When we live somewhere, even for a short term, it’s amazing how quickly we become accustomed to total awesomeness bestowed us in our day-to-day life.
When you live somewhere, even for a short term, it’s amazing how quickly we become accustomed to total awesomeness bestowed us in our day-to-day life. That’s why holidays are often such memorable events. On holiday we are more tuned into appreciating the moment, savoring flavors and experiences that are out of our normal practices. Which is why I spent six months living in Morocco and failed to flick a thought on paper about the country, and then after a two week holiday was mesmerized again by the waves, culture and country, and couldn’t even decide what I wanted to write about most.
After much pondering, I think I will talk about the waves and the food that went down in the old Spanish port of Sidi Ifni, a place that combines laid back Spanish vibes, with scents and sights of your traditional Moroccan experiences. Look for it and you find it is well on the surf map in Morocco, but has a distinct lack of surf camps, which mean a) there are plenty of empty line-ups and, b) friendly locals.
Sidi Ifni has a prominent beach/reef type set up and a sheltered harbor. However the surrounding rocky coastline has massive potential of spots – not yet named and identified, there are many points which given the right size swell, and depending on the size of your balls are well worth a surf, over a crowded anchor point.
The days we picked to move south coincided with a 12 ft, 18 sec period swell, which would blow out anything I would be comfortable out in anyway in Taghazout.
On the morning we left we surfed a right-hand point in Banana Village named Bananas. It was working well, and I managed to pick off enough small fun waves to tire me out so as to be able to sit four hours in a car, along a coast ride looking at growing swell lines. We made poor driving companions, though. I was sleeping mostly and Andre sprawled out sick in the front seat with a case of Morocco belly from the night before.
We stopped first in the small, sprawling town of Mirleft, and headed down to a small bay. Tourists are notorious in Morocco, and we had only entered off the main road before a guy on his motorbike (who spotted our surfboards) flagged us down and offered us a cheap apartment. We had already an idea of somewhere to stay, we told him, down by the beach. “Ah, one small problem there: no electricity,” he told us before following us on the moped. Just in case we weren’t happy, he would continue on with us. We reached the small bay, with the car park raised above the beach, home to one surf van and its Basque owner. The steps down to the beach led into a small café bar. The waves were breaking high into the bay, some peeling lefts working, but by the time we left, the beach was mostly closed out. We checked out the rooms down here. Charming rooms and insane position on the beach make this a killer hangout, but I just got the feeling sheets were never washed here, and thousands of dirty hippies had been on the beds before me. We noted the drums and guitars and also envisioned the party that would be expected if we stay. Old and boring maybe, but “been there done that” we thought.
We sat and enjoyed the bay, the mint tea and the falling sun, and with Andre looking ever sicker, we decided we should find somewhere else for the night. Our companion showed us another apartment, it was decent, clean and big, but these apartments always have the same kind of vacant, un-atmospheric feeling. Not what we’re after for a few nights’ stay.
Sidi Ifni was a few miles down the road. We end up at a local guesthouse, Suerta Loca, where I had stayed before. I managed to choose the coldest room in the hostel, but one with essential killer sea views for early surf checks. There are a just a handful hotels in Sidi Ifni, and this is one of the best, with kind and friendly owners that help you out with personalized breakfasts and placating irate policemen, tetchy to fine the locals.
The next day swell is pumping. The 12ft swell has started to show and the A-frame break out front is a paddlethon. The harbor promises a better wave and delivers up a perfect peeling left on the inside. The peak is huge and has strong current as we watch three big Americans paddle out and get worked.
Watching their errors, we stayed on the inside avoiding the current and surfed some of the most consistent lefts to be had at that moment in Morocco. Huge sets broke outside the harbor walls, spray being thrown up. As the tide dropped, big sardine ships cruised into the port between the sets.
Later, we indulged in what was possibly the best sardine dinner to date. After we were done surfing, we cruised into the port on the invite of the local surfer. Boat after boat lined up, throwing out their catch to a line of hungry white vans backed up to the boats. Around each ship stood a throng of men, shouting and screaming to each other, throwing sardines around. The stench of fish made me cover my nose and I had to roll up my trousers to avoid the pools of melted ice, fish guts, and scattered sardines collecting on the ground.
