Little Surfer Girl

After a night of entertainment by a country mom who made us the most delicious peanut butter argan oil conctoction on the face of the planet, Genna and I wander lazily down the road that came to join the fishing village of Imssouane with the rest of the developing Moroccan beach fronts. This place, however, seems to be still devoid of your average tourist, rather attracting ambling surfers, van loads of hippies (and their bleach blonde babies) and the occasional caravan of older Europeans in shiny new campers. The day consists of waking up, eating, surfing, showering, eating, surfing again, drinking green tea, smoking, more eating, more tea, more smoking, and occasionally, some gambling. So far Westerners have managed to arouse the locals' interest in both dice and poker, and there's talk of backgammon. If two Imssouanians hadn't swept the French man for 400 durham things would seem different.

With that said, one can say that I'm pretty fluent in French here, as I have the words that seem necessary for life in Imssouane: sable/sand, vent/wind, vague/wave, soleil/sun, la mousse/ white cap, hashish/hashish, palmes/paddle, etois/stars, poisson/fish

And so after 8 days lost in this black hold paradise we come to civilization for one thing only really: ATM.

If only paradise could last like this forever. Enshallah...