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
The loudspeaker crackled for the last time "Bagan! Bagan!" the bus assistant called. What relief to have arrived after yet another sleepless night spent twisting and contorting our bodies within the confines of our rigid chairs on our 'luxury' bus. It was 5am, we'd arrived half an hour earlier than expected after a 14 hour journey from Yangon. S.K our tour guide for the day stood outside the 6 seater van with a beaming smile, speaking too fast for anyone to process at that time in the morning when we could barely keep our eyes open. But he shrugged off our moans and took us to his bustling local hot spot. We sat down and shared out the hot chai that was in a flask on our table, dipping the fried bread (similar to Spanish churros) into the milky liquid. The much needed sugar rush hit us pretty fast as we snuggled comfortably into our many layers on that unexpectedly cold winter morning. S.K drove us down windy dirt roads and past huge, ancient ruins that we could barely see until the car eventually came to a stop and the high beams lit up the side of a huge pagoda that stood in front of us, still hidden by the darkness. With the lights from our phones we clambered up the pitch black staircase, feeling the cold walls around us and ducking our heads under low ceilings until we emerged onto the flat roof to watch the sun rise across the mysterious landscape.
