Worry gives a small thing a big shadow.
Let go and keep pressing on
📷: @yokomorimotophotography
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Warrior
The road might be long.
The terrain might be precarious.
You might need to sit and rest awhile.
But don’t turn away from your dreams and your hearts longing.
Your very next step may hold all you desire.
Keep walking Warrior.
-unknown
She Who Loves The Beach
No words can express
The depth of her contentment
As she walks along the beach.
As the waves lap against the shores
They create the rhythm of her life.
Balmy breezes kiss
Her sun-bronzed skin,
And she wonders…
Could there ever be a greater destiny
Than to be born with a love
For the treasures of the sea?
Here, she is home.
- Suzy Toronto
There is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shore line, no matter have many times it’s sent away
#day1 #JuneBodyAngels #JuneBodyAngelsChallenge #yoga #yogi #yogagirl #yogajournal #yogalife #igyoga #yogagram #instayoga #yogafit #igyoga #spiderpose #tattooedyogi #yogaintheworld #yogafam #yogachallenge #yogabody #travelingyogi #yogaisforeverybody
We Should Have Taken the Taxi!
It was my last weekend in Morocco and for the past month and a half I had only seen Taghazout (and some of Agadir but that’s another story). I had to get out of the little surf town and go on some kind of adventure. Never take the old saying “be careful what you wish for” for granted. It will bite you in the ass and I mean hard.
Just so happen that that exact weekend was the very popular Moroccan Gnaoua Music Festival in Essaouira. Even better two guys who had stayed at the hostel were going to Essaouira for their next stop. Perfect, a music festival is exactly my shot of tequila. I figured I would travel with Thomas and Luca the two hours to Essaouira, we would jam to some Moroccan music, I’d figure out someplace to stay for the night, then head back to Taghazout the next day, leaving me with a whole day to pack before flying to Greece. But wait it got even better, another guy, Alex, who was also staying at the hostel, said he wanted to go as well and bonus he had a tent.
Saturday we were in no rush, the festival didn’t start till around eight in the evening and it would only take two hours to get there. So we were just shooting the shit on hostel’s terrace, grubbed on some lunch, smoked a spliff, then headed to the street to try to flag down a lift. With the music festival going on we figured there would be heaps of people driving that way. We were also told that we should be able to get a bus to stop --the exact advice we were given was, “give the guy some money and he will jump in front of the bus for you” --no joke.
We held up our makeshift sign for about fifteen minutes with not even a nibble. A taxi pulled up started talking to us in some broken Arabic-French-English trying to convince us to hop in his cab. He claimed it was going to be impossible for us to jump on a bus, all the buses were going to be full, and that he would drive us for a hundred-fifty dirhams ($15) each. After more potluck language exchange of negotiations we got him down to a hundred dirhams each, but our stingy asses didn’t budge we wanted to try for a fifty dirham bus ride.
We declined the taxi. We should have taken the taxi.
About fifteen minutes later a bus to Essaouira pulls around the corner and stops! Brilliant, we would be in Essaouira in no time. It was about two in the afternoon when we got on the bus and that is exactly when the perfect turned to shit.
About ten minutes after we leave the city limits of Taghazout we hit some peculiar traffic. When our bus pulls up the the stop car that was causing the backup the bus driver leans out his window and begins yelling at the driver of the car throwing hands in every direction. Now I am just taking a hypothetical guess that he was yelling; Arabic is a rather harsh language to an English ear with lots of hand gestures. It is very difficult to distinguish a heated argument form a friendly conversation. So I did not think much of the scene until the car sped up and shot directly in front of the bus, cutting us off by a hair.
Oh hell no, the bus driver was having none of that, so in his genius rage gives the car a little tap on the butt. Well that just pissed the car off more. They slammed on their breaks. The bus driver slammed on his breaks. Next thing I know everyone and their mother gets off the bus. Oh shit there’s about to be a Moroccan brawl.
Turns out there was just a lot more yelling that I couldn’t understand. Just a verbal argument not even a push or shove. Face to face and pointing until I see the bus ticket man run over to the side of the road and pick up a rock about the size of two of his heads.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who saw ticket man pick up the rock, because the driver jumps into his car and kicks the gas. Tires squeal and he skids off just as ticket man chucks the rock missing the car by less a foot. Within the frantic get-a-way the car makes contact with a sweet little old man knocking him onto his back in the middle of the road.
I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed and I couldn’t believe more so that we waited around on the side of the road for another thirty minutes. Over half the bus was hanging out on the roadside like it was a front porch. Talking on the phone, bickering at one another, shaking hands with drivers of cars passing by.
Finally the bus driver leads everyone back onto the bus and we head off again. We’re about an hour behind schedule. No problem at least we were making progress once more. We make it to the next town, about thirty kilometers down the road and the bus stops again. The driver gets up in the aisle to make an announcement, of course in Arabic, but apparently he announced that we had to go back to Taghazout for a police report.
“What the freak! We should have taken the taxi.”
We back tracked the thirty kilometers back to Taghazout so everyone who got off the bus the first time could get back off to make a police report. Thomas and I sat in the front of the bus, we got a front row view of the whole shenanigans. Luca and Alex were passed out somewhere in the back completely oblivious to the last two hours of events. After everyone got back off the bus Thomas and I went back to fill them in on the drama. Well one of them, Luca woke up but Alex remained in a little dream ball.
First think Luca said, “We should have just taken the taxi.”
Another hour or so passed, just to keep track we had gotten nowhere sitting on that bus for 2 hours. We should have been in Essaouira by that time.
The three of us came back to the bus after a much needed munchie run to find Alex had awaken. “Why is everyone off the bus?” he questioned with a very confused look on his face.
“Were in Taghazout.” I informed him. He face contorted even more, so I filled him in on the day's events.
“We should have taken the taxi” is all he could say.
The clock continued to tick we continued to sit and wait for another hour or two --up to three or four hours of getting nowhere-- Alex and I decided to throw in the towel. Yet, of course, at that exact moment the bus driver honks the horn. We already put in a full days effort might as well see it through. We got back on that bloody bus.
But wait, it still wasn’t smooth sailing from there. About an hour and a half in there is a police checkpoint. Surprise, surprise the police wave the bus over. At which point, the guy sitting next to Alex in the back of the bus hands a half rolled spliff to the kid on his other side. The cops step onto the bus, walk straight to the back, and escort the hash guy off.
How the police knew to stop our bus and the exact guy will forever be a mystery to me I think. At the time I had no idea what was happening until Alex filled me in when we got off in Essaouira.
Some conversating happened between the cops and hash guy. Good or bad I still could not be sure, but five minutes later they were shaking hands like old pals. Hash guy made his way back on the bus and off again we were for the fourth time.
The drama still didn’t stop there, at least this time we made into Essaouira city limits. No vacancies means nothing to Moroccans. If there is room they will take the money. We picked up a group of four girls probably between eighteen and twenty years old; within five minutes there was more yelling. Contrary to the other drama of the day, I knew this one was an agreement. No one can mistake an angry woman. It appeared to be some kind of disagreement between one of the girls and a gentleman.
The girls stormed to the front of the bus and demanded to be let off. The bus driver did as they request and the girls almost jumped off the bus before it came to a complete stop.
Another five minutes and we were finally released from our bus prison. The air was a late fall frigid but fresh. What was supposed to be a two hour bus ride turned into a seven hour bus soap opera.
To Be Continued. . . That Night
 |
| After the bus stops for us and 5 minutes before the drama |
Just so happen that that exact weekend was the very popular Moroccan Gnaoua Music Festival in Essaouira. Even better two guys who had stayed at the hostel were going to Essaouira for their next stop. Perfect, a music festival is exactly my shot of tequila. I figured I would travel with Thomas and Luca the two hours to Essaouira, we would jam to some Moroccan music, I’d figure out someplace to stay for the night, then head back to Taghazout the next day, leaving me with a whole day to pack before flying to Greece. But wait it got even better, another guy, Alex, who was also staying at the hostel, said he wanted to go as well and bonus he had a tent.
Saturday we were in no rush, the festival didn’t start till around eight in the evening and it would only take two hours to get there. So we were just shooting the shit on hostel’s terrace, grubbed on some lunch, smoked a spliff, then headed to the street to try to flag down a lift. With the music festival going on we figured there would be heaps of people driving that way. We were also told that we should be able to get a bus to stop --the exact advice we were given was, “give the guy some money and he will jump in front of the bus for you” --no joke.
We held up our makeshift sign for about fifteen minutes with not even a nibble. A taxi pulled up started talking to us in some broken Arabic-French-English trying to convince us to hop in his cab. He claimed it was going to be impossible for us to jump on a bus, all the buses were going to be full, and that he would drive us for a hundred-fifty dirhams ($15) each. After more potluck language exchange of negotiations we got him down to a hundred dirhams each, but our stingy asses didn’t budge we wanted to try for a fifty dirham bus ride.
We declined the taxi. We should have taken the taxi.
About fifteen minutes later a bus to Essaouira pulls around the corner and stops! Brilliant, we would be in Essaouira in no time. It was about two in the afternoon when we got on the bus and that is exactly when the perfect turned to shit.
About ten minutes after we leave the city limits of Taghazout we hit some peculiar traffic. When our bus pulls up the the stop car that was causing the backup the bus driver leans out his window and begins yelling at the driver of the car throwing hands in every direction. Now I am just taking a hypothetical guess that he was yelling; Arabic is a rather harsh language to an English ear with lots of hand gestures. It is very difficult to distinguish a heated argument form a friendly conversation. So I did not think much of the scene until the car sped up and shot directly in front of the bus, cutting us off by a hair.
Oh hell no, the bus driver was having none of that, so in his genius rage gives the car a little tap on the butt. Well that just pissed the car off more. They slammed on their breaks. The bus driver slammed on his breaks. Next thing I know everyone and their mother gets off the bus. Oh shit there’s about to be a Moroccan brawl.
 |
| everyone getting off the bus to check things out |
Turns out there was just a lot more yelling that I couldn’t understand. Just a verbal argument not even a push or shove. Face to face and pointing until I see the bus ticket man run over to the side of the road and pick up a rock about the size of two of his heads.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who saw ticket man pick up the rock, because the driver jumps into his car and kicks the gas. Tires squeal and he skids off just as ticket man chucks the rock missing the car by less a foot. Within the frantic get-a-way the car makes contact with a sweet little old man knocking him onto his back in the middle of the road.
I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed and I couldn’t believe more so that we waited around on the side of the road for another thirty minutes. Over half the bus was hanging out on the roadside like it was a front porch. Talking on the phone, bickering at one another, shaking hands with drivers of cars passing by.
 |
| Chilling on the side of the road |
Finally the bus driver leads everyone back onto the bus and we head off again. We’re about an hour behind schedule. No problem at least we were making progress once more. We make it to the next town, about thirty kilometers down the road and the bus stops again. The driver gets up in the aisle to make an announcement, of course in Arabic, but apparently he announced that we had to go back to Taghazout for a police report.
“What the freak! We should have taken the taxi.”
We back tracked the thirty kilometers back to Taghazout so everyone who got off the bus the first time could get back off to make a police report. Thomas and I sat in the front of the bus, we got a front row view of the whole shenanigans. Luca and Alex were passed out somewhere in the back completely oblivious to the last two hours of events. After everyone got back off the bus Thomas and I went back to fill them in on the drama. Well one of them, Luca woke up but Alex remained in a little dream ball.
First think Luca said, “We should have just taken the taxi.”
Another hour or so passed, just to keep track we had gotten nowhere sitting on that bus for 2 hours. We should have been in Essaouira by that time.
The three of us came back to the bus after a much needed munchie run to find Alex had awaken. “Why is everyone off the bus?” he questioned with a very confused look on his face.
“Were in Taghazout.” I informed him. He face contorted even more, so I filled him in on the day's events.
“We should have taken the taxi” is all he could say.
The clock continued to tick we continued to sit and wait for another hour or two --up to three or four hours of getting nowhere-- Alex and I decided to throw in the towel. Yet, of course, at that exact moment the bus driver honks the horn. We already put in a full days effort might as well see it through. We got back on that bloody bus.
But wait, it still wasn’t smooth sailing from there. About an hour and a half in there is a police checkpoint. Surprise, surprise the police wave the bus over. At which point, the guy sitting next to Alex in the back of the bus hands a half rolled spliff to the kid on his other side. The cops step onto the bus, walk straight to the back, and escort the hash guy off.
How the police knew to stop our bus and the exact guy will forever be a mystery to me I think. At the time I had no idea what was happening until Alex filled me in when we got off in Essaouira.
Some conversating happened between the cops and hash guy. Good or bad I still could not be sure, but five minutes later they were shaking hands like old pals. Hash guy made his way back on the bus and off again we were for the fourth time.
The drama still didn’t stop there, at least this time we made into Essaouira city limits. No vacancies means nothing to Moroccans. If there is room they will take the money. We picked up a group of four girls probably between eighteen and twenty years old; within five minutes there was more yelling. Contrary to the other drama of the day, I knew this one was an agreement. No one can mistake an angry woman. It appeared to be some kind of disagreement between one of the girls and a gentleman.
The girls stormed to the front of the bus and demanded to be let off. The bus driver did as they request and the girls almost jumped off the bus before it came to a complete stop.
Another five minutes and we were finally released from our bus prison. The air was a late fall frigid but fresh. What was supposed to be a two hour bus ride turned into a seven hour bus soap opera.
To Be Continued. . . That Night
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