Raw, pure, and friendly

Proudly, Fouad tells me about his shop. He owns everything here, and for my surfing days in Sidi Kaouki, he gives me a good price: renting a surfboard and wetsuit for two hours over four days. He is happy, and while he offers me his parking space as a secure sleeping spot, I feel this natural form of hospitality that is more of an attitude than just a gesture.

Sidi Kaouki is tiny, just one street lined with a few surf shops and small restaurants. Horseback riding on the beach and quad biking are new activities, Juliette tells me while we eat tajine by the fireplace. Like me, she is traveling in a van, having been on her own journey through Morocco for four years. In Switzerland, she works with animals - milk cows and spends her days in the mountains. Six days a week from early until late. She takes three months off each year. Then she travels, just like I do.

So far, Sidi Kaouki is my favorite place. Imsouane was fancier, but also dirtier, a hotspot that young surfing tourists have discovered. I learn later from Fouad that the hotels there like to discharge their wastewater into the bay, making many surfers sick. This explains the strong smell over the village and why I felt the urge to leave. Instead, I found a beautifully pristine, lonely beach. Aside from four men who were busy doing something, there was no one else around. I dive into this almost untouched paradise for two days, framed by sunshine and blue skies.

The weather change at night comes completely unexpectedly. It flashes and thunders severely, a storm brews, bringing a lot of rain. I think of the three kilometers of sandy road that has now turned into a muddy trail. My kite can't manage that. I keep sliding back and ask the four men if they know a solution. They shake their heads, but one says, “You can stay with us. Enjoy it. It’s so nice when the rain patters on your roof.”

Hesham is a surf teacher, has curly hair, a clear gaze, and a warm presence. He wants to encourage me, speaks a little English. In Imsouane, he gives surf lessons; he is here to take a vacation. His accommodation is a small stone hut, with a tiny room inside, separated from the wind only by a rug. Later, he will collect stones to protect his roof from the rain. I stay. It rains all day and night. Hesham's words resonate: do yoga, enjoy. It takes time for me to accomplish that. Knowing that the only road is impassable makes me nervous. But I am now part of the family, as Hesham says. Someone brings tea, someone asks if I need anything. The next day, I manage to make it up.

Travel creates such experiences. Often, I find myself stuck somewhere in mud, needing to free myself from a muddy situation or getting stuck in the sand. It's never a good feeling, but there are always people there to help. People are basically good, I think then. These events give me a primal trust and change something in me.

With this regained trust, I stay a few days in Sidi Kaouki. When the waves aren’t suitable for surfing, I drive to Essaouira, the windy port city. In the seventies, old hippies gathered here; their charm remains and gives the Medina with its riads - traditional townhouses with green or blue courtyards - a dreamy atmosphere. It is the region of argan oil. One shop follows another. In between, freshly ground almond paste and spices, their colors - colorful, blue, white, earthy - make the alleys glow. The harbor, on the other hand, feels like another world: rough, drafty, pure. Huge tunas lie on the tables, seafood is stacked, and old sailors are busily crafting sardine bait.

The beauty of Morocco doesn't show itself at first glance. The facades are crumbling, the plaster is falling off, and the streets are dusty. The well-kept Europe presents itself differently. But it is far from being as relaxed, vibrant, and alive. Not as helpful, friendly, and warm-hearted. A way that infects me, which I want to take with me.