Brownie's Morocco Mission - Part 2
This is the second part of Bryan's Moroccon travelogue - make sure you read Part 1 first!
Tifnifs spots had been named by the Aussies the trip before, not knowing their true names. Benno’s was a sick little peak in the sandy bay and had us surfed out in the first few days. Dinner from Mat’s Grill was an extremely festive occasion on which numerous elaborate meals were prepared whilst those camping in close proximity ate bread and peanut butter. Excess was in order and we eagerly anticipated stuffing our faces each day.
As the sun sunk below the horizon, being in the West Sahara, the temperatures plummet to near freezing. The coals from dinner’s fire were placed under each camper’s chair, warming our legs and backs to toast. This, and about all the clothes one could muster. ‘Ben’s dog’ was a distant alternative; the fleas would kill on contact. I had been eying the point and its potential when swell eventually hit. One morning dawned crisp, with fanning off shores and blue sky and sea. Each set seemed to grow in size until I could no longer just watch. Fumbling to get my board and suit and spitting gibberish to the rest of the crew, I bolted up to the point, leaving them to follow at leisure.
It was Game On! Mullet Point, named after Mat’s mullet he had grown to win a bet, was cranking and I was the only person on it. The first 10 wave set nailed me as I was paddling out. It was flawless, grinding down the point, sand boils accentuating its curves up the face. I sat patiently waiting for the next long range ground swell to come. Looming on the horizon building in intensity, the corrugations drew nearer. I positioned myself just behind the rising boils, let three waves go by in awe and swung on the fourth.
Driving off the bottom, a huge wall feathered and I summoned all my energy for speed blur mode. I pulled in under the cascading lip and stood arms reaching for the roof, which was a few feet above.
I bulleted out and carved back to the pit, a boil signaling the next section. Deeper, longer, wider! What a wave! Eeeeeeeha!
As the sun sunk below the horizon, being in the West Sahara, the temperatures plummet to near freezing. The coals from dinner’s fire were placed under each camper’s chair, warming our legs and backs to toast. This, and about all the clothes one could muster. ‘Ben’s dog’ was a distant alternative; the fleas would kill on contact. I had been eying the point and its potential when swell eventually hit. One morning dawned crisp, with fanning off shores and blue sky and sea. Each set seemed to grow in size until I could no longer just watch. Fumbling to get my board and suit and spitting gibberish to the rest of the crew, I bolted up to the point, leaving them to follow at leisure.
It was Game On! Mullet Point, named after Mat’s mullet he had grown to win a bet, was cranking and I was the only person on it. The first 10 wave set nailed me as I was paddling out. It was flawless, grinding down the point, sand boils accentuating its curves up the face. I sat patiently waiting for the next long range ground swell to come. Looming on the horizon building in intensity, the corrugations drew nearer. I positioned myself just behind the rising boils, let three waves go by in awe and swung on the fourth.
Driving off the bottom, a huge wall feathered and I summoned all my energy for speed blur mode. I pulled in under the cascading lip and stood arms reaching for the roof, which was a few feet above.
I bulleted out and carved back to the pit, a boil signaling the next section. Deeper, longer, wider! What a wave! Eeeeeeeha!
 Mullet Point going off |
 Sunset in the Western Sahara |
I surfed for 45 minutes before another soul was in the line-up. I giggled and screamed. I whooped and beamed. This was the Morocco and my dreams. I surfed my brains out that day with a maximum of 6 friends in the water, all claming each other’s waves. Even getting accidentally burned on the best wave of the day didn’t harm my vibe. One for the Gods!
That evening, over dinner, we related each others rides and those of our own. Mellowing in the after glow of a fantastic day, one which rates in the top 5 surfs of my life, slugging back a few cold ones, feeling the ache in shoulders and back, alive and loving it!
That evening a visitor came out of the dark into camp. He introduced himself as “Captain” and proceeded to sit down on his rolled up sleeping bag. From his satchel, he pulled a round flat wrapped parcel of bread, broke a piece and handed the rest to us. From his rambling mixture of Burber, Arabic, French, English and Italian, he was a fisherman on land for the swell pulse. More significantly, his emphatic statement that in 2 days from this night, the swell was to grow to six meters! He bade us a heartfelt goodnight to trundle off home for some mint tea, hash and a good book.
The swell had risen overnight and it was clear the Captain knew something we didn’t. A team gathering had the consensus for us to drive North after a stopover at Taghazout for a shower, meal and a warm bed for the evening, leaving Tifnif behind for the next adventure. A phone call home to tell the folks 11000 km away in SA that I was ok was needed to restore calm. The internet confirmed the Captain’s sentiments. Two huge lows in the Arctic Circle were bearing down south to rock Morocco, three days before my departure home!
That evening, over dinner, we related each others rides and those of our own. Mellowing in the after glow of a fantastic day, one which rates in the top 5 surfs of my life, slugging back a few cold ones, feeling the ache in shoulders and back, alive and loving it!
That evening a visitor came out of the dark into camp. He introduced himself as “Captain” and proceeded to sit down on his rolled up sleeping bag. From his satchel, he pulled a round flat wrapped parcel of bread, broke a piece and handed the rest to us. From his rambling mixture of Burber, Arabic, French, English and Italian, he was a fisherman on land for the swell pulse. More significantly, his emphatic statement that in 2 days from this night, the swell was to grow to six meters! He bade us a heartfelt goodnight to trundle off home for some mint tea, hash and a good book.
The swell had risen overnight and it was clear the Captain knew something we didn’t. A team gathering had the consensus for us to drive North after a stopover at Taghazout for a shower, meal and a warm bed for the evening, leaving Tifnif behind for the next adventure. A phone call home to tell the folks 11000 km away in SA that I was ok was needed to restore calm. The internet confirmed the Captain’s sentiments. Two huge lows in the Arctic Circle were bearing down south to rock Morocco, three days before my departure home!
 Like St Francis, only brown instead of all white! |
 Long as you don't mind the rocks, it's all good |
I would have to make my way to Marakesh from Saffi so I loaded all my possessions into Mat’s Transit, bade a final farewell to Amhed and a few other locals in Taghazout and we were off north.
The winding road along the coast, through valleys and over dried river beds, saw a change in scenery from desert like landscapes to a more Mediterranean climate. But the familiar dwellings never let us forget we were in Morocco. We arrived late that evening, camping on a beach, just south of Saffi. I could hear the surf roaring as the swell grew to a thunderous drumming in my ears. Ras Al Affa was not to be taken lightly, I was told, and I slept uneasily that night.
“The head of the coiled serpent” or Ras Al Affa, north of the port city of Saffi, was breathing fire from deep within its watery belly. Our crew were the first to arrive and weren’t too sure about the set-up of this beast. I sat blinking as another wave smeared itself down the point, only meters away from dry rock, thinking, “Is this really Morocco?”
A whole bunch of locals started arriving to look and a few headed out. Silence hit the car park as a flashy 4X4 rolled in and a guy, Lorant, climbed out. There were a few mutterings of disgust, a few resentful hand-shakes and a strong mood that was brought in by this arrival.
Later I was to learn that he is a French expat who believes he is more Moroccan than the locals. He owns a surf camp north of Saffi and “found” Ras Al Affa. He was not cool, although he tried really hard. He told Ben off in the water, “Next time my board, your face. You are lucky to be in Morocco!” How rich!
Overheard in the car park by another French expat that evening, “I’ve known him for 25 years and he’s always been an asshole!” The locals apologized on his behalf and that was weird but cool of them.
The winding road along the coast, through valleys and over dried river beds, saw a change in scenery from desert like landscapes to a more Mediterranean climate. But the familiar dwellings never let us forget we were in Morocco. We arrived late that evening, camping on a beach, just south of Saffi. I could hear the surf roaring as the swell grew to a thunderous drumming in my ears. Ras Al Affa was not to be taken lightly, I was told, and I slept uneasily that night.
“The head of the coiled serpent” or Ras Al Affa, north of the port city of Saffi, was breathing fire from deep within its watery belly. Our crew were the first to arrive and weren’t too sure about the set-up of this beast. I sat blinking as another wave smeared itself down the point, only meters away from dry rock, thinking, “Is this really Morocco?”
A whole bunch of locals started arriving to look and a few headed out. Silence hit the car park as a flashy 4X4 rolled in and a guy, Lorant, climbed out. There were a few mutterings of disgust, a few resentful hand-shakes and a strong mood that was brought in by this arrival.
Later I was to learn that he is a French expat who believes he is more Moroccan than the locals. He owns a surf camp north of Saffi and “found” Ras Al Affa. He was not cool, although he tried really hard. He told Ben off in the water, “Next time my board, your face. You are lucky to be in Morocco!” How rich!
Overheard in the car park by another French expat that evening, “I’ve known him for 25 years and he’s always been an asshole!” The locals apologized on his behalf and that was weird but cool of them.
 Ras Al Affa going mental |
 The Serpent about to strike |
There were a handful of surfers on the first day. The locals went way up to the top. Some nearly lost brains on the bed rock, others tried to look like ostriches with heads in the sand. All of them charged. One dude got the squarest barrel I’ve ever seen. It was scary.
It wasn’t quite “on” but the size and power were awesome. My 6’6 and me had become quite well acquainted in the last few weeks and stroking into some beasts, easing off the bottom to stand in two story plus tubes was something I haven’t done too often. It was epic. Seeing how treacherous the top end of the point was, I had doubts weather my medical coverage would even come into the equation. After a few hours of dodging hell men, getting tubed off my nut and laying down the old rail carve, I called it quits.
I had one last surf after getting money from a hole in the wall ATM (Travelers Cheques suck) and buying a bus ticket to Marakesh at 17h30. I was sure the old man didn’t have a clue what was going on, even less than I had. I made the bus with minutes to spare. Being a holy holiday the following day the bus was crammed. In the hold, unsuspecting sheep stood blinking from the sudden light, unaware of the fate that bestowed them.
Tomorrow was to be the great feast of Ibrhaim where sheep are slaughtered and the whole of Morocco and the Muslim world celebrates. This, unfortunately, I was going to miss. Boards and bag stowed, I bade a last farewell to Jerry and climbed on, clenching my ticket in my hand. There was only standing room and the only available space was a patch at the back door for bags. I promptly sat down, thankful to have made the bus. I got a few animated stares from the locals, “Look at this crazy white oke”. I imagined them saying “Sitting on the floor like that, no culture!”
It wasn’t quite “on” but the size and power were awesome. My 6’6 and me had become quite well acquainted in the last few weeks and stroking into some beasts, easing off the bottom to stand in two story plus tubes was something I haven’t done too often. It was epic. Seeing how treacherous the top end of the point was, I had doubts weather my medical coverage would even come into the equation. After a few hours of dodging hell men, getting tubed off my nut and laying down the old rail carve, I called it quits.
I had one last surf after getting money from a hole in the wall ATM (Travelers Cheques suck) and buying a bus ticket to Marakesh at 17h30. I was sure the old man didn’t have a clue what was going on, even less than I had. I made the bus with minutes to spare. Being a holy holiday the following day the bus was crammed. In the hold, unsuspecting sheep stood blinking from the sudden light, unaware of the fate that bestowed them.
Tomorrow was to be the great feast of Ibrhaim where sheep are slaughtered and the whole of Morocco and the Muslim world celebrates. This, unfortunately, I was going to miss. Boards and bag stowed, I bade a last farewell to Jerry and climbed on, clenching my ticket in my hand. There was only standing room and the only available space was a patch at the back door for bags. I promptly sat down, thankful to have made the bus. I got a few animated stares from the locals, “Look at this crazy white oke”. I imagined them saying “Sitting on the floor like that, no culture!”
 All that JBay practice helps in Morocco |
 Morocco travel missions |
The conductor made his way down the aisle and when he got to me, I held out my ticket and he took it in hand. Looking at it, a frown broke out over his face until a snarl erupted from within. He said something to me in Arabic and I smiled and shrugged my shoulders in an apologetic way. People started to look and I got progressively more uncomfortable. He shouted back to the driver and then shouted at me, pointing at the ticket and his watch.
The other passengers gestured for me to sit down and one man, old and weathered, stood and at the top of his voice stated something and sat again so as not to lose his seat. The bus erupted in laughter and all 96 odd turned and looked to see what was going on. In the mean while, the bus was going but I had not idea it was doubling back to the station.
The conductor carried on shouting the whole time and waving the ticket “Yes”, I said, “This old man at the ticket office sold me that ticket for the last bus to Marrakesh at 17.30 for 30 Dirram”. But things were about to get worse. The sun had just set and an orange glow lay ominously to the west. What was going on?
Suddenly the back door opened and a mob of about 50 gesticulating, spitting and screaming men were dragging me and my small bag off the bus. Maybe the sacrifices were starting early and I was it!
It was clearly Gestapo tactics, without the bright light. The conductor was in the midst of the throng, waving my ticket, now much worse for wear.
The other passengers gestured for me to sit down and one man, old and weathered, stood and at the top of his voice stated something and sat again so as not to lose his seat. The bus erupted in laughter and all 96 odd turned and looked to see what was going on. In the mean while, the bus was going but I had not idea it was doubling back to the station.
The conductor carried on shouting the whole time and waving the ticket “Yes”, I said, “This old man at the ticket office sold me that ticket for the last bus to Marrakesh at 17.30 for 30 Dirram”. But things were about to get worse. The sun had just set and an orange glow lay ominously to the west. What was going on?
Suddenly the back door opened and a mob of about 50 gesticulating, spitting and screaming men were dragging me and my small bag off the bus. Maybe the sacrifices were starting early and I was it!
It was clearly Gestapo tactics, without the bright light. The conductor was in the midst of the throng, waving my ticket, now much worse for wear.
 It's the bus...or the camel! |
 Looking a lot like the Eastern Cape |
“Do any of you people speak any English? Ok, no!” Ten more joined in the tourist bash. Well, maybe I looked a little Moroccan, Traditional jacket, bearded, unwashed and tanned, trying to pull a fast one?!
The bus started moving. Shit! My stuff was still in the hold! I broke the crowd and ran in front of the bus. Tinamin Square style, I stood my ground. The bus ground to a halt, and then I clicked.
The ticket, the watch, the conductor, the language barrier, it was all so clear. I was sold the wrong ticket, right bus, wrong time. In a flash, I grabbed the conductor and showing him my disgust said “30 Dirram sa va!” Immediately his attitude changed and he wrote me a new ticket. I handed him the cash, gave a finger to the crazed crowd and got back on the bus.
Two elderly French couples were sitting right at the front and stared wide eyed at this man climbing on after victoriously defeating the Saffi Bus Station Heavies. “I am not happy” I said to the driver who coldly dismissed me with the back of his hand. The bus was silent, in awe one could say. Wild eyes, curious children, stunned.
Back to where I was, uncomfortable on the floor on the baggage shelf. These Moroccans are crazy.
The old man, the jester, stood after a kilometer down the road and proclaimed in the loudest, happiest voice, something that made even the conductor break down into tears. I laughed; people gave me thumbs up, toothless grins and a pat or two on the back. I felt like a hero, triumphant against all odds, struggling to get home. Just needed to make my connecting flight to London and then to South Africa.
I was glowing so much, heart roaring, head whirling. The jester’s hand found my cloak in the dark and motioned me closer. Two stops, I figured, and he’ll be off and I should sit in comfort.
“INSHALA” he whispered, touching his heart. “God willing we meet again”. He took my hand and shook it heartily. Old and tattered, the jester who diffused the scene was my hero. “Inshala”, I said, “Inshala!”
A last crazed night in Marrakesh was all that was needed to make me long for home comforts. The boys at Number 1 were so pleased to see me and laid it all out for me and a fellow Ali backpacker. We feasted on all delights. I tipped generously, feeling so free and self discovered. All the experiences flooding my thoughts, taking me back. Friends new, waves surfed, times shared, moments captured.
Swirling ………………………….
Till next time!
The bus started moving. Shit! My stuff was still in the hold! I broke the crowd and ran in front of the bus. Tinamin Square style, I stood my ground. The bus ground to a halt, and then I clicked.
The ticket, the watch, the conductor, the language barrier, it was all so clear. I was sold the wrong ticket, right bus, wrong time. In a flash, I grabbed the conductor and showing him my disgust said “30 Dirram sa va!” Immediately his attitude changed and he wrote me a new ticket. I handed him the cash, gave a finger to the crazed crowd and got back on the bus.
Two elderly French couples were sitting right at the front and stared wide eyed at this man climbing on after victoriously defeating the Saffi Bus Station Heavies. “I am not happy” I said to the driver who coldly dismissed me with the back of his hand. The bus was silent, in awe one could say. Wild eyes, curious children, stunned.
Back to where I was, uncomfortable on the floor on the baggage shelf. These Moroccans are crazy.
The old man, the jester, stood after a kilometer down the road and proclaimed in the loudest, happiest voice, something that made even the conductor break down into tears. I laughed; people gave me thumbs up, toothless grins and a pat or two on the back. I felt like a hero, triumphant against all odds, struggling to get home. Just needed to make my connecting flight to London and then to South Africa.
I was glowing so much, heart roaring, head whirling. The jester’s hand found my cloak in the dark and motioned me closer. Two stops, I figured, and he’ll be off and I should sit in comfort.
“INSHALA” he whispered, touching his heart. “God willing we meet again”. He took my hand and shook it heartily. Old and tattered, the jester who diffused the scene was my hero. “Inshala”, I said, “Inshala!”
A last crazed night in Marrakesh was all that was needed to make me long for home comforts. The boys at Number 1 were so pleased to see me and laid it all out for me and a fellow Ali backpacker. We feasted on all delights. I tipped generously, feeling so free and self discovered. All the experiences flooding my thoughts, taking me back. Friends new, waves surfed, times shared, moments captured.
Swirling ………………………….
Till next time!
 |
 The sun going down on a surfer about to get drilled |
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