seamlessly move between languages. They sound so different, are so different. I find familiarity in spatterings and snippets in the flow and song of French and find myself getting lost in the animated, passionate, almost aggressive sounding Arabic. Fascinating to listen to, to observe. Then the change to French or English, or a great smile, a belly laugh and the suspected aggression was really just that- a trick of the ear. Manners and the polite nature of the people here stands out: a shy ‘Bonjour’ from children as we scramble down the cliff to the beach (a rather chivalrous Attention’ and a hand offered from a teenage boy who witnessed me lose my footing as I was distracted by the early morning sky), a gentle smile and similar greeting from the ladies we pass in the village.

So we leave this precious gem of a place, my sister and I, a lovely taxi ride to the airport full of chats and Moroccan scenery to drink up and absorb for one last time. I begin to pull out the diary as the plane too begins to set off. I try to find words to express my time here, with my sister, old friends and new, the ocean and the desert. The view from my seat is quite spectacular. Snow covered peaks of the Atlas Mountains sit relaxed, surveying the desert. The white of the snow is reflected in the still, scattered cloud. Colours of this North African country are quite unlike any I have seen. Nothing glares, nothing is harsh. Colours blend, merge, relax and are subdued. In this merging and togetherness, this is where the pastel colours find their vibrancy and hum. Morocco is gentle and vibrant, it is well-balanced and magically resonates between these oppositions.

Every sunset and sunrise here has been a quiet joy. Warm tones and gentle hues, peaches and pastels; the sun crept up behind the hills of Tamraght each day. Long shadows were cast across the coast and cliff face and then come evening the sun bowed out in subtle magical grace, finding rest and tucking itself nice and early (it is winter here, albeit warm enough for our bikinis!) in to the bed of the beautiful Atlantic ocean. To capitalise on these precious moments of the Moroccan day, some early morning runs and daily sunset yoga were the perfect way to structure the days (oops, forgot our daily surf sessions, under the watchful and bemused eye of our amazingly awesome teacher, Zak).  As I ran on the beach, the warmth and glow of the sun on my back, it was great to be greeted by the other early morning risers, they too appreciating these moments of the day. I am comforted that others too bask in the morning sunrise; the moment when the sun presents itself steadily and stoic, beyond the Tamraght hills and above the desert lands. Local people from the village, women in their headscarves, some with their girlfriends, families or in a couple with their husbands, all starting the day with a blast on the beach. Other runners are few and far between. A western girl I see running one morning (clocked the hot pink trainers) and a friendly dog who decides to take up the sport for about 2 km, proving to be my perfect running buddy: no talking, keeping up and giving me the occasional encouraging sideways glance with a cutsie doggie grin. I get a thumbs-up from one man, an encouraging cheer from another and victory arms from an elderly man at the final slog back to the village. I like this! I was nervous to run in place where men stare and comment. Sally, a fellow runner, later tells me that she was preparing herself for some sleazy comments as she too passed some local men on the beach, but as she ran by she received the thumbs up and a heart shape constructed in front of the guys heart. Super sweet.

So, although we were flummoxed when we arrived by the attention we drew: tooting of horns, comments coming at us from left and right, behind and in front, I feel that the assimilation process and finding a home in the hum, the magical vibrations of this new land has come fairly quickly. Steph reminds me that the first day in a foreign land is much like this. You end up walking way too far in an effort to feed yourself and get the lay of the land;an alien, a foreigner not yet blended or resonating with the colours of this new world. And hell, my sister was nervous to leave the villa that first night! My sister! Big Bad Steph Wolff! Fiercely protective and like I said to her- how can you be nervous to go out and I am not? You, you’re not scared of anything. She stood up to the boys that made fun of the streamers on my banana seat bike while I retreated in embarrassment; she dared to enter an unknown building at the age of 6 and get help for her little sis, who had a meltdown when she climbed too far on the monkey bars and was frozen in terror (it was moving day and in a new Canadian neighbourhood, our house was now beside a great playground- a playground to the local school); she who jumped on a train, without a thought, to rescue her heartbroken sister at the age of 27. So if my sister is nervous to head out in the dark over the rocky path, then I guess it really must be somewhat treacherous! In her defence we did have a bit of a crash landing here- arriving cashless (exchanges apparently cannot get hold of Moroccan dirham), scared of surfing, unsure of social etiquette, a long dusty and hot walk to Banana Village via the roadside and following a scramble down the cliff face. Paths seem to only appear with faith, as you put one foot forward, more was revealed, zig-zagging necessary to cope with the steepness.

Feeling like an alien, an intruder to this place, dissipated the next day. I daresay this sense was battered away by waves in the ocean and the hammering our bodies and egos received as we took to our wetsuits, boards and the ocean. What was I doing? I enjoy the occasional frolic in gentle, warm waters, can swim pretty well but hate changing at the pool, get a little irritated by sand, tangled sea hair and worry about contact lenses being lost. Jones had tried to educate me in how to deal with the choppy waves of Koh Lanta. Remembering his words and battle like stance, I tried to stand my ground and face the waters head on.

Although I can never envisage myself ‘shredding’(surfer lingo for catching and riding lots of great waves), I was fascinated by the surfing bubble:the understanding and reading of the ocean; driving out to potential surf spots, surveying the water and its movements. Paddling out on your board and waiting. And it seems to me, from my Princess bubble, that those surfers out there exercise a lot of patience (or not- Sally tells us about someone slugging her friend out in the water because he felt he had jumped in on his wave!). So unless you are shredding, there is a lot of waiting. Waiting for the right wave (in the white waters Steph and I apparently made a lot of bad choices), waiting for your turn ( a queuing system that some may not always adhere too). Steph and I remained quite happily in the white waters, waist depth and far away from the politics of the real surfers. We certainly got bashed and battered, dunked and dragged predominantly in the learning process but every now and then, momentarily glimpsing a glory moment- standing and riding. Connected. In the moment. Blissful. Like a yoga posture. A well-executed asana. Feeling at home in a down dog. When the periphery melts away and you are both completely solid but also incredibly light and free. Blissful. So holding onto this and then beachside, watching the real surfers in their sport, the elegance and the dance they perform became mesmerizing. A whole new poetry. Verses and lines, words scattered and gathered in the ocean.

 

Zak was awesome. Encouraging (he was so chuffed when we did well, big grins and thumbs up and maybe even a little surfer signal with his hands) and challenging- he knew how to push my buttons. Exasperated that on day 4 we appeared to be going backwards, he called me a lazy girl and the very next wave he pushed me into I stood and rode all the way into the beach. While we lay soaking up the sun on the beach, from nowhere, Zak appeared and barked, ‘Girls! Wetsuits on! We surf! Now!’Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, the ever teacher pleaser in me was straight to attention. So was the rebel Steph- two very different students but he had us eating out of his hand and ready to go!

 

Having such a great teacher, my sister by my side, a gentleman in skilled surfer Pat and encouraged from the beach by his fiancée Carla and Zak’s surfer girlfriend Nic, made the experience fun. This fun element really only consumed the experience on Day 3 when Zak sent us out into the water teacher-less. But who is going to push us into the waves? Cue Zak’s infectious laugh and, ‘Well, if you are in Bali surfing, I will not be there to push you in, will I?’ We were pretty terrible without him and I began to contemplate sending him a ticket to accompany me wherever may be my next attempt at surfing. With every failed attempt, we dragged our boards back into the ocean. Desperate not to fail and disappoint. I thought of how when I teach you really do just want children to do their very best and be happy. Do you know? We kinda did. We were both smiling and laughing, picking ourselves up and heading back out (I think at one point Zak was sat watching with his head in his hands, so Steph told me). We did not stop smiling and looking at the photos that Nic took at Tifnit beach, I noted in every one, I am smiling. Later, Steph told me that during our yoga practice she cried during savasana. Thinking of how she would miss me on her travels and how she would never forget that hour in the ocean: just two sisters, my big grin and hair in braids, looking to her exactly as I had when I was 5.

So will I surf again? I am going to give it a bash? Surfer chicks are pretty hot, strong and cool - the gorgeous Nic and Sally and their crew of girls. So why not? ‘Why not’ were the words on which we booked this type of trip anyway!

 

Surfing and yoga were all in the plan. Morocco as a country was calling to me. The magical hum and resonance was unanticipated and is difficult to capture in words. The warmth of the winter days, the pastel skies and desert lands, the call of the daily prayer, the blanket of stars woven into the panoramic night sky, simple block buildings staggered, standing and nestled into the mountainous backdrop, an endless glistening ocean, the strength, manners and gentleness in the people around. This hum and magical feeling permeated our trip and was heightened by mornings in the ocean and evenings on our yoga mat. We were connected to the elements and floating freely in them too.

I knew I had to come here and Sally was a pull. She was an influence, a trigger and inspiration in changing my life. A force, amongst so many others. Her yoga teaching was a gem: spiritual, humorous and intuitive. We rocked camel asana as it was not only culturally obligatory but also a great heart opener and Sally focused each session around themes: taking risks, surrendering, being in the moment… Our first moments in the yoga room, a cool tiled floor and a view from the windows that looked over the cliff top to the ocean and beyond, Sally took us in what felt to me, like a zoom in and out of a Google Earth Map. She told us to zoom out to look at the world as an observer of mother earth and then come back in to the continent of Africa, zooming once again to the country of Morocco and then to the village of Tamraght and finally to our bodies, in this room, on our yoga mats. Beautiful sunset yoga sessions, with Princess Warrior Teacher and Guide Sally, peaceful and kind Nic, my sister and Carla too. I will not forget Sally’s closing words each day- when we take the time to thank our bodies and breath for serving us so well. Lovely.

 

We took our yogi spiritual journey one step further. An invite from Nic and Sally to join their girly crew in a chanting and meditation evening was too good to refuse! Like when Sally was told by our host that in the chanting we could freestyle and go with our feelings, she rubbed her hands together with an oh goody, bring it on! Steph and I were like that about this serendipitous invitation. The New Moon brings a Hindu tradition of chanting to the god Shiva and was led by a wondrous woman living in the outskirts of Tamraght. In a beautiful Moroccan abode, a handful of girls gathered in a low lit room, seated on the floor, the evening breeze through the window, the candles flickering and I noted how the star filled night sky that I stopped to appreciate as we entered, felt so close. We listened to the story of Shiva and Susannah’s experience of this God.

The chords of the ukulele eloquently strummed by Susannah led the chanting and eyes closed, our voices seemed to trail in song, perfuming the night air, connected to the stars, connected to Morocco, ourselves and others. How lucky that the stars were aligned, for Steph to be here at this moment in time. Steph did get bit on the ass by the dog as we left. So maybe our chanting was not as beauteous as it sounded in my head- the dog was evidently disturbed. When I told Jones we had been chanting, his only response was ‘weirdos’ and then went offline. Well, maybe it is not for everyone.

So normal day to day was not so wild- our chanting and meditation was a Friday night after all. My type of rock and roll. Usually a morning run would be followed by a steep climb, returning to find Steph stretching out in our room, now entitled ‘Brownie Camp’(a little smelly from our wet clothes, quite messy and a whole collection of empty water bottles gathered at the door, only our coats hung up - this was all noted by Carla who felt the hanging of the solitary items a rather ‘nice touch’). Mornings sorted. Breakfast on the terrace- could I control myself on my ban from the wondrous Moroccan bread? Nope. Will power not so strong when presented with the delicious freshness, accompanied with boiled eggs, avocado and tuna prepared by my big sis. Then, a hunk of the bread smothered in the irresistible runny, almondy, peanut butter. A heavenly start to the day.

Our last night we decided to break from our routine. Lunchtime yoga, an afternoon Hammam massage in Agadir- the shake-up of daily activities to fit around a sunset dinner on the beach with Sally. Breaking from the newly formulated pattern of life opened up a whole new world. The massage was pretty wild. Very hot and being bathed like a child by an angry mother, dousing you in water and then scrubbing you down (all over!) while in paper knickers. Being smothered in argan oil and massaged hard was pretty good. I reserve that oil for my hair back home so this was lovely. A run through the village as opposed to the beach, I saw children with satchels boarding the school bus, the small local shops opening their doors, the baker delivering his bread (he kindly let me photograph his tuk-tuk like vehicle full of the baguette and round flat breads and I admired his technique as he carried a stack to the owner of the local shop), people on their way to work and some hanging around. I could not resist remaining in part of the routine and headed to scramble up that cliffside one last time. Still without the elegance and speed of the locals and the goats that frequented these parts, I marvelled at the fact I was confident (but certainly not adept) in my climb.

 

Our sunset dinner on the beach with Sally also brought lovely surprises. Devil’s Rock was adorned with sunset watchers, a happy couple embracing near the breaking waters on the sequestered beach and the wonderful layers of reds, oranges and yellows as the sun settled in behind the rock. But the best surprise (and roomie, you will know why it is the best) was the first sighting of the Moroccan moon. Out of nowhere, it appeared. It hung over the sea, majestic and magical, a sliver of loveliness and light in the darkening sky. So bellies full with seafood and hearts full of friendship and sisterly love, we walked back to join our friends at the villa for our last evening together. We introduced Sally to the cliff face, we were definitely locals now! This warrior princess has lived here for over year and has never used this short cut!

 

I love that holiday feeling of new things but also of dead familiar feelings. Good friendships are forged quickly. Sharing intimate, private stories come easily and closeness and routines are easily set and strayed. So here are some highlights:

Dinner at Sally’s beautiful apartment, candle, Moroccan lamp and star light. Her balcony that framed a breathtaking snapshot of the sumptuous starry sky.

The beautiful sound of the call to prayer, even at 5 in the morning.

Sharing Pat’s birthday dinner in Taghazout with Nic, Zak, Carla, Steph and Zak’s lovely fisherman and violin playing Uncle from Essaouira (a few days later I passed him on the street, clutching my postcards and avocado as he sat on the roadside with his small luggage and violin, hitching his way back home).

Zak telling us to get our wetsuits on. Us standing there looking at him. We hadn’t put them in the car. Girls! Bad. Oh well, we cannot surf today. 2 minutes later, Zak returns. Girls! Wetsuits on! I borrowed these from my friend- you surf today!

Eating on the roof terrace with our friends and sharing our only glass of wine and the surprise cake for birthday boy Pat.

Pat and I being the only surfers around, I playing surfing in the white waters and him out in the green. Pat taking me out past the white waters and showing me how to paddle out (very knackering), so encouraging and kind. I got completely annihilated by a wave, much to Zak’s amusement. Although, he was also impressed that I got out there and sat on my board.

Steph telling Zak that we didn’t really eat sandwiches that we were packed up with (no more bread after the morning fill at breakfast!). So could we please eat whatever he does. Cue: Moroccan omelette. Beautifully baked eggs in a tagine with peppers, tomatoes and buttery Moroccan olives; the equivalent to our English fish and chips- fresh calamari and local sole caught fresh that day, battered and deep fried, eaten with our fingers and scooped up with griddled and salted green peppers; tagine and an abundance of cumin; oranges sold on the roadside; avocado juice and more bread.

 

So just as our savasansa ends each yoga practice and Sally’s words are in my ears, our time in Morocco also comes to an end and the snowy peaks of the Atlas mountains dissolve and become the clouds over England. I sit back and look at my sister. Relax back into the chair and breath, remembering and feeling that hum, that magical resonance of a special place. I take the time to thank Morocco, new friends and old for serving us so well.