Clarification: I am not sheltered. I am very cultural – I travel, hit up museums, read…I’m a journalist, so I know what’s going on – but I don’t like the outdoors. Let’s put it this way: My idols are women like Audrey Hepburn and Gwen Stefani. Sure, I’ll climb a tree or cliff dive on vacation every now and then, but camping was never my thing. Ever. So what happens when you put a girl like me in the northern part of Morocco for a day?
I’ll tell you…in all honesty, it was the scariest day of my life.
So I traveled through southern Spain one spring, and the group of people I was with decided, “we’re here, why not take a trip over to Morocco and say we’ve been to Africa?” Why not?
We did some research, went to the port in Spain, got on a ferry, and spent some lovely time crossing the Strait of Gibraltar to Morocco, Africa. The ferry ride was so much fun – they served us all kinds of tapas (for more information, check out “Foods Translated“) inside, and outside on the deck they had Spanish music on and we took a ton of pictures with sea-sprayed hair and burning eyes from the salt and sun.
When we docked on the other side…Woah. Eye opener for me. I have friends who have studied abroad in places like Dubai and Nepal, and like I said, I am aware of living conditions in other corners of the world, but to see it for myself was scary. Everything was flat. Sandy. Dusty. You could see for miles: And what you saw could break your heart, and make you beg for a shower.
Narrow alleyways connected tall house buildings, and when you looked up, clotheslines connected the top windows with hardly any clothes hanging on them. Each little section opened up into what I guess was their common space, where there was a well for everyone to share water. NO INDOOR PLUMBING…that’s really what threw me for a loop.
Also, animals are not my thing. I have no pets, and I don’t plan on having any…I just don’t like them. We saw a snake tamer, with a snake obviously, and of course the slimy legless creatures are my biggest fear, so that was the opposite of fun. We sat on camels in the desert, and that was scary too, but I dealt with it and even slightly enjoyed it.
When we got to the market area, the streets were just as narrow, and the buildings all looked the same as the houses, but this time the bottom floors were opened up and were storefronts. Some of the handmade things were beautiful, yet the salespeople made you buy things whether or not you wanted them. They had little children throwing necklaces (like frisbees) so accurately that they landed on your neck and then they proceeded to chase you for money. I was petrified. I hid behind one of my guy friends for a majority of the shopping excursion.
Then one lady lured us into a hidden room where she started showing us these glamorous Moroccan thread rugs that people come from all over the world to buy…hidden gems. Then, further along (by the way, the smell in this place was nauseating…like curry almost, mixed with other spices and cleaning supplies…I get sick from the memory) in the hidden place was a room of therapeutic products like massage oils, lip balms, special tea bags…and hashish.
Yes, I did buy the lip balm, it was tingly, and my friends bought the hashish and a handmade bong. We left the hidden store and went to eat at a traditional Moroccan-fare place. We sat on pillows on the floor, which was cool, and we were served weird things. If I recall correctly, I didn’t eat. It was a lot of seafood, beans and spices…things my stomach pretended to be too full to handle.
When it was finally time to catch the ferry back to Spain, I couldn’t be more joyous. We walked along the Moroccan coast to get there, and it was one of the most beautiful and scenic landscapes I’ve ever experienced. Deserted – but beautiful nonetheless.
But this is the best part: once we were back in Spain and were settled on a bus, police with search dogs attacked the bus. It was one of those buses where all bags go underneath, and the dogs pulled out my friend’s bag and we all had to get off the bus for questioning…they took the Moroccan hashish and bong.
What a trip. But hey, I have a stamp in my passport from Africa, and I’m alive, so who’s complaining?
