In the Idleness of Time

At eleven o'clock it’s surfing time. Fouad and his crew know me by now; they hand me the wetsuit in my size without me asking. ‘We saw you surfing yesterday,’ says Fouad. ‘You don’t need the beginner board anymore. You’ll get a slimmer one.’ The greatest compliment ever. And indeed: It works better. The new board is smaller, more manageable, lighter. I am more agile in the water, feeling slowly more secure. Until the next wave knocks me over again.

Charlotte laughs. ‘That’s how I felt when I switched to the next level board.’ Charlotte is traveling with her friend. We meet every day at the same time in the waves. She is as persistent as I am, and we only stop when we can’t anymore – or when the waves force us to. The days in Sidi Kaouki don’t ask for much more than that from me. I can feel the slowness catching up with me here – how it wants something from me that I have almost forgotten.

Sunday is market day at the Souk El Had. El Had means Sunday in Arabic. But actually, it’s always market day. I come without expectations, yet the market surprises me again. A place for locals to buy all kinds of things in bulk. The two cookies I want are given to me with a weary smile – evidently, the accounting isn’t worth it.

The market is a choreography of vegetable stalls, household goods, fabrics, clothes, and spices. The goods are spread out on the sandy ground. Still clean, I notice as I move a little further. In the meat section, “hygienic” is broadly interpreted. Butchers roughly chop whole animals; it splatters, blood and water gather in puddles. A salty-metallic smell, heavy and dense. Right next door, what was just processed is already sizzling; grill after grill envelops the alleys in thick clouds of smoke. The sun pierces through the fog, creating a surreal image. Fascination and disgust go hand in hand. I search for the way out – towards the merchants with wickerwork, where it smells less intense.

At some point, I feel drawn further north – a gentle tug, more curiosity than farewell. Not much separates me from Europe, from the familiar routine of work. First thoughts about it arise, but I push them away. Too soon. I am still here and learning what slow travel does to me.

Safi is my next destination. The medina is part of the World Heritage, but initially, it hardly touches me: too much neon light, too much unnecessary plastic junk. Then I discover the pottery workshops, the heart of the little town. A bit hidden behind the medina, we can trace the entire production process: how the clay is taken from the earth, divided, shaped. How it transforms into a tajine under circular movements. So peaceful. A corner further, the clay is baked and painted. Everything seems tranquil, everyone has their task, every movement is precise.

I am looking forward to the next surfer village. But Oualidia is different. A lagoon, an endless coastline where we can camp. Each in their own little bay, the beach accessible through a steep climb. A dream – and yet not one that belongs to me. Fishermen walk on the cliffs all the way to the front. It looks dangerous, but seems to be an everyday occurrence. The wind lashes the sand like fine needles into my face. This isn’t suitable for surfing. It is cooler too. Beautiful, but I do not stay. I miss what I had, and I turn back.

On the way back to Sidi Kaouki, I think about the detour – and the CO₂ it has cost. A slight sting in the otherwise vast feeling of freedom these days. With a bit of guilt, I park again in my little paradise, in my bay by the sea. Omar comes by every day. He greets all the vans and campers, listens to our stories, and passes them on.

I see many people come and go. Few stay as long as I do. Rarely have I spent so long in one place. But my mission – learning to surf – is not yet complete.

I meet Kai. He has been living full-time in his van for eight years, without an apartment. In the summer months, he works in France, and for the rest of the year, he travels. More traveling than working. I ask him what he does all day. ‘Chill,’ he says. I am a bit astonished. I need movement. Setting tasks for myself and completing them gives me a good feeling. Just traveling constantly would be too little for me. Too little meaningful, too little motivating.

Perhaps my mission here also involves finding peace with the few tasks each day. Embracing slowness. Allowing the pressure to rest. If this place teaches me anything, it’s that idleness can be wonderful – when somewhere awaits the next destination. And for me, this destination is not just another place. It is a small piece of meaning that I leave behind. A trace.

Just as the waves come back time and again without haste, shaping the shore.