Leafing through my Rough Guide, there seemed few hotels in Marrakech that were within my budget, but one caught my eye. “ALI” it stated in bold Arabic writing on the mosaic wall on arrival.  Close to Jadeem El Fa na (Square of the Dead).  It promised a dorm room for roughly R50/night, brekkie included.

My first step, after settling with the amicable night watchman in somewhat horribly broken French, was the Square.  Much talked about and fabled as one of the must-see stops in Morocco.  I was immediately immersed neck deep in snake charming, food selling, music making, dope selling, and monkey wearing people of all ages.  Some veiled, some wearing traditional Fez or Jalaba.  All wide eyed and eager to please.  “Mister please, you eat at Number 1.  Food is so good, you see!”

“Maybe next time”, I said without eye contact.  I settled for an orange juice stand on the fringes and watched as I washed down the fresh pulp.  “SANS SUCRE!”  “4 Dirum!  Fuck, that’s cheap.  One more.  Sil vous plait! Mercie M’souir!”  Sava, Arivour.

Blends of all the day’s activity washed over my mind that night whilst I attempted to sleep.  Mixed in were images concocted in my own imagination of what was to come in the next two and a half weeks.  Swells marching to meet me, borne thousands of miles away in arctic climates, fanned by the off-shore breezes.  Marching, marching …

Breakfast was in full swing when I made my way down to the dining room the next morning.  A man dressed in a suit was making omelets.  Bread was fresh and coffee strong.  Naartjies were by the dozen.  Some of the people I sat eating with were amazed when I said I came to Morocco to surf.  Some giggled, some asked if the sails were hard to replace and how many rudders my board had!  Knowledgeable folk!  I gotta get to the coast.

I dedicated one day to being a true tourist and set out after breakfast to roam the old city or Medina as it is known.  I started again at the Square, which was removed from its nightly transformation of gyrating rhythm to that of a ghostly quietness.  A few snake charmers still remained, entranced by their own antics.   At the northern exit of the Square began the maze of Souks, known for the vast array of items for sale and hagglers plying their trades.  I meandered through the narrow streets bringing me across weavers of thread, copper smiths, potters, carpenters, tanners, jewelers, cobblers.  The light cast through the slatted roofing of the narrow streets, bringing images of bygone years, where little had changed of the simple, pure way of life of the Marrakech people.

Hazy, dust filled alleyways lead me further into the Souks and eventually had me lost.  Luckily I spotted a landmark I recognized to the South, the old Muslim Temple. It was just a little way from the Square and my Hotel, towering high and leaning slightly off center.  I made for it, knowing how to get back from there and in need of lunch and rest, hastened for it.

Lunch on the roof terrace of Hotel Ali with American students, Monica and her brother Barry, was a lavish affair with views over the Medina and to the far north; the snow capped Atlas Mountain Range.  The tourist thing was wearing thin and I made plans to get a bus along Tis ‘n Test to Agadir and the ocean in the morning.

A last crazed, feverish night in the Square was all I needed to rid myself of being a tourist in Marrakech.  Seating myself down at an open air food stall after a leisurely stroll around the Square.  “Number 1”, said the scout, “best in Square!”

A short Petit-taxi ride to Bab Dukalla brought me to the bus station at mid morning the next day.  Shunning the advice from Rough Guide, I took one of the local transport busses to Agadir.   Bundling my backpack into the hold and gesticulating at the porters handling my boards.  “Fragile” I shouted above the din of the station.  As I made my way to the bus, I had tourist stamped all over my face.

Moving down the bus, at first it seemed I was the only non-Moroccan there.  There were people begging, selling, preaching and hassling on the bus.  A man with no arms, and hands attached to his shoulders, cracked the nod from me and I placed a few Dirrum into his bulging top pocket.  “Merci” he said, moving down the aisle.  An English couple, Trev and Joanette, from the Isle of Man were seated directly opposite me and a Burber in Jallaba had the window seat on my side.

Trev and Joanette were a mine of knowledge and were heading to the same town I was going to, Taghazoute, via Agadir.  They were staying with the family of a friend of mine I met in Newquay a few years before.  What luck!

The old Burber finally woke up and I offered him some pistachios.  His toothless grin and shake of the head said ‘No’.  He settled on some dates that I produced next and nodded his approval as he gummed the dates to a pulp. 

The bus passed the highest peak in Morocco and it was snow capped and etched into the horizon.  All along the road there were animals and herdsmen.  Olive and orange trees grew wild.

I finally arrived at the coast.  Agadir was totally unlike any other city in Morocco.  Being modern due to a quake in the 70’s, it is a throwback to the French Riviera with towering hotels and resorts, perfect for the sock and sandal wearing German Toolmaker’s family holiday.  I could just picture them lounging poolside, roasting lobster red, having a totally different idea of what Morocco is like from the confines of the hotel walls.  Package deal heaven!

Getting the public transport to Taghazout, north of Agadir was full on.  I got separated from my bag and both boards.  People were more than willing to assist however, and a boy, Mustafa, living with his family in Taghazout became semi interpreter.

As the late afternoon sun set over the ocean, we disembarked onto the dusty main street of Taghazout, the self proclaimed Mecca of Moroccan surfing.  A haphazard arrangement of houses, shops and hotels sprawling straight onto the beach and rising up to the foothills of the interior.  “Right, where am I staying?” was my first thought.

Walking with the English couple, and Mustafa at close quarters, I bundled my bags and boards into a room, hastily being converted into a surf shop and with that, was promptly introduced to a half dozen hazy eyed locals interspersed with a few tourists (old and new).

I was still amped on getting a room to stay.  Kimaal’s (from Newquay) brother Spotty roused into full action, “Come, I find you room, no problem, I know everyone!  You need anything, you come to Spotty!”  He said with a twinkle in his eye.  I think I know what he meant too.

It was great having a guide, especially one as cool as Spotty.  We found a room in one of the best private residences in Taghazout.  One where Frosty, an SA mate, had stayed previously.

Ahmed, my new landlord for the next two weeks was really friendly and gave me a good price, after a bit of a haggle between him and Spotty.  Spotty winked in my direction.  I was in!

The morning woke with a battalion of 15hp outboards in simultaneous cacophony.  The beach was a perfect amphitheatre funneling the noise straight up the hill. As soon as dawn broke, a crackling loudspeaker burst into action with the first prayer of the day - canned prayer.  These Moroccans are crazy!

Calm restored, I took my coffee and book to the terrace to catch the morning sun.  Flat surf meant only Killers would be working.  A formidable walk on the road with “office feet” was as harsh a punishment as I’ve dealt myself.  The kilometer paddle was like roses.

Patrick, a surfer from Sweden, and I rode for about an hour by ourselves until a lone soldier came stroking into view.  As he drew near, something seemed familiar.  As he got near, I saw it was Chris Bertish. What the, of all places.  It was good to catch up and to catch a few waves on a deserted point in North Africa, feeling mysterious and looking like Mars!

The walk home nearly broke me.  Jaggered stones, numb feet and a set sun.  Save the guy who offered me a shot of straight brandy, mid way.  Try that at the Comrades.  ‘Slops it is’, my silent resolution.

The swell stayed away for a few days.  I got to know a few other travelers really well, hanging out over extended breakfasts, wafting honey hash scents, infused with mint tea, sun kissed terraces and stories of travel and swells to come!

The local transport clearly didn’t cater for surfboards meaning less space for a passenger, or a sardine, whichever way you looked at it.  I was ping-ponging precariously, teetering on the edge of the bus stairwell whilst apologizing to veiled women for standing on them and then apologizing for talking to them or looking at them …… hmmmm – quite a hole Bryan.

Tamri, past Cap Rir to the north of Taghazout was the stop.  The doors opened and I was squeezed out.  Mike, an English fellow, tumbled too and there we were, left in a cloud of clay dust and looking at six foot close outs on the beach below.

Adjusting to the local cuisine and preparation of meals took its toll on my gut.  I rehydrated and moped around until I discovered the locally made yoghurt.  The local cultures in the yoghurt fixed me right up and I was back to my old self in no time.

A dawnie run to Anchor Point had me anxious to see what real Moroccan Juice was all about.  I hitched a ride to the point with construction workers and watched, drawing nearer, perfect coiling bowls and six ou’s out!  Bailing off the truck, I was in the line-up in no time.  The small crowd was so mellow and we shared sets till the crowds started to grow.  I had seen the potential and I liked what I saw!  I’d be back for the low tide in the afternoon.

It was like a different spot when I got back later that day.  The point was littered with all ocean going crafts.  Bodies contorting in pitching lips, five drop-in’s per wave.  I snagged a bomb and was promptly dropped in on by a squatting local, waving his fists at me.  J-Bay - eat your heart out!

I quickly realized I needed to find waves farther afield and off the beaten track.  At the house that evening, beer and rum flowed and surfers returning from a trip down south glowed in the memories of the past week’s sojourn.  I quickly made friends and it was decided to make another run to TIFNIF in the morning.  I cracked the nod to join the five day trip south and together with Jerry, Matt and Ben, loaded their vans with food and water from the Marjane and was on our way.

Come back next week to read Part 2 of Bryan's trip. Hear how he scores incredible waves down south, and endures a bus trip from hell - where his natural South African inbred "rip-off scam" radar serves him well!