The final wave

And then there were 4… It’s coming to the end of my time in Morocco and our Essaouira family are coincidentally leaving within days of each other; like a game of dominoes, when L left it initiated the movement out of our comfortable lives that we’ve become so used to. Every evening over the last week has been a goodbye, not that our nightly activities have changed from the usual red-wine and smoke fuelled jam sessions in the apartment or on the terrace. In the midst of this leaving procession, there was a super full moon and for me, the days leading up to it were ridden with anxiety - an emotional build up to change perhaps, as though an animal in flight mode preparing to flee the nest. But as the moon begins to disappear again from our visual field and the end of our time here nears, I feel calm. The time has come for change. 

Over the last month, we’ve formed a transitory family in this magical town by the sea… It started off with just two of us. I’d been working at the hostel Surf Mellow for a week and I was on the terrace, arduously washing the wet suits. R walked up the stairs having just checked in, he was a fellow nomad from Seattle a year into his travels and his opening line was a sarcastic comment on my poor ability to complete my task; that did it, friends for life. R was constantly entertained by my many failures at hostel work (that eventually lead to my being relocated to a different hostel), my lack of enthusiasm for the job was apparently quite obvious. Our daily routine was simple: I’d teach yoga in the morning, we’d surf together in the afternoon and chill/ work at the hostel in the evenings, with meals filling the gaps. We were absorbed into a new subculture of people with which we lived the beach life that was so simple yet so fulfilling; from the kite surfers in the wind to the surfers in the sea, we too learned to dance with the elements. 

Our routine was jogged when R and I were no longer welcome back to the hostel because of various reasons surrounding incompatibility with the owner. R went first, a few days earlier than I and instead of confronting him about the true reasons, the owner had just said that there weren't enough beds available; so whilst waiting for a bed (that would never appear) R decided to camp in a sand dune amongst the desert shrubs. By the time I’d been kicked out too, he was over his 'Into the Wild' stint, and was ready for a bed so we both happily relocated to the sister-hostel ‘Ambra’, where our duo began to grow. V was the endearing and inquisitive Chilean of the group that always had everyone hooked on an interesting thought: "what does it mean to authorize yourself?" His look was strong; he’d pensively play his guitar wearing a black beret whilst smoking a cigarette that would stick out beneath his moustache. We were all sitting on the balcony having our first conversations and (appropriately) drinking red wine, when I met D – the energetic, loud and loving girl of the group that soon became my Moroccan (meets Melbourne) ally. D was also here on a business venture, launching a line of leather bags that were being produced in Marrakech. It took one evening together to know that we’d all found somewhere we wanted to stay with people that we wanted to stay around. 

One of my favourite parts about travelling is the characters you meet along the way; for those first initial days we were graced by a special character Rd, the magician we called him. He’d travelled down from Portugal in his magic van for the electronic music festival that was bizarrely being held in Essaouira. Every so often, he would wave his wand and cast a surprise spell out the back of his magic van, sending someone off into a dimension of some sort. When it came time for his disappearing act, he returned to Portugal and D went back to Marrakech to check on her bags. Meanwhile R, V and I continued on with Ambra life.

Working there was an interesting experience… 5 hours a day of sitting on the dark, bottom floor of the hostel, checking people in and making sure the door stayed closed. This was in exchange for a €5/night hostel bed and breakfast (that rarely appeared). The bottom floor of the hostel was the only Wi-Fi zone in the building, so I was fortunate to always have company; but the job soon became mindless and restrictive – I felt like a trapped animal and my petals began to wither as I spent most of my day sitting in a dark hostel, while the sun shined outside…  I still wonder why I stayed for so long. The cleaner of the hostel, Fatima spoke to me regularly in Arabic; none of which I ever understood but nevertheless, I’d respond in my broken French/ English and motion with my hands. Despite not understanding each other the conversation would always end with some form of unknown agreement, Fatima walking off shaking her head while I stood confused, wondering what we'd just spoken about. The manager of the hostel was another funny character - Rw, the cool, young Moroccan who used to compete in capoeira competitions with the 2 hostel owners. I don’t know how long he’d been managing Ambra for but there was no system (alike most other hostels in Essaouira). He’d never know how much money guests had paid or how many rooms were free and if there was ever a mistake, it was never his fault. Like my experience with most local, Moroccan men he persisted in his shameless and incredibly forward attempts to flirt, despite being married. 

Time went by, V was still ‘leaving in 2 days’ and R eventually started volunteering with me so I could finally have a day off. But it was Murphy’s Law and my day off was also the day the hostel had to be (conveniently) quarantined due to a bed bug invasion; it seemed the managers technique of playing musical beds and avoiding the bugs, could only work for so long. Those working at Ambra weren’t considered a priority so we were mercilessly asked to leave. R stormed out after a dispute with Rw who refused to listen to how awful the management of Ambra was and I walked out smiling, finally free from hostel work and its mundanity. 

This is when we discovered The Atlantic - the biggest hostel in Essaouira that hosted about 100 people and was known for its late night parties. Cous Cous was the nickname for the crazy chef with the 10 one-liners that you’d eventually notice repeated themselves amongst each new group of travellers. Much to our amusement, he assumed a fairly authoritarian role in the hostel despite his actual lack of authority, for he was only in charge of the kitchen. But as fun as it all was I had been living in hostels for a while now and craved my own space; so I spent a week going on missions around the medina with various locals, looking for potential apartments to rent. I viewed countless properties that ranged from small, run-down dusty spaces to beautiful, open-plan villas adorned in vines and banana trees. One night, out of slight desperation after a series of unfortunate events I sent a drunken text to my estate agent, confirming a property by Bab Marrakech… finally, my own space.  

I moved in to the apartment and like clockwork, I was hit with the flu. For a week I went M.I.A and slunk in to the quiet side of the medina, skipping the late night jam sessions. Our crew had grown larger now, encompassing D and L – two best friends and writers from New York, Le a chef/ writer from Canada and A, the sweet American girl next door. As I started to feel better, I began to miss having constant company around so R moved in to my extra room. He now had space for his nightly shenanigans and I had an amazing housemate. Meanwhile, back at the Atlantic the heat was beginning to rise - incidences of stolen property had become increasingly frequent and the thief  still remained a mystery. The staff’s method of handling the situation was to ban all outsiders, meaning R and I. Never in our lives had we been kicked out of this many hostels, for a moment I had to wonder whether it was actually us ... but just for a moment. This new rule meant there was now an awkward divide amongst the group and when the terrace tunes began on the top floor of the Atlantic, R and I would reluctantly slink back to our apartment. Occasionally, we’d have the whole group crowd around our little Moroccan-tiled living room table; but the angry knocks and shouts from our neighbours suggested that they didn’t quite enjoy our jams as much as we did… 

During the daytimes, everyone had their own routine but we’d all meet up regularly at one of our favourite local cafes, Chez Omar or the lentil stand. There was always a new member to meet and a new story to hear as the crew expanded like a growing organism. Every character in the group added a unique touch and we all shared a love for music; as we went about our daily activities, someone was constantly bursting into song or playing a tune, it was wonderful.

But no song lasts forever... so with the last gusts of wind, the notes are beginning to fade as the dominoes continue to fall and now we’re down to the final 4. We all sit together at our favourite local cafe for 'one last' Moroccan sunset. An air of love and nostalgia surrounds us as we indulge in msmen with amlou and sip on mint tea, what a magical moment by the Essaouira sea. 

Song of the day: Give me one reason (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ym1eDeOxq14) 

Stuck in the Mud

Like the Essaouira seagulls that hover in the night sky above the sea I am seemingly still; surrounded by sand dunes and a watercolour sky I’m hovering in a Moroccan dream. Today I woke up out of a 2-week mental trap; being ill calmed my body down but as my energy began to rise up again, my mind stayed down. I was locked into the routine of doing nothing. The idea of exercise, getting in the sea or seeing people felt draining and the thought of lying in the sun and eating food, a far better option. I felt the lack of movement in my body begin to slow down my mind and my inner critic began to raise its voice. I was planning the next place I needed to be: a healing retreat, a house by the sea or in the countryside maybe? Anywhere else. Escapism is a funny thing; the more I travel the more I learn that no matter how far you go you can never escape your mind. Those old patterns that we all carry around and sometimes try to run away from always rear their heads eventually. So I indulged in this self-pity for a time – finding new ways to excuse my lack of movement and eating my feelings.
And then yesterday I broke the loop; my alarm rang at 8.30am for the yoga class I was expecting to teach, the first morning class I’d had in a while. My mind was half awake and hazy on 5 hours sleep after D’s birthday sesh the night before; my eyes were tired but my body was burning for action so I got up and walked to the riad where I was teaching. As I reached the door I looked at my phone and my client had sent me a message, cancelling last minute; instead of listening to my mind and sinking back into bed I walked to the beach, dropped my bag off at my surf school and ran. I ran away from the feeling that had me stuck in my muddled mind but it remained with me all the way. I’d look at my incredible surroundings – the motionless sea to my right and the untouched sand dunes to my left. I felt like I was running along the lines of an unseen painting leaving my fading trace behind me.
But despite its beauty the anger in my mind took me away from that scene; for an hour I played a mental game of trying to see how long I could remain concentrated on my surroundings without engaging in another negative thought - how long I could remain present for. I’d last seconds before my mind would loop on the muddled mess I had created.

As I ran passed the simple fishing hits on the side of the dunes my mind began to clear. I was noticing the ridges in the sand now and the abstract stones beneath my feet with their unique patterns - a Moroccan mosaic in the sand. I had been setting goals for myself as I went like ‘run until you get to the end of the bay’ and then I’d reach ‘the end’ and look ahead at the infinite stretch of coast that wound into the mist – an endless task. My feet ached and I suddenly felt thirsty, 1.5 hours away from the surf school with no water. Whatever I was running from had passed and there was no flag at the end of the race. I stopped and stretched out – sitting cross-legged in the middle of a deserted beach with flat sand and scattered seagulls stretched as far as the eye could see. I closed my eyes, turned inwards and breathed. I’d woken up my dormant mind.
The run back felt longer than expected and the next morning my legs were not happy; but they’re no longer stuck in the mud and my mind seems to have found its escape. So now having found my balance I hover like the seagulls as though held by strings, a puppet to the wind.

Out for the weak

I’ve now been in Essaouira for about 2.5 months and my journey so far has been beautiful. I’ve written countless blogs documenting everything along the way but I feel an up to date post is more relevant for this moment in time. Up until now, I’ve been teaching yoga daily, I’ve moved into an apartment with R and have created a lovely, eclectic family with the 3 other long-timers that have been similarly unwilling to leave our wild surroundings. But over the last week, things have taken a turn and I’ve finally been weakened by the Essaouira winds. It’s interesting how fast ones perception can change when feeling low, how different ones values become. I now, truly understand why health is valued so highly when people rank what’s most important to them. I’ve never taken the time to really think about it, but sometimes it takes being weak to really appreciate how able we are when we are strong.

One lesson I repeat in my yoga classes is embodiment, finding that internal unity between mind, body and spirit – the definition of yoga. The one silver lining of being sick is that as you tune into your bodies sensitivities and begin to listen to what it needs. I’m beginning to treat myself like the delicate flower that I am but so rarely allow myself to be. Instead of indulging in my usual hedonistic pleasures (that I’m intolerant to) like fresh bread or yummy pastries, I am learning the value of self-kindness by engaging in self-discipline. I'm shifting my internal reward system and choosing to indulge in healthier things like spices, herbs and natural remedies that line these streets with abundance. For once, I am being forced to listen to the lessons that I teach my students as my body speaks louder than my manic mind.

About a week ago, I caught the Essaouira flu; I was walking along with V, holding a tissue to my nose and listening to his explanation about how virus' move through our body. Over the coming days, I experienced this downwards movement as it transitioned from a fever to a cold to a cough and then finally hit my lungs. The nights of sitting around, smoking Moroccan hash suddenly lost their romantic appeal as I walked back into the emergency section of the local hospital, for the second time in two days. My asthma was back with vengeance, it reminded me of being a little girl in India again, the only expat in a room full of locals all looking upon me with curious eyes. I'd spent so many nights as a child in Delhi hospital with a mask on my face, breathing in that familiar tasting cortisone-filled air; and then experiencing that amazing sense of relief as the steroids kicked in and my lungs relaxed against their battle to breathe. 

Today, as I sat on a local bed with a smear of dried blood on the white plastic covering beside me, I breathed deeply into my mask and began to observe. I observed the the social kindness that is created when sickness hits, for despite its inherent negativity it's something we can all understand - 'humans' as V would say. I watched an old man with a brown cloak and pointy hood come through the door; I recognised him as one of the beggars who sat against the old walls of the medina. Underneath his cloak, he pulled out a loaf of bread and some pots of yoghurt and began handing them out to the poorly women who were lying on the surrounding beds. How kind, I thought. What a beautiful gesture from someone who seems to have so little, what heart. The woman opposite me at the far end of the room offered some of her bread to the lady in the black djellaba standing next to her, who politely declined. She dug into her yoghurt, licking the lid of her pot and eating happily as she mumbled little comments in-between to whoever was listening. When she’d finished, she wiped her mouth on her hijab – an act that somewhat repulsed me as she allowed it to sit, draped around her neck, still covered in yoghurt. But no one else seemed to notice and she lay back down, content and happy.

I smiled, touched by the small act I’d had the pleasure of witnessing; when the plumes of gas had stopped coming out of the holes in the mask I was wearing, it signalled that my time was up. I motioned to the nurse that I was finished - body gestures had become our way of communicating due to my limited ability to speak Arabic or French. She gave me a nod, signalling to the door. I slipped off the bed, carefully avoiding the dodgy bloodstain beside me as I went. I walked back through the hospital, trying in vain for the second time to retrace my steps but unsurprisingly getting lost and finding myself in a very flooded car park that I didn’t recognise at all. I tiptoed along the slim, dry bit of sidewalk, feeling grateful for the ease of breathing as I walked out compared to how I’d felt when I’d walked in. A kind man sensed my confusion and directed me in French towards the exit, I felt pleased; although I couldn’t speak it, I was starting to understand a few things in French such as directions, money transactions or simple greetings... it was about time. I thanked the man and followed his instructions to the exit, where the guard politely asked how my lungs felt and wished me luck.  

I walked back through Bab Chbnat, the entrance to the Medina that lead onto my street; returning to my apartment, I packed some of my things into a bag for a few days of respite and recovery in 'Casa del Mar' that my dad was kindly offering. I wound my way along the back streets and as I turned towards where the riad was located, I was greeted by some old, familiar faces who welcomed me warmly. It’s funny how you get so caught up in little microcosms of this medina and how easy it is to rush passed and forget those you were once a part of. I settled myself into my new, warm room and sat down, listening to the sound of the sea. 'Pratyahara' as we say in yoga - withdrawal of the senses. Now is the time to slow down and turn inwards, to heal the internal disharmony, it’s time to listen. 

Message of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooq4tXH0U6Y 

Landing in Essaouira

N, K and I

I’m sitting at a local tea spot in the backstreets of Essaouira, watching the steam evaporate from my glass and taking a moment to reflect upon how I got here. It was with the click of a button that my plans officially changed and I decided to put my energy into the pop-up dream of living and teaching yoga in Morocco. It is funny, the unexpected interludes we experience in life… on one hand it surprises me how my daily routine has taken on such a different tone to what I’d imagined it would be a few months ago. But on the other hand, it doesn’t surprise me as I come to realise that the illusion lies in believing life is made up of a predictable set of events… that’s what really narrows ones potential.

I started off as a backpacker in this little town just over a month with my girls K and N – we had travelled all the way up and down the country and finally found respite by the seaside. We’d heard great things about Essaouira, the windy city that drew in many keen kite-surfers and surfers alike. The white and blue washed walls of the old medina look as though they were once vibrant colours, alive with the buzz of the 60’s. The atmosphere mimics many beach towns with its simplicity and calm; fisherman lay their morning catches out by the pier and vendors contentedly man their stalls, selling a range of colourful, flowy beach garms. But unlike anywhere else in the world, the Moroccan flare holds its own unique quality - desert men lead herds of camels draped in colourful material over sand dunes on the beach while young, good looking men gallop along beside them on stallions. 

The looks here are so varied, in the medina the older local men walk around in traditional, long cloaks with pointy hoods while most of the younger ones have that cool, surfer dude look with scruffy, bleach blonde hair and tanned skin. Many also carry a funny air of Jimi Hendrix, a celebrity name that still graces these streets since his brief visit years ago; the ‘castle’ in which he stayed located at the end of the beach is still talked about and visited regularly. The rumour that he impregnated half the city isn’t too hard to believe when you end up in conversations with a bunch of local guys with the same curly hair and flared trousers… it does make me grin. Unlike the rest of Morocco, Essaouira seems to have found a balance of traditional meets modern; the behaviour is far more relaxed and every other local asks you out for a drink despite it being forbidden by Islam. The call to prayer still sounds 5 times a day and the people are still proudly Muslim, their value system just seems to be more internalised.

During our time there we indulged in our respite, slowing down our rhythm and living a very mellow existence surfing by the beach, doing yoga on the terrace or sitting in another beautiful café. A week flew by, I was nearing the end of my summer savings and it was time to go home. But a new seed was planted, the manager of our hostel offered me free accommodation on the basis that I contribute in some way; the idea of staying in Morocco seemed mad, I couldn’t be on holiday forever let alone afford to be. But we’d noticed there were no yoga teachers in Essaouira, so we figured I could put my skills to use and sustain myself financially by teaching yoga as there was a clear gap in the market… I let the idea consume me and within 12 hours I was hooked, the thought of setting up something in Morocco rode over the idea of a cold and expensive life in London. One hazy evening as we were all sat in the wifi hub at the bottom of the hostel, I booked my plane ticket back to Essaouira.

At this point in my travels I was (unsurprisingly) lacking a working phone, bank card and warm clothes, so for practical reasons I returned to London with the girls. We were just in time to catch the first few glorious days of autumn before my next adventure was to begin. After the beach vibes of small town Essaouira going back to London was like entering a 5 day whirlwind; running around a big, busy city with heavy bags, jumping onto last minute, expensive train journeys and re-connecting with friends and family in-between. As I neared the end of it all, I breathed out a long sigh of relief at having ticked off everything on my to do list with a half a day left to pack and wind down. I thought I had it all sorted out and then I get a Facebook message from W, the hostel owner in Essaouira - Obstacle #1.

“Where are you? I’m at the airport.” – The first bought of anxiety hit me and I tried so hard to deny the possibility that I'd made the mistake. But sure enough, I’d got the date of my flight wrong and indeed, missed it. What was once a cheap, budget ticket was now a long and expensive mistake. So with great resignation, I bought another ticket back... at least I had a bit of extra time to relax and sort out the last few bits on my to do list? Silver linings eh… 

It wasn't too long before the date of my return had come back around and the cloud of anxieties had blown over me. I opened my sleepy eyes on the plane just as we were touching back down on African soil and I could finally hear the whistling winds of Essaouira. Deep breath - I'd made it! Second time lucky…?

Great new find: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p7C3lMi6dLw&list=RDp7C3lMi6dLw