Morocco through a local's eyes

This is a continuation of an earlier story…. Two in fact. Partly, but not wholly contributing to the theme of my second PhD, that I intended to embark upon this year as part of the ‘resolutions’ what-not. 

An awareness of and an initial contact made following my first ever trip to Morocco back in October 23, me hosting and presenting the beauty of Ibiza through my eyes’ in November 23. In the true spirit of Moroccan hospitality, even though I was going anyway, an insistence to reciprocate. 

How fortunate was I? An opportunity to see this beautiful country through a local’s eyes, or at least a local residing in Amsterdam who was flying back to the motherland specifically to host and spend time with me! Who would greet me at the airport with a sign, maybe a rose (joke!) and a warm embrace. Like someone cared. Someone who has been willing to put themselves out for me. Someone as impromptu and spontaneous as me. Who doesn’t just say, ‘oh it would be nice to’ but actually DAMN WELL DOES IT. There's only one other person I know who is as spontaneous as that.

I’d taken delivery of my new van the Monday before the Wednesday departure. Duke the Berlingo. I had toyed with the idea of keeping Nancy until this well trodden Notts - STN route had been trodden, but seeking to eliminate (some) complexity from my life opted to ‘webuyanycar’ her earlier in the week. Duke was a delight to drive, that was until the point where the A1 splits to the A14 and M11 at Huntingdon. Boom! Then the inevitable bumping of the flaccid, rapidly deflating tyre. Bugger!

What does one do in such a situation? I had no tools and was clueless. T-flight was already fairly tight on account of my decision to cram in a quick gym sesh before setting off. T-flight was currently 2hrs. EEeekkkk!. A quick google and a ring round determined that options were not plentiful and the best I could get was 1 hr away at a cost of £185. Concluding that this was my only option, I waited, and waited, resigning myself to the fact that I would not be catching that flight today and trying to reframe things as an opportunity.

This was until my knight in shining armour riding a golden Mazda 4 came to my rescue. 

Chris Beresford, DHL employee (of the century!) from somewhere near Huntington, you gem, you absolute diamond you! You didn’t have to notice the van and reverse all the way down the hard shoulder and (very) swiftly work your magic to change my rather sad looking tyre. We need more people like you in this world Chris and I salute and thank you sincerely for your kindness wherever you are now.

I belted, a little cautiously, down the M11, and with 55 minutes to go parked up, thanking my lucky stars I had opted for Blue Short Stay. A quick word with the security reception, ham it up a little, look like you are about to cry ‘ my flight leaves in 30 minutes, I had a blow out on the motorway’ a quick call was made and I was ushered through fast track security…. Still to be locked behind the airport ditherers…. But just fewer of them!

By the skin of my teeth I made it. The flight was literally just boarding. 

For someone who habitually gets to the airport 10 hrs just in case, this could potentially encourage her to loosen the reins a little. Hell no! I cannot bear the stress! So much so I slept for a grand total of 20 minutes after the testosterone crash (and an airline size) bottle of red. 

The work I had intended to do at the airport obviously didn't happen and with the launch of four new modules approaching and needed to be online and so working on the flight wasn't particularly productive.

With seamless efficiency and grace at Marrakech I was off the flight and through security in a matter of minutes, stopping, as per the previous visit at the foreign exchange to pick up some small denominations of cash on account of ATMs not being present at Marrakech airport. I also grabbed a free SIM from Maroc Telecom because the last few visits had proven that my data cap on my mobile quickly be eaten up and working remotely connectivity and consistency of connectivity is absolutely essential.

I surprised myself by actually feeling excited to see someone. And there they were waiting, as promised, with a big smile and open arms. 

First stop football and food. I've learned that football in Morocco is a source of great passion, in fact there are many things that are a source of great passion in this beautiful, effervescent and vibrant country. This was my first interesting cultural insight, of course being predominantly Muslim, Moroccan's don't drink therefore the watching and celebration of the football match is not influenced by the usual rowdiness of alcohol. But boy was it still rowdy, but with a different kind of atmosphere. We went to one of the many cafes that were displaying the football match between Morocco and Zambia in the African Cup on a large screen. In fact we passed cafe after cafe with row after row of seats, this is going to be a very popular affair indeed. A mixture of old and young, big welcoming smiles from ear to ear, mischievous and humorous chit chat, constant talking. Boy can Moroccan’s chat. I was introduced to a friend and his daughter. My Arabic is next to non-existent but I enjoyed the ability to communicate through the medium of smile and laughter. And we did, lots. 

I was introduced to some of the culinary staples of Morocco, a hearty soup that was used to break the fast during Ramadan. Fragrant tea that was packed full of goodness so much so that a natural buzz  ensued.  I questioned why I, and people in general in England lean so much on alcohol as a stimulant, when here we have a vibrant, excited, humorous and energetic crowd, singing, laughing and dancing charged up by their herbal tea and natural effervescence.

Even though I couldn't participate in much of the conversation I didn't feel excluded and the smiles, laughter and humour that I found very similar to English humour continued late into the evening.

My host presented me with a number of options for the coming days, keen for me to see what Morocco was like off the tourist trail, I couldn't be happier about that. We decided that the next day would be for mountains and the weekend would be for the coast. 

So the following morning we set off for the Atlas mountains in the direction of Ourika,  somewhere I had visited last time but on an organised trip. This time however we veered off the main track along a very steep and hair raising route into the Atlas mountains. Food always being very high, I have learned, on the moroccan's agenda, my kind host had prepared the makings of a barbecue with what is becoming one of my favourite foods, a handmade Koftes (believe me until you have tasted these packed full of moroccan herbs and spices cooked over a naked flame of a hand made fire you won’t believe how good they are) . 

We reached a plateau in the mountains, I must say I was relieved when we got there, because the roads were a little bit sketchy and I'm not the best in Mountain driving as some people know it was as if somebody had placed the most perfect plateau there for us with a place to lay the picnic blankets, collect some of the dried brush to use as kindling for the fire. We hadn't met anybody on the way up the mountain, but all of a sudden people appeared and it was like the blinking M1 on a Saturday. Shepherds passed by with a wave as they cared for their flock grazing on the very sparse grass that covered the mountain Side.  Young girls bounced past on the back of unusually lively Donkeys, blasting out Shakira on loud speaker from their mobile phones as they fulfilled their mission of filling all of their families water butts from the spring and escorting them safely back to the family home. 

A mother and son passed by , she must have been collecting herbs for tea or so I was told by my host. They were beckoned over but shyness prevailed and the mother carried on but the curious young boy who we learnt was named Mohammed sat down with us and hungrily tucked into the feast of nuts and dried fruit. One thing I've learned about Moroccan culture is that it is far more compassionate and caring than British culture in general. Everything they have is shared even if it is very little. It was a pleasure to see little Muhammad tucking to a meal that he had probably never enjoyed and slurp thirstily on the fresh orange juice that was offered to him. 

An old man came by, and until he sat down and started talking I didn’t appreciate how old he was.  This charismatic old man who was really keen for the chat was the grand age of 96, he lived in a Hut on the mountainside, and he was blind. He lost his sight the previous year after having put a terracotta pot on his head to soothe a migraine, it burned his eyes and he lost his sight. He enjoyed the company and the conversation. I was astounded that he had developed the ability to navigate the mountainside without harm in the absence of the power of sight. Again he was offered food and hastily slipped the bag of nuts into his hood, but declined the koftas on account of being advised to avoid red meat, which I found rather ironic…. You enjoy that meal fella…. My inner voice said..   

I never knew that you could hear silence, but sat there on the mountainside, I did, and it was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. I couldn't help the tears that trickled down my cheeks as I reflected upon the hospitality, kindness and compassion of the Moroccan people and the stories that people have, you're so incredibly lucky and just don't appreciate it most of the time.

The next morning it was time to head to the coast,  not to Essouria which is the more touristic Moroccan Beach Resort but initially to Safi (pronounced Es Vie),  famed for its large industrial Harbour and fresh fish restaurants,  before driving North along the coastline to Oualidia. 

I very much enjoyed the road trips.  It's a great way to see what life is like in the interior.  On the outskirts of Marrakech we stopped for breakfast, which consisted of a bean dish and a stomach dish.  I got as far as licking a little bit of sauce off the fork of the stomach dish, but as it turned my own stomach I couldn't go as far as to eat it. 

Safi looked like a really interesting place and I wish I'd had a bit longer to spend there on account of the market and the historical Old Town.  But we enjoyed a lunch break at one of the most popular fish restaurants.  A frittura mista which would cost in the region of 20 euros in Spain was three euros.  We dined on delicious fresh fish caught from the ocean behind the restaurants surrounded by a million cats. 

I can see that the coastline was rugged and beautiful and the ocean powerful as the waves crashed rhythmically against the rocks.  But then the fog came down,  an unusual fog for that location I was told and upon arrival at Oualidia,  which seemed to resemble more of a European holiday resort, clearly popular with the long stay motorhomers,  the view of the beautiful long stretch of fine sand beach and wild waters was restricted by a heavy fog.  In the style of my host that I was becoming familiar with, it was necessary to build and light a fire.  His cousin joined us.  Someone who had a holiday home in that resort and where we would be staying that night.  Again even though there was no common language between us I didn't feel excluded and jokes, laughter and fun ensued.  

Determined fire starters with virtually no apparent resource, there was soon a roaring flame to dry my sodden socks and shoes upon.  There was something very pleasant about the carnal ‘me man, me make fire’ scenario. It was late by the time we got to the house, a traditional Village house on three stories and despite going out in search of an open restaurant were unsuccessful and therefore dined on a mix of edam cheese, Pringles and take away pizza whilst sharing conversation and laughter.  It was at this stage that I was introduced to one of the most humorous aspects of Arabic slang I was able to learn during that trip ‘stackartack’ . 

The next day the weather was great, the fog had lifted and we just enjoyed a beach day at  Oualidia. This is also the first time I tried fresh sea Urchin and Moroccan herbal coffee from one of the many beach sellers on this beautiful wide sandy beach. We started our drive back just as the sun was setting and found the most beautiful spot to watch the sun go down just before Safi and to observe a Harvest Moon rising. 

On the final morning of my trip I got to experience an authentic cultural practice in Morocco, The visit to the Hammam. As a tourist in Marrakech there are many hammams but will cost you in the region of 60 euros and more resemble a traditional Spa. Authentic hammams are essentially Public Baths, they are segregated and they are a place where you can devote an unusual amount of time in personal care and exfoliation leaving feeling like a new person. It was one euro fifty to enter. I'd been given all of my hammam ‘tools’ by my host, which consisted of an exfoliation mitt, a water bucket, some natural soap. The idea is that you rub the soap all over your body and leave it sitting in the warmth and the steam of one of the rooms of your choice within the hammam allowing it to soak into your body. After about 20 minutes you start scrubbing and this continues until essentially you've shed your entire skin. I don’t think I scrubbed hard enough even though my skin was sore. There are different temperature rooms and I felt most comfortable in the hot one and enjoyed a moment of relaxation and self-care that I rarely take. 

I was a bit nervous going in because I didn't really know what to expect, what to wear, what the norms were as well as being mindful that I would be the only foreigner there and inevitably wouldn't be able to communicate. I was told that a bikini would be fine, but upon entering quickly saw that a bikini wasn't necessary. There were tits and faff everywhere which initially I felt a little uncomfortable about but then soon got into the rhythm of things. Old ladies lying on their sides being scrubbed from top toe by family members or friends, it really was a sight to behold.

I felt sad leaving on numerous counts. This trip epitomises why I travel. It changed me. It has opened my eyes, softened me. It was good to cry. I don’t seem to be able to do that normally, and it felt good as after all tears are the heart’s pressure valve. But it has also left me experiencing a sense of discomfort, which as of the moment of writing, can’t seem to reconcile.