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MOROCCO'S FREEZING WAVES

A holiday at a surf camp in Morocco seemed like an excellent idea. A bowed and slightly bloodied Gary Moskowitz lives to tell the tale ...

Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFE

We’re barrelling down a pock-marked and narrow road high above rocky cliffs overlooking Morocco’s Atlantic coast. We are in a beat-up SUV and our British driver is all smiles. A curly-headed surfer, he runs a mellow surf camp called Surf Maroc in Taghazout, a small Moroccan town about 20 minutes from Agadir, with some of some of the best beach breaks in the country. We’ve arrived late, and he is anxious to get us to the beach to catch the afternoon swell.

My girlfriend Kim and I aren’t exactly smiling. A squall out in the middle of the Atlantic has brought classic winter-storm surf to the shore, and we’re both beginners. Thick waves reaching up to nine feet are breaking non-stop, followed by two powerful inside breaks. It is like a washing machine out there. Rocks are scattered throughout the sand where the waves are breaking, and it’s windy and chilly. Air temperature is, at a generous estimate, in the upper 50s or low 60s degrees Fahrenheit. The sky is dark and cloudy, and the wind is blowing.

We don’t even ask about the water temperature. The last thing either of us wants to do is jump into the ocean, but the others in the group--three women on leave from the British Army, an Italian film-festival planner and a British investment banker--cheer us on. Intimidated but with fragile pride, we zip up our wetsuits and take the plunge.

Our surf instructor and guide is a laid-back Moroccan named Ben Ashir. A former member of Morocco's national swim team and the country's surf team, he takes pains to make sure we feel welcome. "Some people don't like the tourists crowding the waves," he explains. "But if you have respect in the water, everything is alright." He doesn’t exactly give us extensive surfing instructions. On the beach we practice a three-step manoeuvre: paddle, stabilise the board, then pop up on both feet in a crouched stance. We do this about four times, on land, and he tells us we’re ready to start surfing.

Our combined surfing experience prior to this moment is minimal. A year ago, Kim began learning at a week-long surf camp in Sayulita, Mexico. The water was warm, the sun shined every day and she received impeccable instruction. She came away from the trip being able to stand up with good form on small waves, more or less. I spent my teens and early 20s body-boarding in Florida, which taught me about waves and wave-riding but not how to stand up.

Our surf trip to Morocco was unexpected. Kim ended up winning a free holiday from Access Trips, the travel company she used in Mexico. Given her amazing earlier experience with them, she decided another surf trip was in order. I didn’t need much convincing to join her, and North Africa was a relatively cheap flight from our home in London.

But surfing in Morocco suddenly didn't seem like the fun in the sun we had envisioned. We follow Ben's instructions and make our way to the water. Waves are breaking and crashing in all directions, rapidly, relentlessly and with no rhythm whatsoever. The waves are almost all close-outs, which means the entire lip of the wave breaks at the same time, and there’s little time to figure out where to position ourselves to catch them. Paddling out is incredibly difficult. Instead we attempt to wade out through the chaos with our boards until we reach chest-high water, which is as far as we’re comfortable going.

The waves pound us from all sides. Ben tells us to wait for a wave that looks rideable. We spot one, paddle for it, stabilise the board, stand up and then fall immediately. We repeat this process again and again until a zealous sense of determination comes over us both. Over the course of two hours or so, we manage to stay standing on the board for a second or two at a time.

The current is strong. Since we’re having a difficult time staying on our boards to paddle around, we’re spending a lot of time wading and charging through the tide to get ourselves into a suitable position for catching a wave. Our feet are exposed (they hadn’t given us insulated booties yet) and very cold. I bang mine several times into jagged rocks cemented into the sand where the waves are breaking. By the end of the session a few of our toes are bruised and the side of my right foot is bleeding.

As tourists surfing Morocco’s waves, we're contributing to the country’s third-largest source of income. Morocco's government has gone so far as to create a tourism stimulus programme that aims to attract five times as many visitors in 2010 as in 2002, and create as many as 600,000 new tourism-based jobs. Despite this year’s economic downturn (tourism has dipped a bit), Morocco invested as much as 50m dirhams (about $6m) in additional funds to make sure those goals are met.

But while local businesses enjoy the benefits of tourism, Morocco's surfers want their breaks back. The surf companies here are foreign-owned, and although they employ Moroccans as instructors, drivers, guides, cooks and cleaning crews, they are still outsiders. Graffiti scrawled on the crumbling wall of a former anchor factory at Taghazout’s most amazing break, Anchor Point, declares “Surf camps go home” in English.

Ben’s preferred word is "yup". He says "yup" with a louder inflection to get someone’s attention, and with jovial verve to announce he’s entered a room or about to leave it. He says it when he’s being criticised, when it’s time to start paddling for a wave, when he’s starting a car engine, lighting a cigarette or explaining Moroccan culture. By mid-week we’re all saying "yup".

Coastal Morocco in the winter is striking. East from the Taghazout coast are enclaves of red-hued concrete homes, and away from the beach is an endless view of dirt and rocks. Sparse patches of shrubs and bushes line steep, beige hills. Driving north up the coast, the scenery becomes more lush. Clusters of bright green bushes and trees spread across vast, red-toned grassy slopes. Harvesters–mostly women–come here to gather dried excrement from goats and camels that have eaten fruit pits from local trees. These pits are then ground up to produce Argan oil, used for cooking and as a skin moisturiser. The lowlands near the water are home to huge fields of bananas, small and sweet.

About three and a half hours north of Taghazout is Essouira, a coastal town with Iberian influences. We wander the old, winding streets and fresh fish markets and drive past expensive hotels. Two guys in their early 20s working at a music stand play us some Moroccan hip-hop. They explain that Casablanca is home to an active hip hop scene and some hardcore punk. As we eat fresh fish near an old Portuguese fort with Spanish cannons, a street band parades by playing violins and ouds, dressed in sandals and Fez-like caps.

The country can be a little rough around the edges. Buildings often look as though they could collapse at any minute, and some already have. A deadly earthquake in 1960 destroyed most of Agadir’s buildings and killed thousands of people, while a more recent 2004 quake north of Agadir destroyed thousands of homes and killed hundreds. Dog faeces is everywhere, garbage rots in piles, tap water is not always safe to drink and guides are necessary. At the local souk, amazing rugs, bowls, hookahs and spices are available, but merchants can get aggressive when trying to make a sale. One man told us we were “not good people” because we refused his services as a tour-guide (we had one already). Uniformed officers routinely stop cars to check registration, and often charge arbitrary fees to proceed. It took some days to acclimate.

As the week progresses, so does our surfing, mostly. We stand up on our boards and catch the smaller waves on the inside. For one day the swell calms and the waves become clean and glassy, but otherwise the stormy surf, strong undertow and overcast skies continue. But we've grown accustomed to the churning water and wind. Every day random camels, goats and dogs roam the beach. Locals sell macaroons (still warm from the oven), T-shirts, hoodies, blankets, jewellery and scarves. After surfing all day or taking road trips, we drink amazingly sweet mint tea and eat rich, flavourful meals cooked in tajines.

The waves never let up, but by the end I am turning with the tide instead of getting bounced around by the white wash. “Yup, surfing in conditions like this makes you stronger and more confident, so when things calm down, you will be so good on the waves,” Ben tells us. I don’t know that we fully believe him, but his optimism is very generous. “Yup,” we say.

Picture Credit: gatos_rojos, luc.viatour, Ahron de Leeuw, rhurtubia (all via Flickr)

(Gary Moskowitz is a journalist and a musician, now based in London.)