‘No, you’re doing it wrong. Pull, twist, then push.’ A clatter, a groan and a bang, but not the click we’re hoping for. The lock is jammed. All our surf gear is inside the old stone building, and this metal door is the only entrance. Beyond the red-tinged cliffs below us, clean waves break un-surfed. As many Moroccan coastal towns to its north have embraced tourism, Sidi Ifni (‘Ifni’ for short) has remained mostly off the trail. A couple of hundred kilometres north of the Sahara, the town originally served as a midpoint for trade between mineral-rich West Africa and Europe, before two periods of Spanish occupation (1476-1524 and 1860-1969) each ended with Ifni being returned to Moroccan rule following violent insurrections. While few traces of violence remain today, the clashing influences of Ifni’s tumultuous past are responsible for its main attractions; foremost among them is the striking architecture, a combination of Spanish art deco and Moroccan pastel blue-and-white. In fact, an intangible Hispanic nostalgia haunts the streets in a manner reminiscent of García Márquez’s Colombia. The picturesquely faded sign for the long-since abandoned Twist Club conjures raucous 60s hedonism, while the ostentatious administrative buildings of the Plaza de España (now called the Place Hassan II) and a defunct Spanish post-box (labelled ‘Correos – Avión/Ordinario’) linger stubbornly alongside tea houses and mosques. But Ifni is also undoubtedly Moroccan: after unfathomably deep tagines, evenings are spent outside, sipping mint tea thick with sugar and kicking a football around with local children. There is no denying that Ifni’s unique aesthetic appeal—faded Spanish glory, traditionally slow Moroccan lifestyle—is inextricably linked to the town’s anachronism and decay. However, the residents, like their counterparts in its northerly neighbour Taghazout—already internationally famous as a surfing spot—are beginning to wake up to the temptations of tourism. Entrepreneurial locals like Oscar, the owner of the surf school and hostel I stayed at, are starting businesses that take advantage of Ifni’s natural assets: the high-quality waves and easy access to the desert. Such an approach has the power to bring a surge of economic development, bringing down the high levels of unemployment and pulling in more government investment. On the other hand, subjecting Ifni to the full force of modernity would endanger its distinctive appeal—the anachronism and decay—and the townspeople themselves seemed ambivalent on the issue. For instance, Ali, a man from a nomadic group of families normally based in the Sahara, was optimistic about increased tourism, which brings a market for what he’s selling. We were having tea in a room he rents in Ifni’s old town to exhibit his Saharan crafts. Freedom to come and go, he told me, means that modernity in the town suits him perfectly: when I suggested that Ifni’s relaxed lifestyle could be pushed out by tourism, he smiled—‘when I’m tired of the town, I pack up my camel and return to the desert.’ However, elsewhere, I found more resistance to development. Mehdi—a dog trainer born before the Spanish had left—harked back to the days of his youth, feeling that the town could be self-sufficient if only it operated as a community instead of looking elsewhere for income. In his unusual Spanish, he told me that bringing in more tourists fragments the community, resulting in a less cohesive and genial environment to live in. Echoing Mehdi’s pessimism, my surf instructor, Ayoub referred me to Taghazout: ‘there, locals are less friendly to tourists. Especially out surfing, it gets aggressive’. This in comparison to Sidi Ifni, where every time I (a novice) went for a wave, locals shouted encouragement and cheered me even after I’d wiped out. A professional body-boarder, Ayoub travels to enough surf spots to know the deleterious potential of tourism. Back at the locked surf shed, Ayoub and Oscar have come up with a solution. Climbing a ladder from the neighbour’s courtyard allows them to drop in through a gap in the roof. Ayoub smiles and shrugs as he swings open the door from the inside: ‘we’ve been meaning to replace the lock, but, you know, it still works.’ For now, perhaps, a little innovation can keep modernisation at bay.