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The Day I Fell in Love With Morocco

argan trees goats

 

“Goats in trees, goats in trees!” we shouted and pointed.

 

Imsouane

 

A few miles back, our driver and surf instructor Ismael, told us to keep our eyes out for goats climbing argan trees, a novelty in this part of Morocco. Sure enough they appeared, and we squealed like kids on a school bus.

 

argan trees goats

 

Ismael pulled over and we hopped out of the van.

 

We marveled at the goats from the roadside, pulling out our cameras, amazed by something that these goats did every single day. The goats called to one another and one by one headed for the hills. We unintentionally scared them away.

 

argan trees goats

 

When we got back to the van, an elderly Moroccan man dressed in a traditional robe stood holding his hand out for money.

 

Apparently the goats belonged to this man, and we owed him something for taking photos. I thought about how in Marrakech I couldn’t even take a photo of a public square without street vendors demanding I pay them. I heard somewhere that in the Koran it says that it’s the duty of the “rich” to give to the “poor”.

 

Imsouane

 

Ismael handed him some dirhams.

 

“You should’ve stopped earlier Ismael,” Nick, a Brit working at the surf house, teased. “I think the first goats we passed were free to look at.”

 

Imsouane

 

We continued through the hillside along Morocco’s coast, just North of Agadir, en route to Imsouane, a tiny fishing village with a two-minute long wave. Past the tail end of Morocco’s surf season, we heard it might be the last time to see Imsouane deliver until Fall.

 

Imsouane

 

Given my lack of surf skills, I knew I’d be playing in the white water rather than taking Imsouane’s long ride. For me it didn’t matter. I was stoked for the gorgeous scenery and fresh seafood.

 

Imsouane

 

The road snaked through arid hillside decorated with sheepherders and ocean view teepees.

 

Ismael looked over at me in the passenger’s seat, “Americano, are you thinking about what you’re going to write in your report?”

 

Imsouane

 

I laughed. I hadn’t been thinking about blogging much lately. Instead I was caught up in the experience. Breakfast, surf, lunch, surf, yoga, sunset, dinner, bed. It was a routine I was getting used to that didn’t allow much time for “work”.

 

Imsouane

 

“You’re not going to write about me in your report are you?” he asked.

 

“Ismael, if you want me to write about you, you’ve got to do something more interesting for me to write about.”

 

“Write about argan oil Americano. Don’t tell people about me, tell people about argan oil.”

 

Imsouane

 

“American-AH,” I corrected him. “People have been using argan oil in the states for ages. Nobody cares about argan oil.”

 

I’d been in Taghazout taking surf lessons from Ismael for only a week, he was younger than me, and he was about half my size, but he teased me like I was his kid sister.

 

Imsouane

 

We stopped beside a chain link fence and Ismael guided us to a small opening. Below us was a massive drop with waves forming arcs across the ocean like ripples from a stone dropped into a pond. We had reached the bay of Imsouane.

 

Imsouane

 

In town we parked our van at the sea’s edge and began to unload our boards from the rooftop.

 

Imsouane

 

Imsouane felt simultaneously touristic and traditional all at once.

 

Imsouane

 

Fishermen hauled boatloads of fresh catch into the town center, where gangs of men crowded and negotiated over sardines, squid, and prawns.

 

Imsouane

 

Foreign and Moroccan tourists sat at plastic picnic tables beside the water eating piles of seafood.

 

Imsouane

 

Surfers clad in black wetsuits littered the ocean.

 

Imsouane

 

Moroccan boatmen who lived in this tiny village selling fish to feed their families and British surfers who traveled across the world for waves, all seemed to worship the same bay.

 

Imsouane

 

There were no touts trying to sell trinkets and no side glances for our bare feet and bikini tops.

 

Imsouane

 

We were aliens in their peaceful town, and yet they allowed our presence seemingly effortlessly.

 

Imsouane

 

Collectively we were High School PE teachers moving to Japan, Israeli/German med students on vacation, English journalists, a Moroccan surf instructor, a windsurfer from Wales, and an American travel blogger.

 

We were all different ages, from all different countries, on all different paths that led us to Taghazout, yet for the time being, we were family.

 

Imsouane

 

The tide was already coming in as we climbed over the mollusk covered rocks to get into the bay, balancing our boards, beach towels, suntan lotion, and digital cameras.

 

Stunned by the scenery, I started wandering and taking photos while the others stretched on their wetsuits.

 

Imsouane

 

Dedicated surfers paddled out to the break and I watched them fly by, as impressed by their perseverance as I was by the power of the waves.

 

Imsouane

 

“You need to get out there now! The tide is coming in and you’re going to miss it all!” A surfer shouted at me intensely as he walked by.

 

Imsouane

 

I ran out into the ocean and recalled how my first day in Taghazout, even in my wetsuit, I nearly lost my breath because the water felt so cold to me. Now it felt normal. I pushed forcefully through the waves that had just closed out. A week ago they would have terrified me; it amazed me that they didn’t anymore.

 

Imsouane

 

The bay seemed nearly empty. Along with the two women in our group from England, I paddled with turbo speed to catch a wave. When we couldn’t paddle fast enough, Ismael came over and pushed us.

 

Imsouane

 

Surfing was so humbling, like being a baby again. I’m not sure I’ve been less of a natural at anything in my life, but somehow I was still having fun.

 

Imsouane

 

I found myself beginning to understand why people woke up at sunrise to catch waves and traveled the world to follow them. Surfing was starting to get under my skin.

 

Imsouane

 

When the tide became too high and I was wonderfully spent, I climbed up the cliff with my board under my arm. It was entirely precarious, waves crashing against me, the jagged coral scraping my hands, but I felt no hesitation.

 

Imsouane

 

When I got to the top I realized something. Somewhere between hiking to waterfalls in the mountains, dodging harassment in the souks, and working through my fear of the ocean, I was regaining the wildness I wondered if I had lost.

 

Imsouane

 

We dripped in our wetsuits up the ramp into the town, led by the smell of fish grilling on an open flame.

 

Imsouane

 

On the roof of the town’s main restaurant, we piled together on a long picnic table. Wind whipped my hair into a frenzy and our paper placemats blew wildly beneath our plates, cups, and makeshift paperweights.

 

We waited for what felt like ages, salivating from the smells around us. Being in Morocco reminded me of my favorite philosophy, the national mantra of Costa Rica: “Pura Vida“. In Morocco your cab might break down, you might not get what you ordered, and you might walk through fish guts en route to the best restaurant, but you were always bound to have an authentic adventure.

 

Imsouane

 

Everyone fell silent when the platters of grilled fish, calamari, and octopus arrived. I picked the white succulent meat with my fingers and threw the bones onto the paper mat. Rice and octopus blew into my lap when I tried to use my fork. Lesson learned.

 

Our meal ended with a round of mint tea, often referred to as Moroccan Whisky, and cookies.

 

Imsouane

 

The drive back to Taghazout was far quieter than the ride out. I played DJ in the front seat, the guys in the back gazed out the windows, and Nick slept snuggled up against the sliding door.

 

Imsouane

 

I watched the changing landscape, the crashing waves to my right, the sandy hills to my left, the men and women living in rhythm with nature while we whizzed by in an automobile.

 

Imsouane

 

My heart felt full, my body sufficiently exhausted into relaxation. I smiled, realizing that something had shifted. I had fallen in love with Morocco.

 

Stay tuned for my full guide to Taghazout, surf and yoga heaven in the desert of Morocco. 

This trip was part of a tour with Surf Berbere, full services surf camp and lodging in Taghazout. Trips to Imsouane for guests of Surf Berbere cost just 200 dirhams (around $20) for the day including seafood lunch. Silly banter, genuine friendship, and chill vibes free of charge. Full disclosure, Surf Berbere sponsored my stay; as always my recommendation is 100% authentic. 

 


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Comments

  1. Beautiful! I love the blue boats shot! That food looked amazing. I had a similar experience taking photos of locals in Peru. I was so excited about how beautiful the women looked in their traditional Peruvian outfits. They beamed for the camera. Then they all wanted money afterward. They intentionally dressed that way just to make money off of the unsuspecting tourists. It bummed me out a bit.

    • Camille Willemain Says: May 8, 2015 at 8:07 am

      Ah ya it’s a bummer how that happens. It was really common in Southeast Asia. My best experiences interacting with indigenous people is by observing them from afar, away from the corruption of tourism.

  2. Love it! I can feel the wanderlove and positive vibrations all the way over here in New York!

  3. […] The further north you head from Taghazout, the more rugged and gorgeous the beaches become. One of my favorite places to spend the day was in the fishing village Imsouane, famous for it’s 2 minute long wave and laid back vibe. Read more about that in my post The Day I Fell in Love With Morocco. […]

  4. It seems like such a beautiful place to relax.
    I love how each country and experience has the ability to surprise you in ways you never anticipate xo

  5. […] The Day I Fell in Love with Morocco – This American Girl […]