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| N, K and I |
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. W
“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
