Last days

Johnno, about to get tubed.

Waiting for the tide to turn

The author a split second before swan diving out of the lip.

Tamraght, Morocco – I almost feel the need to apologies for the lack of insight of the real Morocco I’ve been travelling through for the past few weeks.

But the fact is, apart from brief  side trips to Essaouira and Marrakech, this adventure has been all about the waves. After enduring two long, cold winters in London, I booked this trip with the intention to escape the third winter by just going surfing.

And that’s pretty much what I’ve done by staying here at the surf house. Wake up early, pack up the truck and spend the day searching for waves and having some funny adventures with the boys from Jersey.

After the craziness of Marrakech, I spent the last few days of my holiday enjoying the  sun (it was 30C today) and doing a lot of surfing (I had four sessions yesterday). Johnno recovered from his broken arse and did some unreal surfing . James stopped rolling joints long enough to paddle out. And I got a barrel that will stay in my mind for the rest of my life.

Feeling cocky, I tried to do it again on the next wave and got tossed head over heels onto the reef. That’s surfing for you.

Check out the Backpack Storybook Flickr album here.

Back in Tamraght

Tamraght, Morocco – Following a five hour bus ride through the Souss Valley which separates Marrakech from the coast, I’m back in Tamraght village. I’ll be staying here in the surf house again for a few more days before I fly home to London.

It turns out I missed a really good swell when I was away in Essaouira and Marrakech. The boys surfed a secret spot about an hour and a half south. Over a couple of cans of Flag Speciale beer they told me about getting some of the best barrels of their lives.

They’ve also got the scars and damaged boards to prove how shallow the reef was. James can hardly walk because his foot is shredded. Johnno, he of the “broken arse” (see here), escaped okay but then saw his board get mauled across the rocks.

24 hours in The ‘Kech (Part 2)

Djemaa el Fna at night

Marrakech, Morocco – Sunday, 6.49pm: For the second time today I’m back in my room in the riad, psyching myself up to go back out into the city. This time its dusk and I want to check out Djemaa el Fna at night.

7.00pm: The square is now filled with dozens and dozens of food carts, more fortune tellers, musicians, tourists and thousands and thousands of Moroccans here for a night out. I take a bench at a cart and for 50DH (about £4) I fill up on kefta (meat) skewers, salad, flat bread and fries.

7.29pm: I get talking to Andrew, sitting opposite me at the food cart. He arrived in town today from the UK. We go out into the night determined to try anything that looks interesting. We try a bowl of snail soup each for 10DH. It’s a bit like eating salty boogers. To wash it down we first try freshly squeezed orange juice (3DH)  and then stop by a tea stand for mint tea (5DH).

The ruins of Palais el Badi

8.02pm: I figure because I am a customer the chances of being allowed to take a photo of the stand are good. I ask permission from the owner and he says yes. I snap off a few frames. “Dirham for photos!” He demands.

8.10pm: We stop by several of the fortune tellers and musicians, who all have large crowds gathered around them. Andrew holds his camera up to snap a frame. As soon as the flash fires he has demands for dirham from half a dozen people who claim they were in the photo. He deletes it instead.

Monday, 9.01am: Morning and I’m on my way to the Palais el Badi, enormous ruins to the south of the main square. On my way a Moroccan man approaches. “Palais el Badi?” He asks. I nod, more in vague agreement than anything. He takes it to mean he is now my official navigator charged with showing me the way to the palace and walks the last 50 metres with me to the entrance. He then demands dirham.

Deep in the souks of Marrakech

10.44am: I’m back in the souks one last time, stocking up on spices and presents. I’ve struggled to get a decent photo that really captures the atmosphere down here in the narrow lanes . Finally I spot an alley with beams of white light shining into the gloom. I shoot off a frame and keep walking.

13.30pm: My bus south to Agadir, and the surf, is an hour late. I end up spending 25 hours in total in Marrakech.

24 hours in The ‘Kech (Part 1)

Carpet souk, Marrakech

Marrakech, Morocco – Sunday, 12.35pm: The bus from Essaouira arrives into Marrakesh. Its quite sudden how the landscape changes from flat wheat fields to a bustling city. Marrakech is like no where else I’ve seen with its ochre buildings and tall date palms baking under a white hot midday sky.

12.55pm: I take a petit taxi to Djemaa el Fna, where the directions to my riad start. Djemaa el Fna is the great square in the middle of Marrakech, its beating heart. I navigate past the snake charmers, the monkey handlers, the donkeys, the touts, the scam artists, the tourists and the Moroccan families, my eyes as big as saucers.

1.01pm: My directions are: “Turn right at Cafe de France. Walk for 500m. Turn left at an archway. Go down the street, which is Derb Boutil. It is number 35.” Only problem is there are hundreds of cafes in the main square. I search keenly for the name of each. No Cafe de France. Eventually I find one with ‘France’ in the title and take a chance and turn right. After about 200m I spot a low arch, just one in a city of a thousand arches. I take a punt and go down it. This seems to be the right way.

1.25pm: Completely lost. A young girl takes pity on me and asks where I am going. When I say the name of the riad she seems to know it. I follow her and a rapidly expanding band of kids down the alley ways. We stop outside a non-descript door and sure enough, in faded letters is the name of the riad. I would never have found it, even if I was standing in front it. I pay the girl with spare change. Another dozen hands shoot out, yelling “Dirham! Dirham monsieur!”

1.31pm: Check into my room. The riad is an oasis of calm in a crazy city. Below in the courtyard is a plunge pool shaded by palms. A canary sings from its cage. I dump my stuff and work up some courage to plunge back into the medina.

2.35pm: I strike out for the souks – the covered markets that together with the square are the big drawcards in the city. Through the narrow lanes I go. The myriad stalls overflowing with colourful carpets, jewellery and pungent spices.  Above me wooden slats covering the walkway cut out the hot sun, only allowing odd shafts of sunlight to penetrate into the dusty, smoky walkways.

2.36pm: Stallholders greet me in French, English or Spanish, depending on where they guess I am from. At first I stop and say hello, politely declining their offers to look in their stalls. After ten minutes I’m down to a shake of the head. After half an hour I walk straight past, not even breaking stride and looking straight ahead. Regardless some try to cajole me into their stalls by grabbing hold of my arm.

2.40pm: The aggressive stallholders I can deal with. Its the motorbikes that whip past in the narrow alleys, already packed with local and tourists, that start to shred my nerves. Some go past at a frightening speed. All the while filling the alleyways with dust and two stroke exhaust.

The Marrakech tanneries. Beware the guides.

3.33pm: With just rough directions and a compass I make for the tanneries to the east of the souks. Before I can even agree to it I’m whisked into a yard where concrete tubs are arranged like a haphazard honeycomb in which to soak animal skins. Apparently piss and shit is quite useful in softening the hides. It certainly smells like it.

3.55pm: I emerge from the tanneries in a sour mood. I didn’t want to buy any crappy carpets from the guides’ friends shop. Fair enough. But when I step back onto the street the guide wants money for his time. Stupidly I only have big notes in my pocket, not the small change this hustler probably deserves. His friends join in, hassling me for money. “This is an insult!” They yell. “Some people pay 200DH or 300DH (between £16 and £25) for this service! Unlikely, I think.

3.56pm: I check the notes in my pocket again. Yep, just big ones. Slightly fearing for my safety and my camera and just wanting to get away from this bad scene, I give him a 100DH note. They’re suddenly all smiles. One even has the temerity to point out a 200DH note sticking out from my pocket. “You must watch out for pickpockets, my friend,” he says.

When in Marrakech, Backpack Storybook escapes the madness by hiding out at the Riad al Faras, just a five minute walk from Djemaa el Fna. Budget on about £30 per night.

Wham bam thank you hammam

Essaouira, Morocco – Regular readers may remember the time I visited a hammam in Istanbul. Well, that was child’s play compared to the bath houses here in Morocco. These guys don’t fuck around.

Today I went with Marjit, the guardian of the hostel I am staying at, to his local neighbourhood hammam.

As we walked through the narrow alleys Marjit greeted almost everyone he saw like old friends. I padded behind him, feeling slightly silly in my flip flops and holding a towel and several sachets of shampoo that we had bought earlier.

Inside the hammam itself Marjit and I stripped down to our underwear (a bit weird considering several hours earlier, as hostel manager, he politely took my money for another night’s stay) and I followed him into the steam room itself, where a dozen patrons in their underwear were already halfway through their session, cleaning one another and bending their companions’ limbs into painful contortions.

The hammam was positively decrepit. Rotting old wooden doors, uneven tiled floor, paint peeling from the arched ceiling. I tried not to think about the sweat and grime that had been scrubbed off the thousands of men before me.

Marjit showed me how to rub a strange, black substance the consistency of thick jam over me. Then we soaked for ten. After we sluiced around some water around to wash it all off. And then the fun (for Marjit, I suspect) started.

If you’ve never had a fully grown man squat on your back and massage your limbs with his feet then, quite frankly, you haven’t lived.

Hogtied
Marjit squashed my ribcage until it cracked and then pushed my arms into positions I had only seen bouncers perform on drunk patrons they were ejecting.

One manoeuvre I never found out the Arabic name for, although in English I can only suggest it would be called ‘The Hogtied’. Marjit stood on my back and pulled both my arms and legs up and behind me until everything cracked.

I basically had the shit kicked out of me for 20 minutes. After that Marjit tried to drown me with piping hot Moroccan tap water and then flailed me to within an inch of my life with a rough cleaning mitt.

Afterwards I was so clean I squeaked as I walked home along the narrow alleyways.

Medieval Essaouira

Morning stroll

Essaouira, Morocco – All good things must come to an end and so today I left some very, very good surf in Tamraght and caught a Supratours bus three hours north to Essaouira.

To be honest, its going to be nice to have a couple of days off from surfing. My lower back is so stiff from paddling I can hardly stand up straight. My feet are cut from all the rock jumps. My skin blasted by the sun and wind. Life is tough being on holiday.

In Eassouira I got off the bus, walked through the arch into the medina and promptly got completely lost. It was probably my own fault not getting out my map, directions or even compass. But busy Moroccan towns are not the sort of places to stand around with a backpack and a map looking confused. You’ll have half a dozen offers for directions, hash, tea or a visit to a cousin’s shop in five minutes flat.

Getting lost was easy in the medina, but I was
in no rush to find myself

With its stone ramparts, bustling medina and melting pot of races this town has an exciting vibe to it. It suggests a time of Portuguese explorers, pirates and medieval markets. Giant seagulls endlessly fly in the ocean breeze. On dusk they and the fort are silhouetted against the sky, their black outlines creating a slightly sinister feel to the town.

Essaouira harbour

Down on the ground the bustling medina is reminiscent of a Star Wars-style market place. Moroccans shuffle past in the long jellaba robes, their faces obscured by the pointed hoods. Darker skinned Africans from the Sahara get about in turbans and bright blue robes. Tourists from outer space – or more likely Germany – stomp by loaded down with camera gear and hydration packs and gore-tex.

Down at the harbour the bright blue fishing boats I first saw at Imessouane were tied up in a solid mass together. The fishermen busy unloading their catch onto wagons which were then pushed by hand to the markets. Some of it was siphoned off to be sold to tourists at the makeshift grill stands on the main square, the smoky sweet aroma of cooked seafood drifting into the medina.

But despite all of these goings on, Essaouira is remarkably chilled. Everyone gets around on foot. Locals far outnumber the tourists and even the hash sellers are polite – mostly.

When in Essaouira, Backpack Storyback stays at Hostel Essaouira, apparently the number 2 hostel in Africa (2009). Beds for about £12 per night.

Day trip

Imessouane harbour

Imessouane, Morocco – Today we hit the road early for a day trip up to Imessouane, a little fishing village about one and a half hours drive up the coast from Tamraght.

About 30 minutes into the drive we came to Tamri, a small village on a broad river plain with banana and wheat crops planted in a chaotic patchwork. It was market day so Abdul stopped to buy a bunch of the small, sweet bananas the area is famous for.

I felt a little out of place as the rest of us sat in the truck, boards piled high on the roof, AC/DC playing on the stereo, as wisened old Moroccan men walked past in their brown jellaba robes and sandals.

Just ouside of Tamri we were pulled over at a police roadblock. Quick as a flash Abdul took a 100DH note out of his wallet and got out to greet the policeman. A quick handshake and he handed over the 100. I was surprised when he received 50 back. “I asked for change,” he explained later.

The road wound its way through several switchbacks into the hills. The landscape was rockier than on the coast. The most common trees were the Argan, a stunted bonsai-looking tree with thorns and bright green fruit. We passed a few herds of goats and sure enough, a couple were balancing on the tree branches to get at the fruit.

Small enough for rights as well as lefts on this day

The right
At Imessouane we got a coffee and waited for the tide to drop. The wave everyone comes for is a long, long righthander that breaks in front of the harbour entrance and rolls all the way into a large bay.

Open-topped wooden fishing boats, all painted a bright blue, timed the swells before motoring through the breaking waves to get to the safety of the boat ramp. When each boat arrived it seemed all the other fishermen walked down to the edge of the ramp to help drag the new boat up.

An hour from low tide we suited up and paddled out. Every other surfer in the town pretty much decided to do the same, which wasn’t surprising given there’s probably not a lot to do if you’re not surfing.

The result was a lineup crowded with longboards, shortboards and even a guy wobbling around on a stand up paddle board. With each set of waves I’d watch in terror as people who probably hadn’t been surfing very long all tried to catch the same wave at the same time. There were people being run over, others falling out of the top of the wave and more still getting to their feet momentarily before falling off.

The stand up paddle boarder was caught out by a big wave and basically abandoned ship, jumping over the side and leaving whoever was behind him to deal with the consequences of a 12″ surfboard coming straight at them.

Fresh bream straight off the grill – and only about
£3 each for the works.

Time for lunch
When the tide finally got too high and the waves stopped breaking we came in for lunch. Abdul’s friend grilled half a dozen bream for us and we stuffed ourselves in the shade of his shack by the point. The boys rewarded themselves buying rolling a giant spliff – and one for Abdul’s friend to say thanks for the meal -  while I handled mint tea duty.

Later we cruised home under the golden afternoon light, listening to Kings of Leon and rolling endless doobies. The road seemed plagued with police road blocks and on arriving at each one Abdul insisted we put out the spliff and roll down the windows to disperse the smell.

Invariably we’d be waved through and the sound of a lighter reigniting the spliff could be heard before we’d even accelerated up to second gear.

Tackling the surf

Tamraght, Morocco – Yesterday I wrote about a typical day here in Morocco looking for waves. Below I’ve posted a series of photos illustrating what goes down.

This is at Hicks, a wave up on the Cape that Ged and James from Jersey Island and myself surfed:

1. Identify a wave. Stand around for half an hour debating the
merits of paddling out.

2. I can’t wait any longer. I’m out there. Looks fun too.

3. Erm, it looks a fair bit bigger from down here. And the jump
off is a bit hairy.

4. Jump off successful. Paddling out into yet another uncrowded
line up.

5. James gets stuck into it on his backhand.

6. Session over. Abdul shows us the way in past the urchins,
exposed reef, shorebreak and other nasties.

7. Made it out and back alive. Stoked.

Chasing surf in Morocco

Mid-morning surf check

Tamraght, Morocco – I’m woken just before dawn each morning by the call of the meuzzin from the mosque just behind the surf house.

From the balcony I can see Devils Rock and the long sweep of beach up to Taghazhout. I know that the swell will usually be a couple of feet bigger up on the Cape where we often surf but this first glance is a good guide to what the swell is doing.

I tuck into a breakfast of Coco Pops, jam on toast, OJ and coffee. Everything here in Moroc seems loaded with sugar.

The logistics of loading up half a dozen guys and their boards and wetsuits into the truck usually takes a while. On a good day we’re on the road by about 8.30am.

Abdul, our driver, guide and all round go-to-man starts proceedings with some Moroccan funk on the stereo. By the time weve driven past the crowded waves of Taghazoute the boys from Jersey have skinned up their first spliff of the day and Hendrix is wailing from the speakers.

Waiting for the tide at Boilers, one of the best waves in the area

Half an hour later we make our first stop. I tumble out of the car, smoke billowing behind me. While its probably not ideal to get half-baked from passive smoking so early in the morning, at least it relaxes me for whatever hairy rock ledge we have to jump off to get out to the waves.

Fishpipes, Hicks, 69s, Boilers, Shitpipes, Draculas. Who names these waves? Nevertheless, they all seem to have similar characteristics: urchin-infested rocks lining the shoreline, fast take offs and shallow reef just below the surface.

Johnno rides a wave for too long at Boilers one day and falls onto the shallow inside rocks. He comes in complaining about “breaking my arse” and walks with a limp for the next three days.

Al fresco dining, Tamraght-style

After the surf we hungrily tuck into the filled bread rolls we get as part of the surf house deal. After hours of surfing and paddling the two small baguettes are a little miserly, I think.

More spliffs are skinned up for the drive home. A lighter flame is waved over a block of dirtyish brown hash to soften it up. It’s sprinkled onto tobacco and Jimbo - a rolling extraordinaire – forms it into a giant trumpet shaped doobie.

At night we wander down into the village. A young Moroccan who runs a cafe almost entirely devoid of customers often whips up something nice for us. Some nights it’s lentils and an omelette. Other times a big steaming tagine. Served with round flat loaves of bread and finished off with super sweet Moroccan tea.

Night out in Agadir

Agadir, Morocco – Myself and a couple of the guests from the surf house decided to head into Agadir last night for a meal and a few beers.

It coincided with it being the last night in Morocco for a couple of the English lads.  And the fact that the Californian I will call Mad Mike hadn’t talked to a girl for two weeks and was starting to go a bit crazy.

We made for the long boulevard that overlooks Agadir’s broad sandy beach. Moroccan families strolled about in the warm night air.  Drug dealers on bicycles offered us hash. A middle aged woman with perhaps a little too much make up on asked if we would have dinner with her.

Despite this, the town had a pleasant, safe feel to it. The lack of alcohol meant there were no drunks and no aggro.

We found a table at the busiest Moroccan restaurant we could find. As the only Westerners in the place it felt like everyone stared as we shuffled inside in our dusty travel clothes.

Nevertheless we had a ball, tucking into tagines as a keyboard and vocal duo belted out a series of frenetic Moroccan songs to the adoring crowd. It moved some of the customers to clap and even get up for an impromptu dance.

The search for alcohol
As fun as it was, we needed beer.  With not a lot of choice in town, we ended up at the English Pub. I know it was called this because it was written in six foot high neon letters above the venue, complete with a Union Jack.

Inside we drank expensive mugs of beer while elderly English tourists ate fish and chips. Groups of younger  Moroccans monopolised the karaoke. We left as one group began a tortured rendition of Red Wine. For the second time.

By now it was midnight. The town had a quiet feel to it and I begun to think Mike’s plan to meet girls was unlikely. There was just no one around. The nightclubs we checked were totally empty.

And then Mike got a recommendation from a taxi driver – usually a bad move. For some reason we jumped in and went speeding to the outskirts of town to an upmarket hotel with a nightclub attached to it.

Inside numerous couples sat at low tables drinking and enjoying shisha pipes. Ear piercing Euro techno music pounded through the club. We were shown to the worst table in the room, next to the toilets and beside a retina-searing plasma TV. A quick look at the drinks menu showed we could barely afford a beer, let alone a cocktail.

After five minutes I was ready to leave. But we had lost Mike. By now he was quite drunk and was last seen wandering off into the depths of the club.

I looked around at the club. The middle aged Euro tourists. Their young, skimpily dressed female companions. They were all hookers. Christ, this was a bad, bad scene.

I rounded up the English lads and we went off to find Mike. He was sitting at a table in the middle of the club, hands behind his head, taking in the scene with a big smile on his face. When we told him we were leaving – and taking him with us – he protested.

“Come on you guys, this is fun. Lets stay and talk to the girls for a while.”

“Jesus Mike, they’re all prostitutes,” I replied “This place is too creepy, let’s get out of here.”

We knew the night was over when we tried to enter the nightclub next door – which appeared not to be populated by old men and hookers but by young tourists. But they wanted 200DH just to get in – about £17. We gave up and caught a taxi all the way back to Tamraght.