It was just like a scene from The Beach. I closed my eyes and expected Leonardo DiCaprio to stand in front of me when I opened them again. But no, the very English and much less attractive Nick, noticeably going through some kind of a mid-life crisis, was still there, rattling on about a secret beach in Morocco. Could I believe what he was saying?
Two girlfriends and I were dying to have a sunny European holiday and jumped on a plane to Seville in Spain, because this was the only ticket we could afford on our strict budget. We had no idea at that stage that our journey would take us to Morocco.
Arriving in Seville, where our hostel booking had mysteriously disappeared, a sweltering 45°C hit us in the face and rude waiters laughed at my friend's brave attempts at speaking Spanish. We decided to catch a bus to the coast to cool off in the sea and on advice from a not-so-rude waiter headed for Tarifa, a stunning little seaside windsurfing hotspot. Although boasting great nightlife and lots of trendy shops and gorgeous people, we couldn't help but let the wind get to us. After a couple of nights on Nick's rooftop, on ancient mattresses thriving with bed bugs, we needed to move on.
Which is when Nick, after a couple of beers, decided to tell us his secret.
"Catch the ferry across to Tangier. Look for a man with a laptop on the ferry. He will stamp your passports and save you plenty of time. Don't listen to men trying to speak your language. Look for taxi no 373 and its driver, Mohammed. Tell him to take you to Paradise Beach, where you will be in the safe hands of Digby and Absalam," said Nick.
Enthusiastically, he told us about a beautiful beach in the middle of nowhere, a place where you could just chill and be yourself.
"Don't be afraid of the local laughing lunatic," was Nick's last advice.
There were voices in our heads telling us to be careful. What if all this was just talk? What if Nick, whom we had only known for a couple of days, was trying to set us up? But the adventurous spirit in us took over, and our gut feeling told us this was something we had to do.
We found the laptop man and got our passports stamped. We ignored the Mohammeds shouting at us in Norwegian, and found the right Mohammed in taxi no 373. He was all smiles and drove us towards Paradise Beach through Tangiers, an enormous hot pot of cultures buzzing with life. Although we were warned to cover up and expect cat calls, the local men were much more polite than any Spanish or Italian man walking past a blonde in a summer dress.
An hour later, after stopping off to buy huge luscious watermelons, we were bumping down a narrow road towards the sea. Soaking up the surroundings, the passing goats, smiling people and deserted landscapes, we eventually rounded the corner that allowed us to see Paradise Beach in all its glory. Not at all like Leonardo's beach, but just as good in a completely different way.
Mohammed dropped us off and promised to be back in a couple of days to take us back to Tangiers. When we couldn't find Digby or Absalam we panicked slightly.
But we felt better when we spotted the laughing lunatic and were served crusty bread with delicious cream cheese and refreshing Fantas in glass bottles by a cute little boy saying he was Absalam's son.
We decided to just sit back, relax and enjoy the beach. It was incredibly peaceful, even though the laughing lunatic was raking sand around us in perfect little squares, within centimetres of our bikini-clad bodies.
A couple of hours later Digby the hippie came strolling along to greet us. Sporting a big beard and a long, grey ponytail, this Briton took us under his wing. Very tall and thin, dressed in an oversized Moroccan robe, we were afraid he was going to lift off with the next breath of wind. But his laid-back attitude was contagious, and we soon found ourselves smitten by Paradise Beach.
Digby encouraged us to spread blue mud from nearby cliffs all over our bodies before letting it dry in the sun and rinsing it off in the sea. A free spa treatment was a bonus that came with the beach.
We admired the beautiful sunset while enjoying fresh sardines, bread and traditional tagine - deliciously flavoured vegetables cooked in a ceramic dish for hours.
As dusk gradually surrounded us it was time to head for Absalam's farm, our shelter for the night. After a long and potholed taxi ride we had a terrifying but, at the same time, thrilling walk through the pitch black night, with dogs howling and snarling all around us. But our destination was surprisingly delightful. Apart from the toilet facilities we loved the farm's rural, rusty and primitive feel and the warm hospitality of Absalam's wife and daughters. Three kisses, cheek to cheek, was the norm every time they saw us. And the glow on their grateful and humble faces when we left our Spanish flamenco fans for them to keep was incredibly touching.
Delicious meals which took hours to prepare were served at midnight, the pipe was passed around and we chatted about everything and nothing in French, English and Arabic. A few other travellers had also found their way to the farm, and once our bellies were full we all slept like babies in a large guest room full of colourful pillows and blankets. The heat and persistent mosquitoes couldn't dampen the wonderful feeling of experiencing the true Morocco, far away from dreary tourist traps.
The smell of fresh bread, the crowing of roosters and an excited donkey woke us up the next morning. Another blissful day was spent on the beach before Digby took us to Asilah, a charming little village whose beauty took my breath away. After devouring fresh fruit smoothies we finally headed for the Hammam, the local village bath. We didn't know what to expect from the massage we had paid for, and sat against the wall like ducks in a row: naked, vulnerable and perhaps a bit scared. But after being thrown around and scrubbed raw, losing a few layers of skin and the tan we had by now acquired, we felt rejuvenated. Until they poured a bucket of ice-cold water over our heads, that is.
I don't think we had ever felt
so clean, as we made our way back to Absalam's farm and another delicious meal. We picked up a few anxious Swedish boys on the way, also sent by Nick. They had the same worried look on their faces we had had when we first arrived. But we assured them everything was great, and they soon relaxed.
Unfortunately, we had to head back to Spain the next day, not wanting to miss our return flight from Seville. But we managed to fit in a visit to the Asilah market where we got our ankles henna- tattooed, haggled like pros for leather shoes, bags and belts and savoured the exotic smells, tastes and friendliness of Morocco and its people one last time.
We were so happy that we had taken a chance and believed in Nick's tale of Paradise Beach. Magical and mysterious Morocco, off the beaten track and seen through local eyes, is an unbeatable and amazing experience. If you are keen, look for Nick's rooftop hostel in Tarifa, give him a couple of beers and ask him to tell you his secret.