Agadir, Morocco

Over the UK’s sweater weather, temporarily banned from western Europe, and unwilling to fly back to SE Asia (wrong way) or the Americas (too far), my next move was strangely obvious.  I needed to fly to Morocco, live out my Blue Crush fantasy, and work at a local surf camp. 

step one: google ‘moroccan surf camp volunteer’

step two: win pipe masters

MOROCCO.  The crossroads of Africa, Europe and the Middle East, melting pot of Berber, Arab, French and Spanish cultures, and home to sunset camel rides and tree-climbing goats.  From the Atlas Mountains to the Sahara Desert, from the colorful riads to the bustling souks, it’s easy to see why Morocco’s so special.  But why was my five-week stint in Agadir one of the happiest times of my life?  We’ll get to that in a bit.

Let’s start with Marrakesh Airport customs.

After asking me where I was from and if I was traveling alone, the customs security man flashed me a big, ‘ole smile before pausing, smiling again, and saying, ‘Whyyyyyyy you visit Morocco alone?  Not gooood.  Not goooooooood.’  And then, he laughed.  And I laughed.  And we laughed.  And I bounced outta that airport, equal parts confused and happy.

what just happened

With a spring in my step, I found the only English-speaking taxi driver in the airport pickup line and directed him to…… ‘the Mines School’?  ‘The school…… with the mines’?  ‘The Mine School’??

Did I mention it was 2am?  Well, it was 2 in the morning and I was trying to navigate to the only point of reference my Couchsurfing host gave me for his otherwise hidden apartment with no street address.

I know what you’re thinking.  Why wouldn’t you hang out at the airport for five hours, head to his apartment while he’s getting ready for work, and high-five-butt-slap the spare key exchange?  THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I MEANT TO DO.  The classic ‘nice to meet you, thanks for hosting me, goodnight and good luck at work’ repartee…… but this guy insisted that I come straight to his apartment the string of winding alleys around the Mines School at 2am because he is such a nice person.

OK, so there I am, calling Aziz on my cab driver’s cell phone, looking for a building number that doesn’t exist, not getting out of the car because my cab driver said, ‘DO NOT GET OUT OF THE CAR’ aaaaaaand no answer.  Three attempts, no answer.  I wasn’t even mad.  It was 2am on a weeknight; he was probably sleeping.  This was a terrible plan.

Upon request, my driver discontinued his donuts and took me to a ‘cheap but safe’ hotel…… where I spent the next 20 minutes constructing a coffee table/mini fridge fort to barricade my room’s unlockable balcony doors.  I even tucked all my electronics down my pajama shirt, in case any thieves American Ninja Warrior’ed over my mastermind kitchen appliance obstacle course.  Not the most comfortable sleep sesh this year, but apparently comfy enough because……

I woke up to 5 missed calls and 14 new messages.  All from Aziz (who’s technically still a stranger at this point) wanting to know if I was safe.  See!?  SUCH a nice guy.  He helped me bring my stuff over to his apartment on his lunch break, bought me my first tagine, and apologized way more than necessary (dude, it was 2am, you were allowed to be sleeping).  Fast forward through 3 days of exotic spices and misadventures in Marrakesh, a 3-hour bus ride to the coast…… and my late-night arrival in Agadir looked eerily familiar.

The address my surf camp host provided didn’t seem to exist…… and 4 stops at convenience stores & shawarma shacks didn’t help my cab driver’s confidence.  Dropped off at the exact pin I’d saved on my offline map, I quickly got the feeling that the apartment complex with no lights and no building numbers in front of me…… was not, in fact, where I needed to be.

One thing you should know about Moroccans: they are some of the friendliest and most helpful people on the planet.  Finding my destination turned into a neighborhood affair.  Five women surrounding me, one calling my host on her cell phone, one more running to get her husband to put him on the phone, all trying to assess where I was going and how they could help (in Arabic and French).

After the husband was on the phone with my host for what seemed like half an hour (how hard can the directions be?), me, him, and his super-smiley, middle-school-aged son jumped in an SUV and off we went!  Where were we going?  Beats me.  Someone mentioned the ‘Sunday Market’ but it wasn’t Sunday, so I was very confused.

Confusion is a general theme this week.

Once we arrived at the Sunday Market, two giggly women walked up and started belly laughing with my driver.  Then I was laughing.  And they were still laughing.  And everyone was speaking Arabic.  And one of them grabbed my bag and said she was my host’s sister.  Oh!  Hello!

I thanked the good samaritan husband/driver man, followed the giggly women around the corner, and entered the threshold of what would become my home for the next five weeks…… met immediately by two other nutball women who couldn’t BREATHE they were laughing so hard.  So, I started laughing and they kept laughing and I laughed even harder and they started up again and I don’t think anyone knew what we were laughing about anymore but we couldn’t stop laughing.

Mind you, I still had my backpack on at this point.  Balancing it gracefully as I bent down to wipe the tears from my face before one them busted out, ‘tenk cue’ and everyone DIEEEEED laughing all over again.

Thus, begins my illustrious life in Agadir, Morocco – surfing, googling, and barely speaking English at all.

I landed a gig with Desert Surf Morocco in one of the premier surf destinations in the world (the strip between Essaouira & Agadir), whereby I provided mostly business development services in exchange for room (in a house with my host Ismail & his 4 giggly sisters), board (his sisters would cook for me) and bonus (he’d give me private surf lessons).

Ismail was the only one who spoke English, but Ismail was never around (you know, running a business and all).  Therefore, most of my time was spent with Ismail’s 4 giggly sisters (Badia, Samira, Amina, and Malika) and most of my time was spent deliciously amused amusingly confused.

Where are we going?  (The beach?  The souk?  The big carnival thing to ride bumper cars?)  What are we eating?  (Goat?  Lamb?  Sardine meatballs?)  WHEN are we eating?  (Family dinner anytime up through midnight?)  And, also, who’s that man?  (Does he live here?  What’s his name?)

I’d be typing up one-pagers for day trips & desert excursions or reaching out to international surf companies looking for a new home, and Badia (rhymes with Madea) would charade that it was time for an adventure.  Doing what?  Who knows!  We could lit’trally be headed anywhere.  Am I dressed ok?  Should I put on a bathing suit?  Should we bring that amazing sesame nut mix?

Have you ever played a game of charades that lasted five weeks?

With Berber and Arabic as Morocco’s two official languages (and French coming in at number 3), I got very used to following people around, eating what they put in front of me, and using sound effects google translate, on my phone, to relay jokes and general musings.

It got to the point where I’d start laughing as I typed, in anticipation of them reading it, to which they’d start laughing in anticipation of reading it, and we’d all be laughing until a brief pause for reading comprehension, and 5 4 3 2 ohhhhhhhh my gosh the joke would land and none of us would be able to breathe.  Honestly, most of my ‘jokes’ were just simple observations.  Like the time I mentioned to Badia how funny it was that all the Moroccans were on the beach, playing football…… and all the tourists were inside, eating.

we couldn’t control ourselves for 3 days

(i didn’t trust badia to carry the leftover pizza. who holds a pizza box VERTICALLY!?)

Or how about the time Badia almost fell off the bus?  Her butt bouncing down each stair and…… if not for the closed double doors, would have bounced right off the bus?

All it took was one sideways glance from Samira, or someone calling me some version of ‘Tarv…… or Tarq…… or Torv’ and I was gone.  And they were gone.  And the room filled with sounds of dog whistles and deflating balloons, all sniffles and sighs and oh my gosh it’s starting again.  One day, Badia called me ‘CHOVE’ and I think I peed myself.  Chove.  As in, rhymes with stove.  Howwwww is that even possible; where are you getting this; and would you like a quick tutorial on the correct pronunciation and syllable count of my name?

Was I shacked up with the giggliest family in Morocco?  Or can we generalize that all Moroccans are crack-ups?  Hard to say.  But whether we were huddled under an umbrella at the beach, doing group yoga on the rooftop, or co-starring in Zumba dance videos…… fun seemed to follow us everywhere.

instructor mery did a mother truckin’ CARTWHEEL, mid-routine, to hype us up.

IT WORKED.

Besides three stooging all over town, meal times were some of the best times because not only was the food delicious, we’d all gather ‘round a small, circular table and dig into the one-pot meal as a family.  Turkish soap operas dubbed in Arabic or Morocco’s Master Chef Junior playing in the background, we’d take turns two-finger smashing little bits of bread into tagines (named for the ceramic pot in which they’re cooked) or couscous (best served with a side of leben/fermented milk) because, get this, they use BREAD as their utensils.

Why use a metal spoon when you can use a bread spoon?

The main staple of any Moroccan diet and the real star of every meal is: bread.  Bread bread bread bread BREAD.  If bread scares you, please don’t go to Morocco; you’ll have a panic attack.

Bread in the morning (maybe a savory croissant or a New Orleans-style baguette with a fried egg), bread at lunch (a traditional khobz with a shiny crust & chewy center, dipped into chicken goat lamb beef or fish tagines), sweet bread for an early evening snack attack (fried bot-boo-ya with butter & honey, a spongey pancake called baag-a-deer, or a French-style sliced cake), and dealer’s choice for dinner (maybe a nice leftover meatball-stuffed bread or a corkscrew pasta or flan).

all served with traditional moroccan mint tea – the more sugar, the better.

After I was nice and loaded with carbs, it was time to start my 8 days of private surf lessons with Ismail.  Well, private-ish, because technically I was coupled up with a paying customer – this Russian chick p-e-t-r-i-f-i-e-d of water and waves and surfing in general due to a traumatic drowning episode when she was young.

Now, I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist or PTSD expert, but I don’t think a world-renowned surfers’ paradise, with 5-foot waves and unlimited rip currents, is the best place to begin your healing journey.  Maybe start conquering your debilitating fear in the bathtub?  Or a kiddie pool, perhaps?  Just a thought.

The daily dynamic worked out quite well.  Ismail split his time between helping me hit less waves with my face…… and swaddling the poor, Russian kitten full-body convulsing in knee-deep water.  Our goals were quite different (Nina- stop crying; Taylor- shred some waves, brah), but the waves battered us just the same.  You know that part in Moana where she stumbles into the ocean and it parts for her and protects her and playfully styles her hair?  Exactly that.  But completely opposite.

the ocean did style my hair, though…

By the end of the first day, we both looked like worn-out, chewed-up ragamuffins.  I looked so rough that the DONUT MAN asked me if I’d like to hold his donuts while he carried my board to the beach.  Again…… how sweet are Moroccans!?  But, no thank you, donut man; I need to finish what I started.

Surfing was well worth the aches, pains, bruises and breaker wave b*tch slaps.  And reverse sock tans.  And doubled-up rip currents that led me on unwanted, underwater expeditions (where I ‘calmly’ counted to 4, as it felt like aliens were conducting rapid probes of my entire body) before surgingggg out of the water like Free Willy.

‘Success is the ability to move from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm’. – – – the famous surfer, Winston Churchill

All in all, living in ‘The Miami Beach of Morocco’ for five weeks was one of the happiest times in my life.  Working at a local surf camp, living with a local family, surfing the waves and surfing the web…… life was simple.  And life was slower.  And life was filled with giggle attacks.

I can’t imagine not seeing them again and I think of them often…… our late-night African rap dance parties on the roof, our inside jokes that had us rolling on the floor (like fishing bananas or knives in bowls or ‘café? café! café? café!’)…… and our field trips to Old Agadir (crumbling hilltop ruins), Paradise Valley (rock pools & waterfalls), Essaouira (port town with fresh fish), Imsouane (sandboarding on desert dunes), and Tamraght & Taghazout (for the beach).

Without a common language, communicating almost entirely in laughter, me and my roommates (Charlie Chaplin, Charlese Chaplin, Mr. Bean, and Mrs. Bean) became family.

The end.

And now, picture montage.

Sandboarding in the desert

Following my ladies all over town – the beach, the bird valley, sams club

Getting pummeled by waves

And assembling the best seafood plate

General chaos with my two favs…

Camels in parking spots…

Badia modeling on the beach…

Boats & blues of Essaouira…

And a seagull in Essaouira who smelled that amazing seafood plate…

Trouble finding the beach around Tamraght…

And all the bread you can handle.

It’s been swell, Morocco.

All day, every day.

Now, how do I get off this thing…