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) 

Gottwood

It was finally that time of the year! Like an excited schoolgirl ready for her first day, I jolted out of bed; my breathing getting shorter as my mind began to race with mental notes “tent poles? Check. Glitter? Check. Wine? Check” I took a deep breath. One step at a time. First mission: Coffee (not that I needed more stimulation...)

It was time for Gottwood, the first festival of the year located 6 hours from Bristol in Anglesey, Wales. I zoomed over to N’s house as the caffeine levels peaked, half dragging along my camping gear that was awkwardly strapped to my body. We packed the boot of his newly acquired, 1960’s baby blue Volvo, shut the bonnet and sat down to fiddle with the ancient seatbelts. As the hum of the engine began to reverberate through the leather seats, I rolled down my window, closed my eyes and felt the Bristol breeze as the first of the day’s tunes began to play.

The flow was easy as the hours passed, countless rollies were smoked and conversation continued … until we hit standstill traffic. The summer sun beat down hard on the bonnet, the temperature gage was stuck on ‘hot’ and we began to feel like a slow cooked, Sunday roast with no ‘fan assisted’ option to cool us down. “Please can the engine not blow, please can the engine not blow” was the mantra for that moment as I supressed the possibility of getting stranded in the middle of Wales.

One hour later, when patience had reached its limits, the traffic started moving and so (thankfully) did the breeze. We drove on, engine intact, brain half baked but managing to keep our cool and save the full cook up till later. It wasn’t long before we’d made it through the tedious queues, bargained down the shuttle bus driver and arrived, along with the rest of the crew to the camping spot that T and D had patiently saved… poles, pegs, mattress pumps and many hands – soon enough we’d erected a little village with I and B’s totem Bell tent adorned in fairly lights and incense, serving as a signpost and safe-haven for when the rain fell.

Gottwood was the perfect festival to start the season; the music was mostly funky house with the line-up including amazing artists such as Joy Orbison, Bradley Zero and Archie Hamilton who played in stages dotted around the Welsh woodlands; the lake-stage holding the perfect day vibes for when the rays were out and the pyramid stage, with its 3D mist-filled visuals transforming the night-time into a multidimensional reality of sorts. With our beautiful crew who could often be found slutdropping under the neon arrow held by Queen L, we wondered through the woods, dancing along and branching off to discover magical venues.

It’s funny how fast we create routines for ourselves, the motive of our waking life became the music instead of the sun; rising late-afternoon, beginning the ritual of glitter and fancy dress, packing some real nutrition in at the avocado stand followed by a caffeinated beverage of some sort: re-set, re-charged and ready. Should the griminess and overflowing portaloos get too much to bear, the glorious options of a shower or a posh poo were game changers. Although, it did rain enough for a daily cleanse (free of charge!)

I chuckle to myself as I reminisce about the first downpour. I was sat against a hay bail, talking to a beautiful stranger about our love for the elements and nature. A deep, monotonous techno tune was playing and every 4 beats, a woman’s voice would quietly chant “rain”. Sure enough, synchronicity was in effect and the droplets started arriving, rapidly picking up pace and shifting the tone of our conversation from appreciation to annoyance; we cursed the elements that we’d loved only minutes before, gave each other a squeeze and ran off to join our separate crews. We clambered into the bell tent, leaving our muddy wellies at the entrance to enter the west world of yoga and slut drops to a harmony of kumbaya… “Inhaaale” everyone lifted their arms “and exhaale”, as their eyes closed and their arms came down “OI OI OI OI OIIIII!!! CHUG IT!” We creased at the vibe-kill as the group of lads next door began chanting loudly, jeering their mate on to chug his beer and then like clockwork, L stumbled in to the centre of the circle, eyes rolling and 2 bottles in hand. What to do but laugh…

From laughing to tears, the times took an emotional twist. I truly learnt the effects of sleep deprivation due to being convinced that the festival finished a day early and pulling a premature all-nighter. I realised I’d gone from half-baked to fully frazzled when I bumped into our mate O (who we’d spent all morning with) in the middle of a crowd, looking at me as he called my name, still dressed in his policeman outfit from a few hours before. My blood froze, thinking I’d been hunted down by security and was being kicked out of the festival. I stood in shock for a few minutes before my very slow brain began to recognise him and I loosened the grip on my rucksack and broke the confused silence with a laugh. A new song came on and the rhythm continued, as it always does.

So, although there were shit moments (like when we were dancing at the pyramid stage and the guy dressed in the inflatable poo-suit popped up on top of the hay bails), most of them were incredible (like when the whole crew coincidentally found each other around a random tree, like woodland creatures responding to natures call). On the last morning, C & I were the last to leave the deserted campsite due to our deadened response to all the attempted wake up calls. I managed to luckily reclaim my phone at lost and found before we spotted N & D who’d been patiently waiting for us by the car. As we drove off in that baby blue Volvo, I smiled; still riding the buzz of the weekend and feeling the warmth of beautiful company, like an aftertaste of the Chai-rum that had always given us that much needed lift at the end of the night. Until next year, Gottwood.

Song of the day: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-s32ESIR-4 

Mix of the day: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1hIxht83h8

Wonkyville meets Neverland

My partner in crime <3

“There’s no earthly way of knowing which direction you are going, there’s no knowing where they’re rowing… or which way the river’s flowing” but my guess is that you’re heading west…

The wise words of Mr. Willy Wonka ring in my ears as I sit in my aeroplane seat, contemplating, re-living and releasing the locomotion of the last 2 weeks. All the cabin windows are closed, the lights are off and for all I know, we may be flying west? But while the concept of zooming over huge masses of ocean and land in a giant metal bird in the sky is still utterly baffling, nothing can quite beat how perplexed I felt the moment that I stood around the kitchen table in that grand stately home 2 weeks ago...

Although I shall try, there’s no point in writing this blog in chronological order as the concept of time becomes merely a word to encompass the entirety of our experience (that I so wish could last forever). The experience I refer to is the event we had all been waiting for … the one you spend half the year anticipating and the other half recovering from/ in a state of denial that it’s all over. I’ll take you through a bit of the magic to tickle your tentacles and ignite your imaginations. Feeling perplexed already? So was I, I’ll let you decide which moment may describe why…

Awards night...

We had returned to Neverland… Day 1 was surprisingly civilised as girls flowed around in floor length gowns while boys drifted, suited and booted with endless glasses of bubbly in hand. We sat gracefully in our assigned seats around white tables in the expertly converted games room for ‘The Captains Awards Night’. But it didn’t take long for the clock to strike 12 and the transformation from civilised society to wreck-head ravers to begin. Conversations sped up and nonsense filled the air and we raised our glasses to the long awaited annual affair.

Disjointed conversations, after party bliss, morning yoga and chocolate bits. 30+ hours of no sleep and it was suddenly dark again… “So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it. Thank you.”

The activity of the 2^nd evening? Disco dodgeball. I stood at the corner of the table in the kitchen dressed as an oompa lumpa, having a seemingly normal conversation with a crew of life-size, animated childhood heroes. It was like an acid trip had come to life. A minion stood next to me, chatting politics to a member of the Jamaican bobsled team, while a Dalmatian mixed a cocktail for a member of the SWAT team who was sensually brandishing his leather whip… everyone’s pupils were wide in anticipation for the games to begin.

And indeed they did. I looked over the heads of a bizarre array of characters, searching for my team of orange oompa lumpa’s. I soon spotted the mass of green curls and orange faces bobbing along outside, struggling to walk straight through the cold, hurricane-like wind in-between the house and the games room.

Everyone went quiet as the MC announced into the microphone ‘IT’S TIME TO PLAYYY DODGEBALLL!!’ The rules were explained and the first team ran onto the court, grooving to their entrance song of choice against the opposition; the winner of the dance off, determined which team started first.

TEAM

We bobbed along to what should’ve been (http://youtu.be/DoFeHA587GI) and needless to say the lack of sleep and my flickering eyes hindered my ability to dance, let alone last in the game for longer than 30 seconds. So I took my rightful place on the side-lines to watch the other teams battle it out. When my body could bob no longer I made the sensible decision to take myself to bed just as the heat in the Chapel was rising and Saturday Night fever was set to begin (on a lit up disco dance-floor, divided by lines and devoured by glitter fro’s that were shaking to some funky disco beats https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBR2G-iI3-I).

A kitchen of characters

I awoke on that sunny Sunday morning having sadly missed Saturday night’s groove, surrounded by sleeping disco-queens in an unknown bedroom. I looked into one of the million mirrors that were scattered around the house, wiping away flakes of baby powder to assess my situation… it looked like I’d spent too long in a tanning booth as I peered at the residue of orange face paint… what a bedraggled oompa lumpa I had become. I chuckled, washed my face, shook into my body glove and with a cup of coffee in hand, stepped outside. With the help of some sexy morning tunes (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DofQMszmOOM) all the tiredness and weird residue of the fun guys chocolate nibbles from the previous day, just seemed to melt away.

Dirty Disney 

The day consisted of re-grounding and resetting, grinding my teeth against some actual nutrition before the lid of Pandora’s box opened and the toys again sprung to life. My Mrs. Willy Wonky doppelgänger appeared and I got into character, handing out a spread of golden tickets and special treats. That evening as I sat at the kitchen table I was joined by a new array of mixed company; it was like that game ‘who would you have at your dinner table if you could choose anyone?’ Next to me, sat a giant whoopee cushion (that #lookedlikePaolo), a Mario cart mushroom and micky mouse… with a baby doll lying face down on the table.

I listened in on talk of mysterious golden tickets that were being found in wonka bars, hmm… “Little surprises around every corner… but nothing dangerous” I hoped…

And as the lights became blurry and words got more slurry, I hopped on the boat and began rowing, with no idea what direction I was going… through a secret passage and out we emerged, into a land of cocoa powder, Malibu and milk!

My long lost husband Mr. Willy Wonka was setting the scene, telling his childhood tale, accompanied by a giant oompa lumpa who kept the vibes heading in one direction… west, only west. The childish tone soon took a turn as the musical conductors moved the kit into the grandest of dining rooms and things transformed from perfectly playful, to wonderfully wild: Out came glitter nips and lucky dips into bags of magic as we moved and grooved (while some sensibly snoozed) before the clock struck and the countdown to the end was to begin…

Post-party vision

We all ran and rushed,

Looking bedraggled and flushed,

Hoovering glitter in a bleary haze,

We tried our best to clean before the wedding day,

That was occurring in that house in which we were to leave no trace,

If only I could’ve mustered a smile on my face…

Likened to a bunch of animals by the caretaker was not a surprise,

For I could still see the wildness in all those sleep deprived eyes…

And as though the party could never end,

We hopped in cars with a few of our friends,

For a ‘civilised’ lunch at a local pub,

A nap in the pub...

We were well in need for some well-cooked grub.

While some continued to pop and bump,

Others had hit a little slump,

So we lay on the carpet beside the lunch table,

(This all seems surreal but I assure you, it’s no fable.)

After a little nap we were back on form!

Determined not to let the smiles turn to scorn.

So a ‘spa’ became the next destination,

Was it to live up to our expectations?

We all drove along, expecting facials and a much needed rest,

Only to arrive at the ‘hotel’ that I’d describe as average at best.

But we soldiered on, despite our energy wearing thin,

And the temperature of the pool feeling nothing but grim…

Some tunes perked us up, as did R’s blue wig and red gown,

That she had not taken off, for she refused to come down :) 

We sat together on Devon beach to watch the sky melt away,

Sensing our slow return from Neverland with the dying day…

Devon Beach (Creds to A. Gold)

It’s now been 2 weeks and in-between I turned 22,

LOST festival, Bristol

Getting LOST in a maze with another beautiful crew.

Topless and free, our spirits ran wild,

And I returned to that liberated, carefree inner-child.

I cannot express my awe, gratitude and love for you Captain and team,

As you have risen above every expectation and dream.

That goes for each and every wonderful person that I’ve met

And what excites me the most is it’s not over yet!

I apologise for the wonky direction that this piece has taken,

Santa Teresa Bernini is a statue in Rome that
they believe was continuously sent orgasms
by god. She hence comes to represents pure ecstasy
and bliss (and although this message slightly takes the piss
I felt it was an appropriate one that could not go amiss ;) )

It started as a blog but I was mistaken,

For poetry has been my means of expression,

To release and re-live the years best session.

I’d like to end with a note of academic value,

For even though she is only a statue,

What she represents is something I’ve been feeling for the last 2 weeks,

As though my heart has skipped a million beats:

Santa Teresa Bernini (on the left) is a statue in Italy,

The description underneath explains it all blissfully...

As a group of west-heads, look how far we have we come?

Captain I hope the grief you’ve ensued has not spoiled all your fun,

For you are a maker and creator of joy,

I’ve never known what it’s like to truly live like a toy!

Thanks again, I can’t wait until next time,

And that shall be the end of this (way too lengthy) rhyme. <3

Where the magic happens...
(Creds to Bateman)