The last of Ibiza

I wrote the following during my last week of summer in late September, 2017. A tad late, you could say given that I have since left Ibiza, moved to London, the seasons have changed and the snow has fallen and melted away. But this piece has remained, compartmentalised until I was in a space to unravel and re-wrap my memories of those mad, few months. It is not until now, as I sit on another flight, bound for another part of the world that I’m finally ready to wander back and tie up those last, loose strings…

27.09.2017

It is sunset as I write this blog, sitting on our makeshift lawn, on the top of our rooftop in San Matteu, Ibiza. I look above my screen at the pale blue sky with its streaks of pastel pink that are slightly hidden behind purple clusters of cloud. A thin, white slice of crescent moon hangs, unsuspectingly in the background. How beautiful it all is. The temperature is dropping now that autumn is coming, so I slip into my woollen jumper that has been tucked away in the depths of my wardrobe all summer - a sure sign that the season is truly coming to an end.

Trippy trips to trippy trees 

I think back to the beginning. I had chosen to spend my first few weeks fully absorbing the magic of everything and completely free from the constraints of work and routine. But realistically, that life was only destined to last for so long. Early one morning, I remember sitting in this exact spot, wondering whether I’d actually last the season; I now understood how expensive life was here and was already down to my last few pennies. So I meditated and set the intention on manifesting work; within 2 days I was suddenly absorbed in a busy new routine, working 6 nights a week behind a busy, Spanish bar at Can Cires, the local restaurant down the road. While it was tough, boy was I grateful. The islands magic lifted me up and spun me around and my job grounded me and brought me back down; it was the balancing force I desperately needed.

Yesterday was my last shift, so I chucked in my uniform, collected my pay and said my goodbyes. I strolled down the road and sat on the steps of the San Matteu church with B (the other waitress who I’d grown so fond of). We sipped on cañas and puffed on porros, laughing about our last few months together. We had survived the the wrath of our feisty boss, V; laughed through all the totally bizaare moments with the quirky chef, F (proud owner of a pet parrot and a donkey) and rolled our eyes each time one of the male waiters was fired or walked out (for one reason or another). The local drunks sat through it all, perching harmlessly on their bar stools and drinking their regular brew, night after night. B had trained me up tirelessly to meet the pedantic standards of V and F and now that we had finally found an easy flow, it was time to go.

The rooftop in the A.M

Sunrise jams

Beyond the working bubble, my favourite scenes of this summer surround the connections I’ve made to the special souls that this island attracts and the natural beauty that it has to offer. I smile as I remember the mornings when we would arrive back to this villa, our feet sore from dancing after another surreal night out with a beautiful crew. We’d make ourselves cosy, grab the guitar and sit out on this rooftop, jamming to our hearts content… and then our jaws would drop at the beauty of the sun rising above the misty mountains; the landscapes and colours forming a live painting, dancing across the colour spectrum; the sky’s here, are like nowhere else in the world.

Magical connections

The pink hues of the sunrise merge in my mind with the pink rock from another of my favourite moments a few weeks ago... We had been told of a secret cave that only a few knew about (or so we liked to think). It was a 15 minute swim off the bay of a paradise beach that we had gathered on for the day. We all jumped off the pier and swam through the deep blue water, splashing around like playful dolphins. Our friend who had been there before eventually spotted the obscure, dark hole on the inside of the rock face so we paddled closer. We took turns choosing our moment to flow with the surge of the wave, narrowly ducking our heads under the jagged rock. What we discovered inside was magical. We each held our breath and dived under the wall of rock that was submerged about 1m deep in the centre of the cave. I came up for air, wiped the salty water out of my eyes and looked around me in awe at the pink rock rising out of the turquoise water; it was truly spectacular. We climbed out and lay our beautiful, half naked bodies against it, illuminated by a stream of sunlight that shone through the gap. Those were the special moments.

R and I at Es Vedra rock

The window into our room

R and I spent my last few days saying our goodbyes and trying to tick off as many adventures on our bucket list as we could. So much of this summer had consisted of amazing nights out watching DJ’s (that I still can’t name) and although it had been great fun, we now craved a bit of simplicity and calm; tapaz in a local Spanish bar, cañas on the beach, a trip to Es Vedra, perhaps? On one of my last afternoons, we were sitting in a quaint café in Ibiza town, sipping on a coffee. On a public bench nearby sat four elderly locals. They were just sitting and chatting about their day, enjoying long, silent pauses in-between their sentences. I looked at each of their worn, wrinkly faces that held such character. How content they all looked. The old faces of Ibiza, enjoying life’s simplicity; that’s what I craved.

Calm.

The sun has set now and the sky is again alight with stars. R and I have made it through the season in this beautiful, hectic, 10 person, fear and loathing-esque villa and we've come out the other end more connected than ever. Despite the amazing moments, I have seen and learned about the darkness and corruption that exists beneath this hedonistic, party island and its effect on the people it draws in. So as a final gesture, I let go of my flowery vision of Ibiza being an island filled with hippies in the hills; I'm not sure if I will return again next year. But I will take away the memories, the great lessons I have learned and an experience that will last a lifetime. A huge, heartfelt thank you to R, for introducing me to a whole new world. Now it’s time for the next adventure of life in London!

Ibiza begins

Beautiful Ibiza

Life has taken a few new turns and flipped 180° in the last couple of weeks; I went from having quiet days in Devon to silent nights in Islay and then finally flew back to England where the riddim changed again... R and his mates held their first event 'Moonlight' on the rooftop of an abandoned building in the middle of Birmingham; it was pure magic that was created that night amongst friends and family. A day later, as the sparkles were fading from our eyes we boarded a plane to... Ibiza.

And now we're finally settled in our new home! After all the commotion of the last few weeks, I sat still and closed my eyes; the shrill song of crickets permeated my eardrums and the odd interlude of birdsong added a sweet contrast to the harsh, dry morning. It's August now, a notoriously hot month in Ibiza; at 10am, the sun is already beating down on the pine trees and the dust particles from the roads are steadily rising. Our stark white villa and the few others that can be seen scattered around the red, earthy landscape glow like diamonds in a baron land. The turquoise pool in front of me adds to the mirage as do the beautiful tanned boys and girls that are intermittently draped around the poolside in teeny weeny bikini bottoms with bare nipples, it is all pretty surreal; DJ's, clubs, villa's, beaches, blue blue seas, breathtaking skylines and the most stunning selection of people as though each one has been carefully selected for a beach holiday shoot. I marvel at the sights; gorgeous girls parading their clubs logo down the beach to the beats of their resident DJ's, big hunky lads in tiny shorts strutting along Bora Bora beach with their guns blazing, eyes bulging and faces full of glitter; stray rastas blissed out with grins on their faces and celebrity couples sipping on cocktails at 'Cafe del Mar'.

Happy happy days

But aside from the flash and the grime of the party scene, I'm also discovering another side to Ibiza life. One evening, soon after I'd arrived a few of us lay on the rooftop watching the milky way and the vast expanse of stars in the night sky; when all the lights are off in the middle of the country side the view of the sky is so crystal clear. The wise words of Alan Watts dubbed over a spacey backing track sounded through the speakers; the perfect soundtrack as we all lay, humbled by the grandiosity of the universe that engulfed us. With each shooting star I saw, I repeated the affirmation that I'd been meditating on; I trust that I will find a routine that is creative, fun and fulfulling. I went to sleep that night with stars in my eyes.

N's birthday breakfast

The next day I decided to join my housemate L on a run. I wanted to get out of the villa, shake off the session and attempt to understand the geography of our surroundings. 10 of us share this beautiful villa that is situated in a remote spot between two lovely towns, Santa Gertrudis and Sant Matteu in North Ibiza. There is not a lot when it comes to surrounding infrastructure besides a few other villas that only hold aesthetic value. We tied our laces and started off, leaving a trail of dust behind us. We ran along the rows of pine trees that offered some much needed shade from the searing heat of the midday sun. As we curled around the windy roads we passed the idyllic little church that sits gracefully next to the other simple, rustic buildings that make up this pueblito (mini town). There were two little restaurants dotted along the side of the road and outside one in capital letters was written  'YOGA' - an unmistakable sign. I jogged through the dark, wooden door frame, red faced and out of breath to try my luck and potentially land a very convenient teaching gig. The owner listened to L and I blurt out all the Spanish we could think of in an attempt to get me a job. He listened to what we had to say, displaying no sign of amusement and then explained that they did not need any yoga teachers but perhaps they needed a waitress. He told me to return the next day to speak to his wife so I jogged on with their business card in hand, feeling hopeful that something new was on the horizon. 

A beautiful visit from J!

Ibiza famalam

The next day I went to speak to the owners wife... I'd debated going because I was feeling slightly anxious about my Spanish interview skills and had not yet been to sleep after my first all nighter at DC10. But R gave me a pep talk and after a lot of reassuring self-talk I decided to man up, change into some new clothes and walk there to build up some energy, it was only around the corner after all... I lead us down a beautiful road lined with pine trees just like the one we'd been down the other day. But after about 20 minutes we were still walking and there was no little church in sight... another 20 minutes passed and the heat began to do funny things to my brain. I sat down in the middle of the road, like a cross little girl waiting to be given an ice cream and carried the rest of the way. It was too hot to keep going and my confidence regarding my directional skills had veered off at the last bend. R sat down with me, positive as always and we talked it out until I was ready to carry on; we had to get out of the middle of the road at some point. Sweat was dripping down my face and as I stood up my dress stuck to my body, that shower I'd just had felt like it was so long ago now. The dry landscape was losing its romantic appeal as the never ending road wiggled in front of us for miles with no sign of a church. R pulled his phone out and good ol' Google Maps saved the day; I'm all about nature walks but it must be said, technology is bloody great sometimes. 1 hour after leaving the house, we'd arrived at the restaurant 'down the road'... it seemed we had gone down the wrong road to begin with and my directional skills perhaps needed a bit of fine tuning but at least we'd had a nice walk? 

Road breaks

The restaurant Can Cires was sweet; typically Spanish, quaint and rustic. As R and I waited for the owners wife, V to appear, a bright green parrot that was perched on the top of a chair looked at us with its beady red eyes incessantly repeating 'hola, hola, hola'. Bloody hell, what was I doing having a job interview after a session, I covered my head with my hands and took a deep breath. V came over to us and sat down; thankfully, she spoke English so half the pressure was off. I told her my story and she explained her vision. She wanted to bring the community together and create something different with the space but she needed someone to help create it. She showed us the beautiful, new outdoor yoga studio in the back garden with a view of the pine forests; a light breeze blew through and the cry of crickets began. We sat down on a wooden bench and began brainstorming ideas about holding yoga classes, workshops, talks... R mentioned that I loved to cook, the seed was planted and suddenly we were talking logistics of how to host an Indian themed dinner for 30 people... in one weeks time... what!? We left that restaurant 40 minutes later feeling completely baffled and overjoyed. That went better than expected, I thought. A creative opportunity to teach yoga, bring people together and hold creative events!? Yes. Manifestation: the process of giving energy to your dreams and turning them into your reality. It is a beautiful thing. 

As we walked home I felt grateful; the heat didn't matter now, the nerves had gone and the calm was setting in. We walked passed a small opening in the pine trees and I held R's hand and lead him through the gap into a clearing in the forest. The floor was covered with a bouncy layer of dried pine needles. We lay down and looked up through the circle of blue sky above our heads. I could feel the special quality of this island, it is built on crystal rock after all... I get the feeling that it has the effect of amplifying your intentions and I was learning to just be patient and let it happen. I was no longer in the rat race and things flowed at a different pace now, it was OK to slow down. The branches of the trees swayed lightly in the breeze; after being vertical on the tarmac road in the heat of the day, surrendering to gravity brought a real sense of relief. I felt like I was looking down on us lying there in the dappled sunlight, surrounded by pine needles; it was like the closing scene of a movie...

After a while, we stood up and began wondering back. Around the last bend on a stone by the side of the road sat a little, old Spanish lady, Una Abuelita. Her face was worn and full of brown wrinkles from the Spanish sun. She wore a simple, blue dress and a pair of sandals and was sat in the shade with her hands on her knees just observing life. What a beautiful scene, I thought. So simple and symbolic of local life here that functions at its own pace and pays respect to the importance of stillness and rest. It was a nice contrast to the non-stop movement of the parties, the glitz and the glamour. There is so much magic to absorb every moment here. R and I have carefully created our space of stillness within the locomotion and we are now diving head first in to the deep blue waters of this Mediterranean paradise. Over the next few days we began to discover what was beneath the surface as we engaged in our first creative pursuit, a night in India. To get there was a wavy journey to say the least but I'll save that for next time...

Song of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25KdkTipTJ0 

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