It was barely five in the morning. The sun had just started to peek over the mountaintops to the West when the now-familiar melodious call to prayer crept in from the broken window above my bed. Jason sat up, turned and put his feet on the tile floor. His cot squeaked as he shifted his weight forward to stand.
“Get up. We’re going to be late,” he grunted at me, grabbing for whatever piece of clothing he could find; Tossing it at my head.
“They won’t go without us.”
“We’ll miss the tide coming in,” he stated as he threw on his board shorts and left the room.
I followed suit and met Jason and the rest of the group upstairs for a light pre-surf breakfast. We were in Taghazout, just North of Agadir on Morocco’s formidable Atlantic coast. It was a chance to take a week off from our research in Western Europe for a company we were in the process of starting.
We had quite the motley crew. First, Jason and I, two Aussie travelers who loved to take on surf that was way out of our league and make fools of ourselves while doing so. There was Jose, a former lawyer from São Paulo, Brazil who had quit his job, moved to the beach and opened a hostel. Scotty is a Canadian who used to work on oil rigs but also recently quit, sold everything he owned, and begun an endless trek around the globe. And lastly, we had Rasheed, our local guide who sported a long beard and thought very little of us as surfers but didn’t seem to mind us as people. With our boards piled high on the roof of our 4 × 4, we climbed in slowly, not yet energized from our early morning coffees. We headed South to Anza, a village and beach break that was popular with the local surfers and somehow managed to have a decent wave even without a substantial amount of swell.
As we took down the boards, I looked around and took a few photos. The scene was typical of any beach: kids chasing each other, playing soccer with makeshift goals in the sand and moms and dads nervously watching as their children entered the water. Once in a while we would see someone dressed head to toe in a Burka join in with the football match or emerge from the water to remind us that we were in fact in Morocco.
We surfed most of the morning in decent conditions and after that retired to the tiny café just off the beach for a mint tea. We joined Rasheed at his table and put in our orders. Rasheed chose not to surf this day. He had been spoiled by a winter season filled with swell and barreling rights. The summer season swells hardly ever peaked Rasheed’s interest. Over tea, we decided to forgo surfing for the remainder of the day and head into the Atlas Mountains to swim at a popular water hole.
Before heading inland, we drove South through Agadir. Agadir is nuzzled into Morocco’s South Atlantic Coast and is an absolute cultural anomaly. While Agadir does boast a healthy tourist economy, it was no Casa Blanca; the majority of the travelers in Agadir came from other Moroccan cities. Looking out the window as we drove by the remarkably gentrified coastline, I was reminded more of Santa Monica than I was the Morocco I had learned about at university.
As we made our way further inland, the landscape changed dramatically. The once breezy coastline road had now transformed into a narrow mountain pass. Our 4 × 4 clambered its way high up into the Mountains, and from the window of the car, I spotted a secluded green area tucked away in between 2 sloping hillsides.
It was a tiny desert oasis hidden from the world behind the gargantuan slopes of the Atlas Mountains, and it was our final destination. We started driving parallel to a small river. Every mile we would pass a little mountainside coffee shop that extended into the river, each with a customer or two enjoying their tea or coffee in partly submerged chairs and tables.
We finally pulled up to the trailhead that would take us to our personal oasis. I stepped out of the car to extend my road weary legs. I looked up at the remarkably steep path ahead and then down at my feet. I realized that I had made a fairly big error in my choice of footwear. Flip flops probably weren’t the wisest option for what turned out to be an hour and a half of steep muddy routes, loose rocks, and narrow cliff tops. Our somewhat turbulent hike ultimately led us near the river we had actually seen on the drive up. We hiked along a narrow trail in the jagged mountain that was carved by the slow flow of water.
As we walked, we encountered pool after pool. Each seemed perfect for swimming, but we kept moving forward. Finally, we came to a large pool surrounded by immense cliffs. This was our oasis. We quickly tucked our things away in the mountainside and plunged ourselves into the brisk water, leaping from the cliff tops one at a time.
After about half an hour, a group of young boys appeared with a huge bag. They took a seat by the water’s edge and proceeded to take out a tiny propane tank and a large silver teapot with a matching tea set. I thought this was a bit odd, but Rasheed said that it was common. The boys made and drank their tea before joining us on the highest cliff, attempting to backflip into the water. After another hour of narrowly escaping spinal injuries and relaxing in the water, we packed up to make our way back down the trail.
As it turns out, walking downhill in flip-flops proved to be even more challenging than walking up. As I walked, I planted each foot firmly into the dirt in an effort to brace myself, but with each step, I still managed to slide a few inches. Eventually, my faulty footwear ended up becoming a burden on the group as I fell behind. The trail finally leveled out as it approached a little fruit stand. I decisively took advantage of the level ground and began sprinting after my friends. An elderly man sitting adjacent to the fruit stand gazed on in amusement and even let out an audible laugh. I finally caught up to the group, who had slowed their pace significantly as the trail narrowed. Now out of breath, I took my place behind the others as we began to walk along a narrow ledge. I placed one foot after the other, walking as if I was on a balance beam in the pouring rain. I put my right foot down on a particularly narrow section of the ledge and suddenly slipped out of my shoe. Off balance, I fell forward down the nearly vertical slope. As I fell, my backpack shifted over my head and I proceeded to tumble head over heels for about twenty meters. Suddenly, I came to a sharp stop as I slammed into a boulder. Completely disoriented, I slid my backpack off my head and looked up the hillside to the group. Perched above me, they stood speechless for about thirty seconds until Jason nonchalantly muttered,“You ok?”
Before I could answer, I felt a swift tug under my arm, as I was unexpectedly lifted to my feet. It was the old man from the fruit stand. He had seen the whole thing and rushed over to help me before I had even finished falling. Without saying a word, and before I could thank him, the old man placed my arm on top of his shoulders and began walking me up the hill. We clambered back onto the ledge and came to my shoes that were sitting neatly together as if someone had placed them there. The old man looked at the shoes and then at me. He started speaking in Arabic, but then saw from my face that I couldn’t understand him. He then started to speak French, but the confused expression didn’t leave my face. Finally, he picked up my shoes and pressed them against my chest until I grabbed them. He then took off his own shoes and placed them in front of my feet. This man was at least sixty-five years old, if not older, and he had the same hike back to the road that we did. Yet here he was, offering me the shoes off of his own feet. I was stunned. Never had I seen kindness of this magnitude. I had Rasheed tell the old man that I was grateful for his help. I thanked him kindly for his offer, but I could not accept.
I quietly hobbled on through the rest of the trek back, humbled by the kindness of that old man. Here I was, thousands of miles from home, treated as if I were his own son. That single moment completely reaffirmed my purpose for embarking on this trip. I learned exactly what one can gain through travel: an overwhelming assurance that the world is full of kindness and people who are eager and willing to help out their fellow man. I left Morocco a few days later and, but the actions of that one old man in Morocco have stayed with me, still serving as motivation for what I do every single day.
