Christmas in Morocco

Last year on Christmas, I was winding through cliff-edged roads in a taxi that didn’t have seatbelts, too entranced by the outpour of endless ocean to be concerned about safety. Endless ocean accompanied by a sky so clear it carved out a birds-eye view of the twinkling coast for miles and miles. From the car window, I could see rhythmic white ripples of the ocean creeping towards shore, looking gentle and sweet. Yet I knew that this soft undulation of water is the same force that will thrash you around unforgivingly if caught inside its wrath.

A collective effervescence filled the air, as our excitement to surf outweighed any traces of anxiety and dread that often came with other surf days. This day was different than other days. This day was Christmas, and we weren’t going to surf any old waves; we were going to surf the longest wave in Africa. Or so they say. Imsouane Beach baby!

Because it was Christmas, and the weather gifted us perfection, and our group of guests at the surf camp was starting to feel like a family, there was not a tinge of dread to be felt. No one on Earth enjoys hauling a tight wetsuit up onto their bodies, but this day, we all grabbed our suits with no hesitation. Yank this thing over me, throw me a board, and get me in that pearly blue water. YALLAH.

Call it a Christmas miracle, or call it the outcome of genuine positivity, but every single one of us surfed our best that day. I, very much a beginner with tempering confidence in the water, rode out several sturdy waves all the way to shore. I even built up enough confidence to venture out to the lineup - an intimidating destination for the newbie, but a home to the experienced, green water wave catching junkies. The “lineup” is where those cute ripples of bubbles will actually betray you into washing machine pulp if you’re not careful. I was all the more familiar with a washing machine wipeout. But on this day, the waves didn’t betray me. For the first time in my contentious surfing journey, I felt in control of the waves. And nothing is more satisfying than looking out around the bobs of the ocean to see all your other friends also rocking it out on their boards, taking control.

Imsouane Beach has a special place in my heart. It marked the pinnacle of my surfing ability (it unfortunately was downhill and short-lived after that), but it also marked my first Christmas away from home. And while I was physically an ocean away from my blood family, I was kindling a connection with another kind of family - this surf camp family.

I was a volunteer at the surf camp, and this was my family of other volunteers, hosts, surf instructors, and new guests. My family of runaways, of dreamers, of fleers, of drifters, of people like me, of people chasing the experience at the expense of landing.

Every guest had come there solo. Every guest was worlds different than me on the surface. We all hailed from different parts of the world, were of varying ages, occupations, and personalities. But internally, we all yearned for something similar - a tang, a pinch, a shake, an escape from the dreary wintertime, and thus stumbling into the promised land of Moroccan bliss.

But was it the winter season itself we were escaping? Or the wintery, lonely blues associated with this “most wonderful time of the year”? A solace from our holiday demons, perhaps?

It’s hard to say. There is an unspoken pressure during the holidays that can culminate in feelings of despair, isolation, grief, or difficult realizations. Sometimes it feels like a fabricated portrayal of holly and jolly, used to cover up the sinking reminder that a star will only twinkle atop its tree for so long, until the brittle pines brown and weaken, and fail to hold up anything bright (not to be dramatic or anything).

Let me tell you why Morocco makes for the perfect escape from the Christmas blues: firstly, it is a predominantly Muslim country, so Christmas is not normally celebrated. Bam, automatically strips away the expectations of December. You can relax. Secondly, wintertime is prime time in Morocco - not too devastatingly hot, but consistent cloudless skies and sharp sunlight make for a decadent climate. Thirdly, while the Christmas season can be chaotic and restless, Moroccan culture on the coast offers the exact opposite. Days are slow, enjoyed fully by nothing else but the presence of other people. Sink yourself into the sun-warmed sand, and you’ll never want to get up. And you never have to, perhaps, unless the tide swells high and washes you out.

Something about the indifference of the Moroccans to this usually overly anticipated day was a relief. It’s an ordinary day for them, but even ordinary days with little expectation can come with abundance and sunshine. That’s how time in Morocco felt.

After a long day working the waves at Imsouane, we rinsed out our salty hair and lathered our singed skin with aloe (at least the fair-skinned folk like me did). Each of us proudly sporting that dewy post-beach day glow at our family dinner. We ate family-style meals every day at the surf camp, home-cooked Moroccan food cooked by local chef, Mina.

Our meal on Christmas Day, however, was presented with flair. The dinner table was dressed with festive garland decor and nametags to designate our personal seats, invoking a proud sense of belonging. Mina cooked us Moroccan pastilla - a flaky meat pie with fish, totally delicious. There were five different cakes for dessert that we devoured.

Knowing that my Christmas would be spent in Morocco, I truly didn’t expect anything fancy or commemorative. But the hosts made it feel as special as it could for all of us.

And because of that, a contagious energy of ensuring everyone felt special flowed throughout the dinner.

The beauty of family-style meals is that they force a type of collaboration that makes everyone feel appreciated. Through the subtle moments of graciousness of passing the salad bowl, handing over the pepper, or offering to serve the person next to you before you’ve served yourself. Through these shared moments of giving and exchange of humanness, a familial-like bond was forged between all of us.

All of us, who were strangers just a few days ago, and now, at dinner, we were already making plans to come back next year for Christmas.

At some point, we all chimed our glasses in for a celebratory “cheers”. As the clank of our cheers died down, Jonathon, a comedic type guy from England, said something that caught the rest of us off guard: “We are all here because we’re running away from something, right?”

While we all chuckled and nodded in a joking ‘haha’ manner, it was also a laugh of solemn agreement. Truth… Jonathon spoke nothing but the truth.

That Christmas Day brought together an unlikely bunch of people. Each carrying our own reasons for checking into a Moroccan surf camp during Christmas time.

Whether it was the mental toll of being a caretaker to a sick patient, the coping of grief magnified by the holidays, the burn out of a corporate work addict, the broken heart following a recent divorce, the avoidance of a tenuous sibling relationship, or even the guy who hadn’t spent Christmas at home in years because, “once you start, it’s addicting to spend christmas away”..... Each of the guests there sought a reprieve. Each of them needed to run away for a little bit, and we all recognized the truth in that.

Then, there were the volunteers - me, plus three other girls. Thoroughly enjoying and embracing everyone’s company, but used to the fleeting nature of comers and goers.

“And what are you guys running from? You’ve been running for a while!” one of the guests said, directly calling us out.

The other volunteers and I glanced around at each other. As dedicated world solo travelers, volunteers are the ultimate wanderers. We, the volunteers, RAN so all the guests here could walk (literally). We are the experts at running away. Fugitives from our past lives. Always on the run, never able to be found.

Running from what exactly, you may ask? Thou shalt never disclose… Hehehe

xoxo MERRY CHRISTMAS <3