Arabian horse lover Kim Jackson discovers the coastline between Agadir and Essaouira and fulfils her dream of galloping along the sandy beaches of Morocco.
The excitement and the power were building up beneath me like a tightly coiled spring. His proud muscular neck arched and his hooves splashed up and down excitedly in the puddles below. Within a split second of gently touching his sides the energy was released, his body lengthened and his pace quickened. Tears streamed down my face as the cold air rushed past, hair blew across my shoulders and the warmest of smiles swept across my face. As we settled into our stride we motioned forward effortlessly and rhythmically across the unmarked sands of Morocco.
Only 24 hours earlier, on four wheels instead of four legs, we arrived at a very basic breeze block construction on a cliff top. We seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. This, according to the hand painted sign on the side of the building was “Camping Imessouane”. Three men stopped loading the large truck that stood before us and welcomed us with smiling faces. They shook our hands and we made our introductions. Abdel would be our guide and host for the next few days. We also had an assistant guide and a driver for the support vehicle. On a patch of barren land seven handsome Arab x Barb stallions were tethered equidistant apart using halters, ropes and picket pins. Abdel explained “these horses must be kept apart so they do not fight. In Morocco we do not castrate our horses and we do not ride our mares as they are considered far too valuable.”
Our new sure-footed friends navigated the narrow, rocky mountain paths from Imessouane with ease until we reached the summit. It was our first glimpse of the sea and the golden sands of Imerditsen far below. A cooling breeze momentarily relieved us from the heat of the day as we paused to take in the view. I reached into my saddlebag; the water from the bottle was now warm against my lips. As we moved along the dusty track I tightened the cap back on the bottle using one hand and my teeth. Abdel pointed out the Eucalyptus and Argan trees “the first Women’s Aragan Oil Cooperative started is in this region. They produce and sell the oil, soaps and cosmetics to the tourists and also export them. We will soon pass through forests of Thuja, a tree that is indigenous to the Essaouira region, the wood is used to make our local handicrafts,” he said with pride.
In the distance brightly coloured clothes blew on a washing line like flags marking someone’s territory. Our line of seven stallions marched on towards the tiny Berber village. A donkey let out a warning call, its foal took refuge behind its mother and the women stopped their daily chores. Children were quickly beckoned to the doorways and onto doorsteps to wave as we passed on by like troops on the way to war.
The circus had come to town! Pots and pans, buckets and bags, mattresses and maps along with tents of various shapes and sizes; had all been conjured up in the clearing before us. A small round table stood proudly as a centerpiece complete with its bright red tablecloth, an elaborate large silver teapot and plates of exotic snacks. We couldn’t wait to kick off our boots, sit down and enjoy our mint tea, dates, figs and other delights. Before we became too comfortable Abdel suggested we put up our tents. Under his instruction, we erected the three tiny ladybird-like domes within minutes. We gathered back around our table as if it were our campfire. Abdel, now in his Djellaba, appeared before us holding a tray of bread and soup. Ravenous, we devoured our soup and the tagine of chicken and vegetables that followed. With full bellies and aching limbs we retired for the night.
A distant call to prayer drifted through the still night air. My horse, Eder scuffled around behind my tent; someone stumbled casting shadows by torchlight across the flimsy canvas. Cocooned and in a semi-conscious state I put off getting up until I was absolutely desperate. Tissues and torch in hand I ventured out there! Over cornflakes, powdered milk, bread, jams and cheesy triangles we discussed the stiffness of bodies, saddle sores and stories of our nights adventures locating the toilet tent.
We descended through the rocky terrain and the soft, sinking, sandy dunes. My dream of galloping along a beach was now only a short ride away. Eder began to jog excitedly on the firmer wet sand. The moment had come. Mission accomplished! Feeling euphoric and exhilarated, we headed into the foaming white surf to cool off. The waves rolled in lazily, lapping around our four legged sea horses. We bunched our legs up, jockey style onto our saddles and ventured deeper into the sea.
Within a couple of hours of weaving through the Argan trees we pulled into camp. Our driver, Mohammed and cook Mo had been industrious as usual; not only had they prepared a delicious lunch, they had also dug a mound so they could load the horses on the truck without using a ramp. Ingenious and impressive! Sitting at our little round table for the last time, we savored our final camp lunch of pasta, salad and fruit. On request Mo, gave us a step-by-step demonstration on how to make Moroccan mint tea. Of course we all tried pouring the tea from high above the tiny glasses in “Generation Game” style, making molten marks on the powder grey earth as we missed the bulls eye target.
I felt the soft touch of his velvet muzzle and the warmth of his breath on my hand, it was time to say goodbye to my trusted companion. I looked back over my shoulder. Like the marks on beach we had made together Eder faded to a memory.
