Locals enjoying the ocean
Taghazout
Hanging 10 in
groups of students as they paddled apprehensively in the water. As someone who had spent the last four years surfing, I could hardly call myself a beginner, but as the ocean had mercilessly pummelled my out-of-shape body into a downward spiral of disheartenment, I couldn’t help but feel I should be swimming alongside the others by the instructor. Determined to push myself, I gritted my teeth and stared down the approaching wave. My arms and legs, as stiff as my surfboard, following three days of gruelling exercise, revolted against my orders as I fought to maintain the speed of the incoming wave. Panicking as I felt myself lose momentum, I dug deep inside myself to find my last reserves of willpower and energy and with a sporadic heave gave a final paddle as the wave approached. Knuckles strained against the skin of my hands as I gripped tightly to the board, the wave hurtling me with full speed towards the shore. Brushing aside my momentary surprise of catching the wave, I quickly sprang into my stance and grinned broadly, wolfing down deep breaths of the salty air that flew past my face, turning it upwards to bask in the sun’s fierce rays. I stole a quick glance to my right and saw one of the women from the surf school tentatively catch her first wave. Offering a supporting smile and thumbs up, I twisted my head to the left just as one of the local kids, no more than eight years old, effortlessly leapt upon his board. I blinked in astonishment and he sped to the top of the wave, twisted on the crest and glided downwards, spraying me with his seawater dust in the process. Dumbfounded and slack jawed, I leaned forward to catch sight of him riding ahead, causing me to tumble headfirst over my board and, as surfers would say, kiss sand. With adrenaline sprinting through my veins and enthusiasm renewed, I scraped my jumble of limbs from the spongy shore that embraced me.
Unfazed by what I was convinced was obviously a child prodigy, I leaped back into the sea, eager to conquest the next swell. Once exclusive to men following the hedonist lifestyle, surfing has rocketed so much in popularity that today you will find all groups of people from different existences in the water, whether it be for the demanding workout, the uncompetitive atmosphere, or simply for the adrenaline rush. Many of the surf schools in Taghazout, such as SurfMaroc, even provide women-only surf tutorial holidays as the demand for women wanting to surf outstrips men. This rise in popularity has seen Taghazout’s tourism grow, with global surf industry names like Roxy sponsoring events in this Berber village. Despite this surge in tourism however, Taghazout maintains a unique balance between the surfing lifestyle and its traditional, Berber roots. Exhausted after spending the morning battling the waves, I dropped my surfboard off with Omar at the surf shack and stiffly wandered down Taghazout’s main street, its shops in varying hues of pink teeming with surf paraphernalia. Diverting down the steps of a side street, I wandered aimlessly down a maze of dirt paths, gazing at the tile patterns adorning the front of houses as a group of children scurried by kicking a ball. At the end of the narrow street next to the fishermen’s shore, sat the Tamazirt cafe with a wide window frame adorned with lashings of blue and purple paint, with four stools bearing tasselled cushions underneath a propped table. I heaved my sore body onto a stool and gazed at the shoreline swathed in yellow and blue boats where fishermen huddled together, investigating the day’s catch. Watching them, I thought to myself with amusement about how the sea’s role in the origins and development of Taghazoutits fishing and surfing- symbolised the village’s unique balance of maintaining tradition and surviving in today’s world. F
wSSm | womenssurfstyle.com | 45