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)