Windy Kaouki

Just along the way from us is an ‘appart-hotel’ called Windy Kaouki. Which, except on the days when it should by rights be called, Very Windy Kaouki, or, Cyclone Kaouki, could not be more apt. Night and day, the roar of the ocean vies for supremacy with the howling wind. The white crests on the waves are a thunder of white horses, galloping to  shore. The endless sand whips up into a white-gold haze, stinging our cheeks and blinding our eyes.  The muslim curtains in the riad billow and dance as the crafty wind finds its way beneath our doors and through tiny slivers between the window panes. Attempting to open or close the  little wooden gate into our garden against the tide becomes a scene from the Wizard of Oz, the wind defying me to surrender to its might, whilst the choice is still mine to make.

And then, just for a time, they are spent, the wind and the sea, and they call ‘Pax’, and the world is still. The windows and doors no longer rattle and bang. The sea and sky turn blue from grey. The golden sand settles in wind-groomed ripples and waves, and roaming dogs settle down on sunny doorsteps to sleep. And this peace, we realise, is as much Sidi Kaouki as the wind. Each face, we remind ourselves as the wild storms rage, is as much about the other as about itself. Each has its own beauty and magic.

Still, as a rule, best not spend too much time on your hair...