Morocco
Editorial :
Honey Magazine 2019
Olive and red earth meet the glowing Atlas mountains, and there are palm trees along stone walls. We arrive in an orange glow as we make our way into Marrakech. Vans, taxis, scooters, carts and donkeys all make their way through the archways of the medina, the old city. There are sparks from the metalworkers wearing tiny glass goggles, rugs hanging along canopy openings and tiled doorways. Fresh meat is hung and hooded women bargain for vegetables and spices. We make our way through the winding alleys with a ten foot surfboard bag. There are four of us, just girls, in Morocco.
Margeaux and Sarah have arrived from France, while Clara and I hopped the pond from California. As the only non-french speaker, I pick up a few keywords and rely on generous smiles. As blossoming veterans, Margeaux and Sarah give us “le epic tour de Maroc.” Eventually, we all pick up a smooth side step for dodging scooters.
After a few days between the sun and shade of riads, a couple shuffles between tajine and mint tea, we head to the coast. Between Agadir and Essaouira, we are heading to Imsouane. We are driving at night once we reach the coast, a dangerous game to play on the single lane highway. We wind around mountain fingers as the stars hover above us. The moon is full and the glassy sea glitters below. We find ourselves riding emotions of excitement and anxiety, in an almost drug-like state. When we arrive to the small town with the blinking radio tower, the wind is howling through buildings, taking advantage of any unhinged doors.
We awake to days spent catching waves, eating fresh fish, and plotting market routes. Traveling as independent women, without men by our sides, brings a mix of curiosity and hard gazes. But even amongst sticky situations, we make like the tide and go with the flow. The curve of the coastline is mesmerizing and time seems to pass differently between sand dunes and traveling camels.
