Moroccan Surfing Adventures.

Moroccan Surfing Adventures.


The Life, Death and res-erection of a Moped.


The Surf Camp

I landed in Morocco with the plan to flip a coin as to hitch north to Tagazought or south to a friend I had met two years previous in Mirileft. However through an extraordinary bit of luck I managed to land myself a job in a surf camp as an unqualified surf instructor teaching complete beginners to paddle into waves. The benefit to this was a free bed, free internet and as much food as I could eat. It seemed perfect, and certainly helped me to find my feet. 


I started off by supervising the 'Sennon Surf Centre'.. which consisted of about 20 groms.. all of whom ripped!

Dinner for the groms.

I recently found this video on vimeo. It was filmed by some of the groms who stayed at the camp for the first week i worked there. They looked like they had fun staying with us.

http://vimeo.com/33667291


However, there were certain drawbacks that could not be avoided.The camp was run by two men; one was a Moroccan hairdresser, the other an English golfer. The pair were hopeless. They had no knowledge of surfing, let alone ability to actually stand up on a board. The camp was in its first year and seemed so soulless.  It didn’t feel right working there. The owners would often disappear for days on end, leaving me to deal with disgruntled clients. The final straw came when one of the guys asked me to create a fake recommendation on ‘trip-advisor’ to counteract the negative reviews the camp had been receiving. This, coupled with the fact that their puppy did a shit in my shoe, led to my decision to leave.

I needed some form of transport to whisk me to safety.

Luckily morocco is littered with old motorbikes. Here are just a few that inspired me to buy my own:

Rad paint job

A blue dream

Sweet offroader with homemade exhaust

'HUNKO JUNK', The Humble Stead, The Iron Horse. (R.I.P)

This bike was a complete disaster from the very beginning. It took two long days of traipsing around Agadir to find and constantly broke down... but i loved it. I named the Bike 'Hunko'. I didnt care that the front forks were broken, the front break didnt work, there was no rear light, the rear wheel was bold, the petrol leaked, the front headlight was faulty and the horn didnt work. I looked at the bike and my head was screaming at me not to buy it, but my heart was set. I looked at 'Hunko' and i accepted him for all that he was. From then on we were partners and i bought him there and then for a ridiculously high price.

Travelling at the speed of light?... time travel?

The Rack

I drove a couple of times for a surf with my board tucked pricariously under one arm. My right arm remained free to steer and my right hand controlled the throttle. The drawback to this was that the right side break did not work and therefore stopping became an issue. Every time a truck passed me the wind would catch my board and almost send me off the road. Some sort of board-rack was needed, so i took my bike to a mechanic and tried to explain what i wanted.


After a brief game of charades i was told to return at noon the following day and the rack would be built. I returned the following day at the specified time. The mechanic eventually appeared at his shop four and half hours late. He took some rough measurement using a piece of string and began to weld on some steel piping just inches from the bikes petrol tank.

At this point i got distracted by some goats.

Goats

When I came back it was done. Tadahh.

After the rack was built i left the surf camp. The owners would often disappear for days on end to party in Marrakesh or fly back to England without warning. I took this opportunity to make my escape. I told the other guys I would be back in a couple of days, packed everything I had and departed on Hunko... never to return.

I moved to a hostel in Tagazought and slept on the roof. The days were pretty good...I would don my wetsuit and ride helmetless and barefoot to the beaches, chain my cycle to the railings at the side of the road, remove my board and surf to my heart’s content. It was a golden time. It did not last long.

Hunko began to make strange noises. I decidied to go to the mechanic. Whilst riding there.. my throttle ceased to function and the engine roared loudly. I looked to down to see my drive chain and sprocket rolling along the road beside me. When i evetually came to a halt i also noticed my pedal and crank arm were lying in the road behind me.

It was easily fixed.. and whilst there I addressed some of the other problematic areas of the bike. However it was money I would rather not be spending.


Malcolm arrives!


Hunko even took passengers.. all be it very slowly. Malcolm came out to visit me and spent two days on the back. We never went very far.

One of the best days that Hunko, Malcolm and I spent together was during one flat sunny day. In the morning, after a cold night sleeping on the roof terrace, we went down to the main beach in Tagazought and bought a fish. We didn't know what kind of fish we had bought, but it looked vaguely edible, so we purchased it. The rest of the morning was spent preparing the fish to be eaten.

By midday we stopped for a rest at a cafe and drank juice.

After wetting ours whistles we headed out to somewhere we thought we could find some firewood to cook the flipping fishhh.  However, Morocco's distinct lack of forests meant we had to search high and low. We started off climbing through endless Argan plantations that clung to the mountainous terrain surrounding the village. This was to no avail. Finally we resorted to picking up driftwood from the beach. Most pieces were less than a foot in length and the majority was water-logged.

no wood in sight

not having much luck

found a sweet rope swing.

We tied what we could gather into a bundle.. before riding on Hunko to the designated cooking spot. We decided to hide our bundle in a bush for later. Morocco is notorious for petty thefts and we certainly didn't want any cheeky Moroccans stealing what had taken us hours to assemble. Malcolm and I returned later, retrieved the bundle and walked to the cove. It was a bit bromantic, but we over looked this.

We wrapped the 'fish n veg' in foil and put in into the fire. We also chucked in some potatoes... but these disintegrated into charcoal almost instantly.

The fish was served on an old tin plate I had found at the beach earlier in the week. It was good. But after we had eaten we both agreed that two fish should have been purchased from the fishman.

The Abandonment of Hunko

Malcolm hired a car with the help of a small man named Pedro. Besides being the local drug dealer of second rate hash, he was also in the business of fleecing innocent Devon boys out of hundreds of Dirham. Despite threatening to kick Malcolm in the head.. Pedro did sort us out with a car. To us it wasn’t just a car... it was our accommodation as well. Hunko was left in Tagazought whilst Malcolm and I went north as far as Imsouane, and south to secret nameless point break in the desert.

The only drawback to hanging around with Malcolm was his choice in music. He must be the only guy in the armed forces who can list his top three musicians as Rihanna, Katy Perry and Nicki Minaj. However it did make picking up hitch hikers very funny.

Here are some photos of Malcolm holding cats:

Hunko Dies

Malcolm returned home to England I returned to Tagazought to be reunited with my iron horse. This is where I met a Californian man named Tyler. He had some brilliant stories ranging from smoking hot knives whilst working on a Cannabis farm in northern California to the time he super glued up a 6 inch reef gash on his torso. I spent the final couple of weeks with Tyler and even caught the same flight home.

Hunko died in the wake of a fateful motorbike ride with Tyler. On this ride, Hunko ran out of petrol.  Tyler, who had hired a moped, set off to find fuel. I pushed the bike for about a mile before Tyler returned with about a litre of petrol contained within an old water bottle. However the petrol I poured into Hunkos tank was 'four-stroke', the petrol Hunko needed was 'two stroke'.


The next time I rode Hunko he was riding very, very slowly. I pulled on the throttle harder and harder but to no avail. Again I relied on my basic mechanic skills and assumed that Hunko must be running out of petrol. However, on the way to the petrol station, the engine seized. The petrol from the water bottle had no oil additive and the engine had effectively welded itself together. I hired a minivan which took me and the corpse of Hunko back to Tagazought. I sold him for spares at the side of the road. It was tragic.

The resurrection

I sold the bike to a plump Moroccan business man named Mohammed. Three days later, whilst still mourning the loss of my beloved ped, I saw Mohammed chug past on Hunko. The bike was running better, and going faster, than it ever had in the past.  Mohammed owns the only pizza joint in Tagazought and Hunko is now the bike they use for deliveries. It is a legacy that I’m proud to be a part of. Rejoice.. Hunko lives!