Morocco was the most memorably spontaneous trip I’ve taken to date. Originally I planned to spend this July visiting the hiking capital of Peru – a small city called Huaraz. I’d gone shopping for proper hiking boots to use for a series of challenging multi-day group treks through the Andes. And I figured that while down there I’d tie in a visit to Bolivia for August.
That plan was to fly on standby from Chicago to Houston and then connect onto the Peruvian capital of Lima. Hurricane Beryl, however, had other plans – hitting Texas on my day of departure. So, unable to connect in Texas I flew the next day to New York – where I could connect on a different flight to Lima. As the hours till departure for Peru whittled down the flight looked increasingly full, and I wasn’t sure if I’d get a seat. Having already wasted the day prior I was eager to go somewhere. Fortunately, with standby privileges the world is my oyster.
Inevitably I did not got a seat to Lima. Instead of the usual feeling of dread over missing the one flight of the day I was actually excited. You see, I had come up with a completely different back-up trip to the city of Málaga, in the south of Spain. This was the nearest place I could fly within close proximity to Morocco. In my nine years of flying standby I had never intended to fly to one continent only to depart for a completely different continent. I boarded this flight with no real itinerary – I was in for a total whirlwind adventure.
I arrived to Spain in a state of unbothered dishevelry (that’s not a word, but just go with it). At some point overnight the crotch of my *one* pair of jeans had somehow ripped open, plus I was a bit tipsy from one too many glasses of that horrible wine they serve for free in the Economy cabin of long-haul flights.
My tipsy state continued on & off throughout the day in Málaga. There was more wine with a local I met on an app, and then ample sangria at my hostel’s rooftop trivia game that evening. I’ve always had horrible jet-lag coming to Europe, but I did my best to push through this first day in a surprisingly social manner that felt oh so summer-y. And thanks to that trivia game, I am now certain that the capital of Canada is Ottawa, and Picasso was in fact born in Málaga (I had no clue – and I was an art major in school!)
I would’ve loved to sleep in the next morning, but I needed to continue onwards toward Morocco. I had breakfast at the hostel, where I learned the girl who ran trivia the night prior was also from Wisconsin. Eva had just finished high school and was off volunteering in Spain … good for her! I told her that I wish I had started traveling at 18. I strongly believe that learning to navigate the world is a better (and far cheaper) form of education than college in America.
A couple bowls of granola and a brisk walk later and I was on a bus to the town of La Linea, where I’d base myself for a night to visit the bordering British territory of Gibraltar. Gibraltar has always intrigued me, and it wasn’t until this trip that I realized it’s actually not its own country. I had plans to visit Gibraltar in 2020, which were cancelled due to the pandemic, so I was happy to finally make it here.
One thing about Gibraltar that I found fun and amusing is that you have your passport stamped to enter, and this was the most chill customs experience I’ve ever had. As a British territory I entered Gibraltar expecting to hear English accents (like I had years earlier in the Falkland Islands off the Atlantic coast of South America). However this wasn’t the case, and I actually didn’t know which language to speak (a theme I’d have going through Morocco as well). I had lunch at a place run by an Italian speaking family, and they spoke very little English.
My primary activity in Gibraltar was to hike the dramatic mountain karst that constitutes the bulk of the peninsula. The morning prior I had seen it out the window of the airplane and knew for certain it was Gibraltar. With the heat well above 30 degrees I opted to hike late in the afternoon, and this worked in my favor – as past 6:30 I was able to hike without paying the 20 euro entry fee (though I wasn’t able to visit the historical sites that sit along the route). Fine, I thought.
I didn’t glean too much about Gibraltar’s history during my visit, but I was still awestruck by the distant views of Africa (Morocco) across the Straight of Gibraltar. Along with going through customs to enter and leave the territory, you also have to walk across an active airstrip for the Gibraltar airport. This is a unique experience, and the second such airstrip I’ve been able to walk this year, following my visit to Nicaragua’s Isla Ometepe back in February.
From La Linea it was just over an hour’s bus ride to the Spanish port town of Tarifa, where I’d catch the ferry to the Moroccan city of Tangier. Architecturally speaking, Tarifa was a foreshadowing of Tangier. Both are built of bright white buildings sitting along the sea. On the way to the ferry port I ooo’d and ahhh’d over narrow, bright, and labyrinthian alleyways filled with cafes and hole in the wall shops selling all kinds of trinkets. This part of town I would soon learn, is what over in Morocco is referred to as a Medina. But more on that later.
Arriving to the port I was just in time to purchase a 3:00 ferry ticket, for around $40. As a former cruise ship employee I always enjoy moments like this to set out on a sizable vessel, and to watch the point of departure fade out of sight. This was my first border crossing via ferry, and I was struck by the process of having to wait in line onboard to have my passport stamped. This actually took so long that I missed the majority of our “sail-away” (as we’d call it in the cruise world). But with the journey at nearly an hour I had plenty enough time later to stand out on the gusty deck to enjoy the cross-continental views.
Now, before I get into it, I’ll say that Morocco was a place … and it was placing. In other words, I’ve been hoping to visit a country that could match the cultural euphoria I experienced traveling through Turkey in 2020, and the 19 days I ultimately spent in Morocco gave me more than I could’ve expected. Like Turkey, Morocco has a mysterious way of distorting time. I wasn’t even here for three weeks, and yet I left feeling as if months had gone by. Each city had a unique personality, and the bountiful, and occasionally wild social experiences here left me more than satisfied. I really can’t say this about most places I’ve been.
From the port of Tangier it was a simple walk up some steps to the local Medina. Within a couple of minutes a thin man with dark, worn down teeth approached me. He asked where I was from, and offered to take me to my hostel (“I live near to there”, he said). I knew from the get-go what was going on here, and I was apprehensive to follow him, as he would surely demand payment for “showing me the way” – yet I felt that I had no choice but to follow him. He actually took me to the wrong hostel (they’re often poorly marked in this country), but then he led me to the correct one.
A young, slightly stocky girl with glasses answered the door to my hostel. She shooed the man away, at which point he was trying to offer me a personal walking tour of the Medina … but who wants a walking tour within their first 20 minutes in a country? No-one. I thought my new friend was a hostel employee or volunteer, but she was actually a guest from the far northeast Moroccan city of Oujda. We got on chatting as I settled in and unpacked. “You sound like you’ve got a bit of an English accent, what’s up with that?”, I asked curiously. She ignored this question, yet bantered on about other things.
I never did get the girl’s name. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast in La Linea, so I invited her to come get dinner with me. The hostel employee who checked me in had given me a restaurant recommendation that was a 20-minute walk away. The girl and I headed out and the conversation flowed nicely, however she did comment at least three times that I walked too fast (fair, I walk too fast for most people). “I never heard your answer about the British accent thing”, I said. “Oh, do we have to talk about that …” she replied, as if it were a triggering conversation I should somehow be aware of. She did mention that she’d lived in London for a while, but that was all the details I got and I didn’t push the subject.
The restaurant turned out to be cheap & nice, and in a very local, un-touristy part of Tangier outside of the Medina. The Medinas in Morocco are the maze-like “old city” areas, some of which date back to the 8th century. Each of the cities I visited in Morocco featured Medinas with distinct characters and color schemes – Tangier was white. The medinas are where tourists typically stay, and prices within are often higher.
For dinner I ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice, a side of lentils, and a chicken dish in a boiling stew with French fries laid overtop. It came with a generous portion of bread. My friend showed me exactly how she’d break apart the bread to dip and scoop everything together, no utensils necessary. “In Morocco eating is usually about filling you up as much as possible, but often at the expense of nutritional value”, she said, gesturing to the basket full of bread.
We discussed her interest in spending a whole year in South East Asia. Between bites she had complained about how bad the traffic was in Morocco, even here in Tangier. “Do you know that Vietnam has some of the worst motorbike traffic in the world?” I asked. “Oh, well, maybe I will skip Vietnam”, she replied. “You could go to Laos, it’s much more chill there, but I probably wouldn’t stay for a year”, I added. I didn’t say it, but I knew she couldn’t handle SE Asia.
She wouldn’t discuss her accent, but I did learn that she was formerly an engineer. Nowadays, however, she was studying Gender Studies. I’m all for pursuing your passions, but at this point I had a whole laundry list of questions that I didn’t really feel like I could ask. Chief among them, who gives up a seemingly stable career to study something that likely has no solid prospects within your country? – a country where, as she herself pointed out, is difficult to find any job?
On our way back to the hostel I pointed out a juice shop that she had stopped at on the way to the restaurant, there she may have accidentally left her missing water bottle. She didn’t think it would still be there. The next thing I knew, she was walking considerably faster in front of me. Ok, I thought … maybe she was just keen to get back. I walked faster in tow as we simultaneously made our way into the packed streets of the Medina, up and down hills and cobblestone streets.
For someone who had told me I walk too fast, I didn’t realize she was capable of doing so herself. I was pushing past people trying to keep up, but she got quite far ahead, even jogging at a point. Who was she running from?? Then, suddenly she turned around and walked briskly back in my direction. “Hey, where are you going?” I asked, somewhat concerned, but she rushed straight past me with no explanation.
I continued onto the hostel without her, and she arrived sometime later. I couldn’t process what I had just experienced, it was as if a light switch had gone off in her head, like she had completely forgotten who I was (and somehow gained the ability to run!) Since I never got her name (or more likely forgot it), I nicknamed her Ghosting in plain sight Girl.
That night she lingered around the hostel, listening to music on the rooftop. We walked past one another multiple times, but I stopped trying to speak to her, to see if she was alright. Something was obviously very wrong, but I hadn’t a clue what it was … it would go on to be the singular mystery of this trip.
After dark I hung out on one of the terraces of the hostel, catching up on the day’s international news and scrolling social media. I met an American from Texas named Dhruva, he was considerably more likable and dare I say normal compared to “ghosting” girl. He was on summer break, and was studying to become a doctor. How practical, I thought. Him and one of the hostel employees smoked weed while playing guitar and singing, meanwhile the call to prayer hauntingly rung out once or twice from the local mosques. It was a chill vibe to cap my first night in Morocco.
Next post: Chefchaouen & Fes
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