Life in a Small Moroccan Fishing Village #1

Taghazout.

Turns out I can’t even spell it. Even though I spent several weeks there back in the day. (In retrospect, it feels like several months, if you get my drift.)

I first decided to  visit Morocco after meeting a South African guy named Christiaan and his German girlfriend ( I think her name was Margaret but I am not sure how to spell it) while frittering away my time in Algeciras on the Spanish-Moroccan border. I had originally planned  to winter in the Canary Islands while I was waiting for a young girl to join me. (She had been a receptionist at my last radio gig.  It was kind of an impulsive decision on her part and she needed several months to save up enough money to hook up with me in Amsterdam in the spring. )

After talking to Christiaan and his girlfriend, I flipped a coin and decided to go with them to Morocco instead. I traveled with them as far as Agadir and that’s when I began to hear of a small fishing village where you could rent a room for the equivalent of a dollar a day. (I never asked Christiaan where he had earned all his money but he showed me his passport one day and there were stamps from all over the world including the U.S.)

The economy digs in Taghazout (I always pronounced it TARA-ZOOT) turned out to be a clay hut without any electricity and a room with a hole in the middle that doubled as a “washroom”. I slept in a sleeping bag on the hard floor. My housemates were a couple of young Brits, several American draft dodgers, a French girl, a young guy who said his dad was a police commissioner in NYC and, if I remember correctly, some folks from Iceland.

(To Be Continued)

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Author: rixbitz

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