The Gallivanting Grasshopper: Philosophizing at Taghazout

I’m starting this post from the living room of the seaside apartment in Taghazout that Mike has rented for three nights. The room is lined with stiff couches covered with flowered fabric, and the walls are decorated with mirrors and mosaic tiles. The TV in the corner is frequently flashing the faces of Sarkozy and Hollande and the Eifel tower as Election Day draws nearer and nearer. The sound of the ocean outside is lulling me into a peaceful repose, in spite of the wooden couch and rock pillows on which I recline. I spent the morning sitting outside on the terrace, sipping some yellow Lipton tea, and journaling very philosophically about the ocean, as I serenely watched the waves crashing in and easing out.

Why are humans so damn fascinated with the ocean? I thought, as I gazed blankly out at the vast offender in listless awe. Why are there so many ocean soundtracks to help people sleep and to relieve stress? Why is it that when I listen to the rhythmic crashing of the Atlantic’s waves that I stop worrying about all the things in my life that don’t make sense and am quite happy to just sit here… doing absolutely nothing… just sitting. And listening.

I am very sorry to say that my philosophical ocean contemplations did not end there. Maybe it was the bad Lipton tea that drove me headlong into madness, or maybe it was a remnant of the fried octopus/calamari induced euphoria from the night before, or maybe it was simply because I was sitting on a terrace in Morocco looking out at this:

Watching a wave is like watching a life. I quickly scribbled in my tattered journal, immensely proud of myself for making such a profound connection. In spite of the Lipton. You see the small mound of infancy in the distance and watch as it gradually gains height and strength, finally reaching its triangular pinnacle where it tucks its pointy top under, grows a full white beard, and crashes down to the sandy shore. It peters on for a few meters (some more than others), and then is quietly sucked back into the ocean to make room for the next crashing wave. The next crashing life rushing headlong to its end, reaching its bubbly fingertips as far out as possible before receding into the cosmic consciousness of the Atlantic. Christ, I need to lay off on the yoga sutras.

I triumphantly clicked my pen closed in self-satisfaction, inhaled a deep breath of ocean air, and regretfully swallowed another gulp of Lipton (Good Earth tea, how greatly I miss you and all your rooibos goodness).

Watching the ocean makes you think of life. So what? Why is that relaxing at all? I represent life. That weird cactus thing over there represents life. I could paste the meaning “LIFE” on just about everything, and make a fine argument as to why the label fits.

Damn. I thought, as I despondently removed my Socratic hat.

Viewing life like this is encouraging because it helps us to visualize the wholeness of humanity. Once the wave is sucked back to sea, it does not just disappear. It becomes a part of the next crashing wave. It never ceases to touch – to be a part of – the ocean of life, and although the world will never see a wave just like Herbert or Olive or Ethel again, it will certainly see waves hat have been touched by these upstanding swells.

It’s hopeful because it helps people understand that in some way, they will always be. So what if I’m not crashing right now? So what if I’m at the end of my five meter foamy rush up the shore? I am an individual part of the ocean, and will never cease to be. The only thing that makes the waves different from the calm is that they become visible. They become more tangible to a different level of consciousness. When they crash, they affect the world around them, each wave doing its part to weather the jagged coastal rocks into a smooth, sandy shore.

God. No wonder I've never been very attracted to marijuana. My normal thoughts are high-people thoughts.

As my time in Morocco draws to an end, Mike continues to go far out of his way to give me the best experience possible in his diverse, gorgeous country. He’s taken me to the army tennis courts by his house a couple of times, and is teaching me how to play. Mike is excellent at sports – Frisbee, soccer, volleyball, badminton, and tennis. All of which I absolutely fail at. I’m decent at sports that require good balance, quick reactions, and sensitive hands (horseback-riding, yoga, and…knitting?) but when a sport requires a good amount of spacial-reasoning, I’m ruined. So although I had a delightful time hitting tennis balls over the fence, and hope to continue to flail a racquet every now and then when I return to the states, I never hope to be any good. Just like with directions. I never hope to be good at directions, but I hope not to panic and get upset that I’m so unforgivably bad. I have a wonderful time getting myself good and lost and I have a wonderful time hurling balls over the fence and into the poor boy chasing after my strays, getting the workout of his life.

I’ve eaten mechoui again, enjoyed a lunch and dinner at Mike’s cousin’s paradise home in the Palmerais, and am now in the middle of a three-day seaside vacation. From my vacation. We started our Sunday morning with a quick tennis session, went out for an omelet, packed our things, jumped into the rented car, and set off for Essaouira. For the fourth and last time.

I’m going to miss this city.

A view of Essaouira from the port

Carving up the day's catch

Taking pictures of seagulls by the ocean is like taking pictures of swans in Copenhagen.

Fisherman on the dike

We arrived in Esssaouira Sunday evening, perfunctorily settled into our mutually adored riad, and walked around the medina and the port for a couple of hours. I could amble along the narrow streets of the old-town day after day and not tire of it. Essaouira puts me into an alert but relaxed state of mind. Marrakech keeps me alert, but the lack of respect for boundaries causes a tension that's unsustainable for me. If I actually lived in Marrakech, I'd be sure to die after a few years due to the constant release of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I hear a "Bonjour, Madame!" and my fight or flight instinct kicks in. But Essaouira is different. People might be friendlier, or they might just all be insanely high. While I'd prefer it to be the former, after being offered "special" brownies by dozens of laid-back natives, I'm inclined the friendly demeanor of Essaouirans is directly related to the massive amount of marijuana they consume.

After a mouthwatering fish dinner and absent-mindedly imbibing an entire bottle of rosé, Mike and I headed back to our riad suite. I promptly fell asleep on the large living room couch (lulled to unconsciousness to the sound of French politics sifting into my foggy brain), and Mike took the warmly decorated bedroom. The next morning, we took our omelet/mint tea breakfast on the terrace and relished the fact that we were high enough off the ground to keep the begging stray cats from scratching at our shins.

We took one more quick jaunt around the medina, stopping to get a quick cup of ginger/mint/lemon/eucalyptus honey tea (DO TRY THIS AT HOME!) at a favorite café, and then repacked our things and headed down the road to Agadir.

Agadir... I adore this city, but it doesn't feel Moroccan to me. Agadir was first a Berber fishing village, then a Portuguese trading post, then a part of the Saadian dynasty in 1541. But although the city has centuries of entrancing history, it looks every bit as modern as Casablanca. Agadir was devastated by earthquakes in 1731 (which closed the harbor and led to the establishment of Essaouira) and in 1960 (which led to the modern city we see today).

Agadir is very popular with surfers and the seaside road between Essaouira and Agadir is spectacular. I actually stopped knitting a very nice mustard-colored hat to better concentrate on the scenery.

At a small village on the way to Agadir

Watching lobster cook is maybe one of the saddest things I've ever seen. Seeing the claws slowly twitch as the Moroccan fanned the glowing coals with his cardboard cutouts made my stomach turn. Not enough to keep me from eating one the next day, but nearly.

We stopped at an argan oil/honey shop on the way to Agadir. When on the southwest coast of Morocco, you can find argan oil everywhere, although the quality may be questionable. You come across big, well-organized shops like these, and Moroccan men and boys sitting by the side of the road selling their diluted oils like rosy-cheeked American kids with their lemonade.