Hopping off bus No. 32(6dh/$.60) from Agadir, we were picked up by the surf camp owner Abdellah, a smiley Moroccan man with a shaved head sporting a graphic t-shirt. His jeep was as “surfer” as it gets, with manual roll-down windows, sand on the floor mats, and rusty hinges showing signs of its long life frequenting the beach.
We drove up to the camp in Tamraght, a small fishing village between Agadir and Taghazout. The village is built on a hill just off the coast, ascending in block-shaped houses with open roofs. Two red-stoned minarets poked out among the residential homes, from which we would hear the blaring calls for prayer five times a day, echoing through the entire village.
The surf camp was a traditional Moroccan-style home, with concrete walls, curvy doorways, and carved antique wooden doors. There were three floors full of rooms, leading up to the sunroom on the roof where all the dining, after-surfing recreation, and sunset watching happened.
For the next four weeks, we ate the delicious Moroccan-style food prepared by Abdellah’s brother Omar, who communicated with us through smiles and grunts as he couldn’t speak English. We learned how to surf from a village thug with cool hair who won’t eat anything except candy bars and white bread. In the evenings, we played heated games of Uno, Madam Masseur, and other made-up Moroccan games designed to make people lose.
In exchange, we played the role as the on-demand yoga instructors and life documenters. We photographed the rituals of this surf camp for social media. I made an advertisement, showcasing the unique holiday spot, where one can a pretty authentic Moroccan experience, on top of learning how to surf/drinking sea water.
We had a great time at the surf camp, got along with all the guests and staff. But time was running out in Morocco, and we sadly had to head to the next stop. Before our departure, we knew we had to see the deserts of the Sahara, even if it means upping our hitchhiking challenge to 569km from Essaouira to Tamegroute.