We had the worst coffee of my entire life this morning for breakfast.
I am SHOCKED! Shocked, I tell you, for it was a Frenchman who made it and I have such high expectations of the French.
The.
Worst.
Ever.
The only way to get to the Agadir airport is by taxi. There are no busses, no train. Taxi is it. And the airport is a ways out of town, so the taxi ride cost almost as much as last night’s room. We were dropped off, and went in to get our rental car.
He looked at our paperwork (pick up at Agadir airport) and looked at his paperwork (pick up at Agadir downtown) and said, “It will be a couple minutes. We sent the car downtown to meet you!”
Bummer.
I mean for the wasted taxi money.
So he did our paperwork, and I had time to go pick up a road map for Morocco before the car arrived.
We all walked out to the car, a white Dacia. I have never seen nor heard of a Dacia. It is comfortable enough, not much power, but seems pretty fuel efficient after just one day. I took photos of the car all around, in case there are any questions later (use the time and date stamp on your camera) and we loaded up.
Now, this boy had been hanging out in the background, just watching us all.
Gail carried her suitcase out, I took my backpack, and the minute Gail took her hand off her suitcase to put her purse/daypack into the car, the ran up, picked up Gail’s suitcase and handed it to me.
Then he stuck his hand out.
So I ignored him.
Really? We did all the work, I didn’t ask for him to move the suitcase one foot into my hand, and now he wants a tip.
Well, he would not go away, so I dug out a five cent euro coin I found on the ground, which, by the way, is worth more than the $1MAD I was going to give him.
Well, that wasn’t good enough. He kept making faces, getting in my way… finally we just got in the car and drove to the other side of the huge parking lot so we could finish getting settled in.
It seems the most popular gas here is Afriquia, so we stopped there first to fill up the car. In a lot of Europe, and here I guess, you get and return the car with as little gas as possible in it. It’s like a game: can I return to the airport on fumes, or am I gonna run out?
At Afriquia you just hand over your keys and credit card and they fill it for you. I even got my front and back window washed. Then we hit the road and headed to Tiznit.
It was kind of like driving through their version of the suburbs I guess, dusty dry little places strung out along the road, then open stretches of desert. It just felt good to not be on a bus.
We slowed, but were waved through the police checkpoint outside of Tiznit. As we came into the city, we were looking for the sign pointing to Sidi Ifni, stopped at a red light. A guy in a white robe, on a little sputtering scooter, pulled up next to me and yelled through the wind, “Français?”
I literally did that “look around, Who Me?” thing and realized he was yelling at me.
“NO!" I yelled back.
I am hoping the light will turn green.
“English?” Not thinking clearly enough, I replied “YES!”
“What you look for?”
A green light, I am thinking, but I say, “Road to Mirleft.”
“Up here, take right!”
Green light, green light, green light… but it is still red.
And I know what is coming next…
“Uh, OK. Thanks.” I say.
But the light stays red, I am ready to find $1 in my pocket, when I am surprised as he says, “You come visit my silver shop in Tiznit! I show you!”
So I make a lame excuse about we have to get to Mirleft, which he totally doesn’t buy, and then, mercifully, the light turns green.
We go up a couple blocks, turn right, and as we are ready to make the last left to Sidi Ifni the guy zooms up on Gail’s side, points and waves, and with a smile he is off.
Up and over the hills to Mirleft, following a small pickup truck carrying a cow. The truck can barely make the hill. When I finally pass him I am stuck behind another truck with sheep. I see how this driving is going to go.
Now, before I tell you about Mirleft, I want you to read this description:
Mirleft is a small, Berber town located where the Atlantic Ocean meets the mountains. Positioned by the seaside, the town is known for its beautiful, tranquil beaches; which have become the best kept secret in Morocco if one is looking for a peaceful, un-commercialized getaway. The town itself stands on a small hill which still has remains of an old, military fort built by the Spanish in 1935.The closest towns are Tiznit and Sidi Ifni, which are about 25m (40kn) away. It is 80m (130km) from Agadir in the southern part of Morocco. The town can be reached by taxis, bus, or private transportation from Tiznit and the approximate travel time is thirty minutes.
Mirleft is well known for its beaches: Gzira, Sidi El Ouafi, Tamahroucht, Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdallah, Imin Turga, and the beach bordering Sidi Ifni. Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdallah is the best known while Imin Turga is the most popular. Mirleft is a quiet town with amazing, sandy beaches and high waves. It is known as a surfer’s paradise since five out of Mirleft seven beaches are fantastic for surfing. This area is also culturally diverse since many foreigners (Germans, Belgians, Swiss, and French) fell in love with this town and decided to make it their home. They invested in it by opening hotels, restaurants, and guest houses.
Charming, isn’t it? Can’t you see it, idling your time away in a cafe, run by an expat Frenchman, then going to the beautiful beach and playing in the water, sleeping under a sun umbrella. Perhaps an enterprising German or Italian has set up a little concession and will bring you drinks, like in Europe… Later perhaps we will walk the art galleries on our way to dinner at a place run by the Swiss...
We wound our way down through the dry and barren hills, then there, in the distance, like a mirage: white buildings on the edge of the cliffs over the ocean.
We stopped at the police checkpoint, but they just looked at us and waved us through. I was told they are mainly looking for Al-Qaeda coming up through the desert, intent on starting sectarian violence (as opposed to terrorism). I guess we didn’t fit the profile. There is still that thing going on just south of us, where part of Morocco broke off and formed into the Western Sahara. Lonely Planet advises that you stay away from that border.
We drive into Mirleft. It is a dusty little town, one main souk street with archways and the shops all tucked in, and one “business” street out on the highway, where there is a small 7-11 style mini mart store and two cafes and a bank. The mosque is up behind the town, and sure enough, there is the Spanish Fort on the kill, with “MHS” or something scrawled on the hillside below with white rocks.
MHS. You know, just like in the US. Mirleft High School, probably the class of 1986 built it.
We turned out to the coast, and found our little guest house about 2KM out of town. It is Sally’s B&B, run by Sally of course, an English expat who loves Morocco. The house is right on the cliff looking over the rocks and beach, and has these great outdoor patios. We have a big, ocean view room.
She greets us with a cold beer, xeroxes our passports and gets all our information, then we visit a while.
I ask where we can buy any wine. I mean, we cannot find a grocery store type place to kill us, and she says, well, there are none around, we all bring it in from a town (about 150 miles away). But, she sells me two bottles of red that we can drink while we relax on her patio.
On the same subject, only one restaurant has a license for alcohol, would we like to eat there tonight.
OK. Are there other recommendations?
Well, not really… two maybe.
So she calls us in, and they have just reopened, and are serving crab or fish tonight.
OK, we say.
We drop our things and head out to “explore” Mirleft, which takes all of ten minutes. Did I mention it is a very small dusty little town? Two art “galleries” and the usual trinket places with a hardware store, a couple butchers, the fruit and vegetable stalls and the fish sellers under tents. There is the restaurant we are going to tonight, and maybe four other cafés. Kids are playing in the street, the call to prayer shouts out, then dies, and we have seen it. So we walk the street a second time to be sure we didn’t really miss much, and then head back to go to the beach.
We can just walk right down to the beach, and they have an umbrella and two loungers we can use for $80MAD total. But it is windy and pretty cold there on the beach, and as the sun ducks into the clouds Gail wraps up in her towel and tries to read. We walk the whole beach (five minutes) and I take photos and explore the rocks (five minutes) and she reads while I fall asleep, but after an hour she just can’t stand the cold and wind so we head up to our B&B and spend the rest of the afternoon on the sun terrace, mostly out of the wind, reading and drinking.
We walk to dinner, and I have probably the best crab of my life. It is just pure and sweet, nothing on it, and so fresh. When I finish eating it all, my hands do not even have that “fish” smell on them at all. Gail’s sole is tender and breaded, and it just flakes apart and is cooked just right. We have a couple glasses of Gris wine, which is their version of a dry rose.
We are the only people in the restaurant, maybe the only tourists in Mirleft. This entire meal: two dinners, four glasses of good wine, a large bottled water, costs us $250MAD, about $30 USD.
The B&B owner shows up a little later with her daughter, and she shares another glass of Gris with us before we set out to see the Mirleft nightlife on souk street. It is surprising that all the stores and the fish and vegetable markets are still open at 23:00. Kids are running around, yelling, and there are people sitting in the cafes.
Hell, just so we would feel right at home, some random guy in a brown robe walked up to me, hand out:
“Français?”
I am going to brush up on my Italian, and dumb looks.
"Io sono Italiano e non parlo Inglese, Francese o Tedesco.”
— I am Italian and I speak no English, French or German.
*shrug
So, OK. Mirleft doesn’t quite match the dreamy eyed descriptions from the guidebook. But it is not bad either. Me? I just could not see moving here, I mean when there are so many other more beautiful and engaging places. I wonder why people move to places like this, actually.
But it is interesting in a very slow, relaxed way.
Veeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrry slooooooooowwwwwwww…………..
Veeeeeeeerrrryyy rrreeeeeeeeeeeeelaxed.
I think if we don’t find something to do tomorrow I will shoot myself.