Three surfers, tired of chasing non-existent waves in Spain, head to Morocco on a whim because, well, none of them had been to Africa before…

“Have you ever been to Africa?” someone asked. Julie, Steve and I were sitting at a beach side bar in Andalusia, watching extremely small waves trickle in and drinking beer. So far, our Spanish surf trip had been a bust, much like the other surf trips we’d taken together before, to East Java, and to Norway. 

East Java had been a blown out, stormy mess. Norway had been slightly better, only the sand bars weren’t well formed and our tent collapsed the first night in the wind that was howling down the valley. A pattern was becoming clear to us, we all knew it, we were just bad luck. So we figured we’d better do something else. 

So we took the ferry from Gibraltar across the Med the next afternoon. But when we landed we soon discovered that an impromptu trip to another continent was slightly more complicated than we’d imagined. That evening, well after the cold November sun had disappeared over the horizon, the ferry docked not in Tangier, as we had been expecting but in a new port facility some way up the coast. Deep in the bowels of the heavy concrete and glass port building amidst a swarm of taxi drivers hungry for our business we debated the merits of continuing further or turning back.

Convinced by one of the less shady looking drivers, and with what was surely a handsome rate to take us into the city, we continued on. 45 minutes of dark, winding coastal road later got us to the gate of the medina, the old city centre. We paid the driver and climbed out of the car only to be set upon by men of all sorts clambering for our business. The taxi driver told us to follow a youth, he said it was his ‘nephew’, and without other options, we did. The youth led us to our hostel through the cramped and dark streets of the medina and then offered us some hash.  

Some time later after installing ourselves in the hostel we emerged to find some dinner and the youth was still there, waiting. He promised he knew where to get what we were looking for, “it’s my uncle’s place - the best” told us. After dallying for a while and trying to walk around the corner and escape we gave in and he led us to the restaurant.

The dining room was grand, coloured by tiles, with palatial mirrors on the walls and gilded artefacts of all sorts. The dining room was also empty, save for the old waiter who sprang into action inquiring what we wanted. “Tagine” we chorused “vegetarian. And mint tea”. 

The waiter installed us on some pillows around a short table and disappeared. The youth had also disappeared. Alone in the grand dining room we discovered that it was actually quite cold in Morocco. 20 minutes later, the waiter returned with mint tea and a thick, grey soup. He told us in halting Spanish, the language we all apparently shared, that he would bring two more courses. Tagine and dessert. 

We poked at the soup, which seemed to be mostly potato boiled beyond recognition and discussed the day’s adventure. The waiter returned bearing two terracotta tagines, filled with couscous, vegetables and chicken. We poked at the mass of vegetables boiled to mush, and couldn’t find much to talk about. When the waiter returned looking concerned about the lack of progress we had made, we asked for dessert. 

With the dessert of fruit and a plate of cookies presented, the waiter disappeared again. He was gone so long we had to go look for him when we wanted the bill. 

“The bill?” he seemed to ask when we asked in English, Spanish, and then finally in French. Then as if stuck with an incredible idea, he reached for the menu we hadn’t even seen yet. This place had a menu? 

The waiter presented it to us. It wasn’t a menu at all, but a sheet of paper stuck inside a menu book with “€15” handwritten in large letters in a ballpoint pen. He gestured at each of us and it became clear that he meant 15 euros per person. 

Struck by this bold attempt at a shakedown, we conferred and Julie went on the offensive in Spanish. After much hand wringing we eventually paid him ten euros each, an ample sum for the meal, and then backed out the door into the street. 

The next morning, after an average night’s sleep which did little to lift the sour mood we’d been driven into the night before, we set out to find a vegan breakfast in a place that has no understanding of the concept of veganism. Finding that impossible and it nearly lunchtime, we settled for an early lunch. Again, Couscous, veggie tagines this time without the chicken, some excellent French bread, and mint tea, for a reasonable price of about 5 euros each. Fueled and ready to explore the medina, we went back to the hostel for a nap. 

In my notes at the time I wrote “Morocco has been a deeply unpleasant experience so far. It’s dirty, dishonest, poorly connected and generally dismal.” I sincerely meant it.

Later we wandered around the medina, where narrow dark and gritty alleys give way to the bustling streets and small squares. On a friday afternoon, it meant everyone was out to have a walk around, or sip a mint tea in a cafe. 

After dodging merchants hawking all kinds of stuff through the afternoon, we stumbled on a rug merchant in the midst of a sale. As we peeked through the doorway an assistant invited us in, saying “you don’t need to buy anything unless you want.” 

Inside we discovered why. A British couple were buying rugs for a new house in London, and apparently a penthouse in New York, and they had a pile two feet thick to choose from. The merchant explained the virtues of each colourful, patterned rug as assistants hurried around rolling and unfurling the wares. 

The rug buying process is lengthy, and requires narrowing down to the select few rugs that you might want to buy from the hundreds that the merchants will eagerly unroll and pile on the floor in front of you. Customers are offered mint tea, and food if they get hungry, it can be that long of a process. We stood in the corner and watched the Brits discuss the merits of each rug and then finally start to haggle with the merchant on price. 

“It’s like watching Netflix on someone else’s account,” Steve said before we extricate ourselves back into the dark streets. 

Up the hill we found Cafe Baba, a dark and smokey place full of chairs with arched windows looking over the sparkling nighttime city. The Rolling Stones came here to smoke hash and drink mint tea and the picture is on the wall to prove it. Afterwards some monarchs and glitterati from Europe came through to have mint tea as well. Bowles, Burroughs and Bourdain came here in search of something. Freedom from the rules and rigours of life perhaps. They’re all dead now. 

Today it’s just locals, playing a dice game and smoking hash. It’s only young men, Julie is the only woman. We all had mint tea, and sat for some time in silence looking out over the city. A guy offered us hash if we wanted some. It had a cool vibe.

The next morning we grabbed a cab to the central station in Tangier to take the train to Asilah, a beach town 40 minutes down the coast, known for its art and murals. After haggling with a ticket vending machine for some time we eventually got our tickets. When we got off the train at the mysteriously named “Authentic Station” in Asilah, or rather, near Asilah we discovered it’s a thirty minute stroll along the beach to get to the medina and the 15th century Portuguese fortress ramparts that surround it. 

Later, at a cafe just outside the walls on the seashore, we stop for mint tea out of a giant copper vat, heating over an open fire. I stared out across the Atlantic Ocean and thought about how there is nothing notable until you get to the Caribbean on the other side. We were drinking tea at the ends of the earth, where there are so many directions we could choose to go from this tiny sliver of North Africa.

Late in the afternoon we headed back to Tangier. At the Authentic Station, while trying to find our carriage I decided it would be easier to walk down the platform instead of through the train. As soon as I did, the train began to pull away, forcing me to jump aboard like they do in the movies. It was significantly less dramatic than I imagined it would be. 

The next morning we had one last tea at the ‘Central Cafe’ in Tangier before we left. The place exudes old Parisian vibes, but with an Arabic twist. Old men sit outside around small marble topped tables sipping mint tea and smoking. The waiter is much kinder than any you would find in Paris.

The taxi ride to the port seemed to last forever along the winding coastal road which, for better or worse, we could see for the first time. And the concrete and glass port building seemed less foreboding in the daylight. The thing about Tangier is that it really grows on you once you’ve been around for a day or so. The constant attention from the hawkers, the scams, the grunge, the narrow dark streets and dead ends, and the colours are all part of the mystery. 

Back in Spain, decompressing with a chilled red wine and a dinner of Chinese noodles, nothing seemed to have changed. We got one decent surf the next morning, but the sea went flat again and the wind picked up shortly after.

Ultimately, when you’re searching for waves, things will go wrong. There won’t be any waves or the wind will be too strong. But searching for waves was never really about the waves. It was about the memories made on the way. The friends, the people you meet, the crazy situations, the inside jokes, the long car rides, and, well, to be cliché, it’s about the memories made. In the end that’s all we have, right?

See more photos from Morocco and Spain here.