This trip was my second attempt at going to Morocco. The first one failed more than a year prior at the check-in counter at Zurich Airport due to newly strengthened COVID-19 restrictions. This second attempt almost failed because a snowstorm was sweeping through Europe and my flight was canceled. The airline was able to find an alternative flight the same day and rebooked me. I did make it to Morocco, at last.
I arrived in Casablanca in the afternoon. One reason I chose Morocco was to escape the cold winter weather in Switzerland. However, during our approach to Casablanca Mohammed V International Airport, I was greeted by cold thunderstorms and strong winds. It was not quite what I had been looking forward to.
In the two days between booking the flight and boarding the airplane, I spent a bit of time collecting the places I wanted to visit. They were just dots on a map, not connected in any specific specific order. The cornerstones of my itinerary were spending Christmas in the desert, and last week in Casablanca. Anything in between was subject to change on short notice.
I rented a car at a to me yet unknown car rental company. It wasn't one of the big ones that operate world-wide and have proper offices at most bigger airports. After I exited the airport, I called a number to receive instructions on where to pick up the car. I was told to stand in the big parking lot in front of the airport and that somebody would come soon. Nobody showed up in the next hour. I almost gave up and was about to get a car from one of the reputable companies that had offices not far away. Then I noticed somebody else who was looking around as confused as me. Together we figured out that a person hiding under the cover of the nearby garage was a representative of said company. Their field office was the back of a car, where the other client signed all the necessary papers, got the car keys, and drove off.
The company didn't have any more cars available at the airport, so they told me to jump into their car and drive with them back to their yard. After about 10 minutes we arrived at a house by a busy road where they kept a fleet of almost-ready-to-rent cars. They let me choose and I pointed to a small black car. An older gentleman wiped the outside and inside with an old rag to give at least the appearance that they clean their cars. I can't complain about the services rendered, the car worked flawlessly. But the delivery was unconventional and stressful. Next time I'll stick with a reputable company.
A well-maintained highway connects Casablanca and Marrakech. The quality of the pavement was good, and there wasn't much traffic. It was what I am used to seeing in central Europe. Coming into Marrakech, however, was a bit of a shock to me. I was alone in the car and had to navigate by means of a small smartphone. Motorbikes were buzzing left and right, pedestrians were crossing the street without advance warning. I was under a constant bombardment of car horns, on a 3-lane road with no road markings, where 5 or more cars were trying to squeeze through. Somehow I survived my first venture into the center of a busy Moroccan city without a scratch on the car.
Despite the apparent chaos in the streets, I have not seen any accidents. Neither in Marrakech nor elsewhere. Moroccans have a unique way of driving which is difficult to understand at first. They drive without any obvious rules or regulations. They navigate the streets with a special kind of intuition, honed over many years of experience. It's almost as if they can sense the intentions of other drivers and anticipate their movements. It takes years to master that skill, and I had only a few days to pick it up.
In Marrakech I found a place to stay right in the center of the Medina, not far from Jemaa el-Fnaa, the main square.
The Medina in Marrakech is far from the idyllic place you may imagine it to be. A hundred years ago it was a bustling place where merchants from places as far away as Timbuktu traded their goods. Today all that's being traded is tourists attention. Merchants use all sorts of means to lure customers into the many western-style restaurants and bars. The narrow streets are packed with small shops that sell counterfit designer products and cheap souvenirs. The further away from Jemaa el-Fnaa I walked the fewer tourists I saw, until I was only surrounded by locals who were going about their daily business.
It was difficult to tune out the constant advances when walking through the streets. Some people were understanding when I told them that I had no interest in what they were offering. Others became angry when I didn't react. They felt entitled to my attention, as if they had the right to interrupt my stroll through the city.
After about 6pm most shops in the Medina had closed. A street that was too narrow during the day for two people to pass, because the merchants showcased their goods on the streets, was suddenly wide enough for a motorized trike to drive through. Shops whose unique appearance helped me a few hours before to navigate were suddenly gone.
Only near Jemaa el-Fnaa food shops remained open and activities continued well into the night. The best entertainment were small groups of musicians who played traditional Berber music. Even the locals joined the crowds to let the busy day fade out with a backdrop of rhythmic songs.
While French language is useful to know when traveling through Morocco – more than English at times – Arabic and Berber bring you farther. Communication in bigger cities was never a problem for me. If English didn't work I tried using the little French that I remembered from school. It's worth remembering that the only reason people speak French is because Morocco was a French protectorate. Therefore, it's not a language that many people outside big cities particularly like, or even speak. Today, the French language has no officially recognized status in Morocco. So whenever possible I tried to use Arabic instead.
After Marrakech my plan was to spend a few days in the High Atlas. It was Saturday noon as I was driving through the mountains and saw children walking back home from school. In the afternoon every football field was bustling with the energy of children as they ran around and chased footballs. Though not once have I seen a girl, it's always been boys who were playing outside. A few times I tried to start a conversation with them. But it was difficult, as they spoke only a few words of French.
I wonder what I should've brought to the children in remote villages. Chocolate and other sweets? Can't go wrong with that. A football would certainly not be a bad choice either. I saw some kids kick around a ball made of garbage sewn together with strings and tape.
Buying some supplies at the local convenience store in Aït Bouguemez Valley was an exercise in patience. The store was just a counter on the side of the street, behind it a small room with a few shelves. Two men were sitting inside, watching a live football match. It was the time of the football world cup and Algeria was playing against France. They did not even look at me when I approached the shop. The live football game had captured their entire attention. When a young girl came however, they immediately tended to her. She was buying cooking oil, jam, honey, and some other miscellaneous supplies. I used that moment when their eyes were still detached from the TV screen to point at some crackers and chocolate bars. I paid 19 Moroccan dirhams (DH) in total.
During an evening walk through Ighririne two young boys were chasing after me and yelling «stilo, stilo». It's the French word for «pen», as I later found out. If not a football, bring at least a few pens with you when traveling through the mountains.
Cars are a luxury that's unattainable to many living in the remote valleys high up in the Atlas mountains. Though I've seen a fair number of motorbikes. Those who can't afford either rely on small buses that run on irregular schedules. Or on the goodwill of passersby in cars to pick them up and drive them to wherever they need to. In remote regions I often stopped to pick up people who were waiting on the side of the road and took them along.
One older gentleman I picked up near a village in the High Atlas was carrying a large bag of walnuts. We didn't have a common language, and the only information I had was the direction he was going. After a few kilometres I stopped to pick up another passenger. The English skills of the new passenger were good enough that we could converse. I dropped both off in Ouarzazate. The first gentleman invited me to his home to thank me for my help. I respectfully declined as I had other plans and received a handful of walnuts.
Some tried to give me money, while others gave me some of what they were carrying with them. I wondered though, in that mountainous region the older gentlemen was coming from, I had not seen any walnut trees. Only dry, barren rocks. Where were the trees hiding?
Ouarzazate is a modern city, but without the touristic rush of Marrakesh. For the first time I noticed how cheap Morocco really is. I paid 70 DH (6.30 EUR) for a soup and tagine, and 15 DH (1.35 EUR) for a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice. It was the middle of December, but temperatures were moderate. After sunset, I sat on the edge of the main square to enjoy the atmosphere and watch what locals do. The square slowly turned into a playground. Electric toy cars in particular seemed to be a popular toy. Not only in Ouarzazate, but also in many other cities south of the High Atlas.
Dadès Gorge and Todra Gorge are two popular destinations which are advertised on most travel itineraries. Both are valleys that cut north into the High Atlas and taper into narrow gorges. If they weren't along my way to the east, I probably wouldn't have stopped. But it was hardly a detour, and I was in no rush to get anywhere.
First along the way was Dadès Gorge. I stopped at a vista overlooking the valley. Two boys who were trying to sell souvenirs gave away that I had stopped at a frequently visited spot. It was right next to the entrance to a narrow gorge by the Monkey Paw Mountains. They pointed me in the direction of the entrance and offered to be my guide. I was in no mood to have company and went alone. When I came back, the boys were still sitting there. I gave them a few dirham.
The vertical limestone walls of Todra Gorge are undoubtedly impressive. But the large group of Chinese tourists somewhat tainted the atmosphere. They arrived on a big bus, walked once up and down the gorge, and were frenziedly capturing pictures from every possible angle. It was obvious to me that they were not there for the experience, but rather just to check another place off their list.
On a hike into the surrounding hills I lost the path and was climbing over some rocks on a steep and exposed slope. I spotted some goats and shortly thereafter a nomad who was walking not far behind them. He and his son were just taking a break and had brewed a pot of fresh tea. They invited me to sit with them and offered me tea and bread.
It was a weekday. The young boy was no more than 13 years old, yet not at school, but with his father miles away from the nearest village. The only communication means with the rest of the world he had was a simple phone. He was charging it with a solar panel, an old battery, and some homemade wiring to connect it all together.
Especially in the beginning, I found it difficult to judge the honesty of people when they offered me help. Some were genuinely welcoming. Others were just after my money. I was misled a few times in the early days and from then on I was a lot more reserved. Haggling, persuasion, and even tactful placement of guilt seeds are skills they have perfected over many years. It takes a strong will and a lot of self-control to stay on top of the situation, and to never give in to their advances.
The two nomads only asked for a few dirham. They probably would have been happy with just a few, but I didn't have a reference for what amounts are appropriate. So I reached into my pocket and pulled out a large note. Not once have I seen anyone complain that I gave too little, so it must've been enough. I also gave them the rest of my drinking water that I didn't need it anymore and we parted ways.
In the desert oasis is life. Every river that flows from the High Atlas mountains to the south-east, into the desert, is flanked by thousands of small gardens where people grow food. These gardens are open to the public, and often provide the quickest way to get to the other side of the valley for miles.
When I left Todra Gorge I continued towards the east. It was Saturday, just after noon. I was driving through Ksar Melaab when I saw dozens of students waiting by the road. They were students from the local college who had finished their school day early. Morocco does have a fairly decent system of school busses that takes the students to and from school. But the next bus could be hours away and they would have to wait in the scorching sun. A group of four brave young girls didn't want to wait that long and flagged me down. I took them to the next village, where one after the other, they jumped out of the car and walked back to their home.ni
Ground water doesn't last forever, especially if it's being used up faster than it can replenish. Lowering water tables are not a recent problem. Already many hundreds of years ago, in ancient times, people invented a technique to tap into ground water many miles away from the places where it is needed. Underground tunnels collect ground water from places where it is still near the surface, and direct it to the oasis. These tunnels are called Khattara. An associated system of legal structures controls ownership, organizes maintenance, and makes sure the collected water is fairly distributed.
On the surface, lines of mounds at regular intervals give away the existence of these tunnels. One such line I spotted just before the village of Jorf in the Tafilalet region, but I didn't yet know what it was.
When I see something along the road, how should I decide whether to stop or not? A good signal is other tourists. If there are many, it's often a positive sign. But when I'm the only for 20 km in either direction, all I can go by is my instinct.
A colorful sign on the side of the road somehow persuaded me to stop and have a look. I had been driving for hours so it was a welcome opportunity to stretch my legs. It wasn't a proper museum. Just one house, one deteriorating sign that explains Khattaras, and stairs down into the tunnel. One middle-aged gentlemen came to greet me and collect the entrance fee. A second gentleman inside the tunnel was digging to make it taller to allow people to walk through. And so I learned what Khattara is.
Unsustainable use of ground water and changing climate has led to the water table sinking enough that most Khattaras are dry today. Vertical wells dug by machines and electric pumps are needed to reach the water. Instead of mounds on the surface, solar panels give away the presence of these modern water wells.
Exiting Erfoud, I picked up a boy. He was alone, and it looked like he'd have a long way to walk. When he jumped into my car, I noticed dirt on his skin and clothes. Not even one kilometer later he told me to stop. I did not see any buildings around and was wondering where he wanted to go. During the short time in the passenger seat he saw the chocolate bars I had in the center column, and the handful of walnuts I was gifted back in Ouarzazate. I told him to take as much as he could carry. He filled all his pockets with whatever he could grab, and left running. I lost sight of him as he disappeared behind a small hill.
When I was doing my initial planning of which places I wanted to visit, I saw there was a chance that the timing could line up so that I would spend Christmas in the desert.
I found a desert camp near Merzouga that seemed nice and booked three nights. To my surprise, I was the only guest at the whole camp. A day later, two fellow travelers from the United Kingdom joined me.
Average temperatures in Merzouga during the winter months are around 10 degrees celsius. Night are colder, but stay above freezing. The wind was calm and the sky was clear.
One of the landmarks of Merzouga is Erg Chebbi – a sea of dunes that rises to 150 meters above the surrounding rock desert. The whole Erg is only a few square kilometers large, and can be crossed in a day or two. That makes it far less impressive than most people imagine it to be.
As I was the only guest, the host took me on a private excursion. One stop was at the camp of a nomad family. It was the middle of the day and the husband was busy watching their camels and goats far away from the house. His wife and daughter stayed behind to tend to their other livestock.
We sat down under the shade of a traditional camel hair tent. The woman offered us tea and bread and I took the opportunity to ask her a few questions about her life as a nomad. She only spoke Berber, so my camp host had to translate. I learned that when she was young her family lived in Western Sahara. Today they have their camp near Merzouga. She has walked those roughly 1500 kilometers on foot over the last thirty years. I have so many more questions I'd like to ask her, but we ran out of time. An interesting experience would be to stay with a nomad family for at least a couple of days, to learn first-hand about their lives.
The top of a dune is a good place to watch the sunset from. An hour before sunset I set out to conquer the one that seemed tallest. The dune looked close, but I barely made it to the top in time for the sunset. Distances in the desert can be deceiving.
A few other tourists had the same idea as I. They were standing on a neighboring peak. I was waiting alone, a few minutes before the sun would turn orange and then set, when a young boy approached me.
Eight years ago, 25'000 nomads lived in Morocco. Their number has only shrunk since then. This young boy was one of those that had given up nomadic life and settled down. Only two years ago his family and their animals lived off the barren lands around Merzouga and beyond. Their freedom of movement was only limited by the Algerian border that is permanently closed and tightly watched by both countries.
Catering to tourism is one of the few economic opportunities in that region. Almost all activity evolves around running the desert camps or providing activities and entertainment to tourists. And so every afternoon he climbs the Erg Chebbi dunes, to a spot that is popular with tourists to watch the sunset from, and tries to sell souvenirs.
I politely declined, I did not want to carry any souvenirs home. But I could not resist handing him a few dirhams for his effort and the lovely conversation we had.
The darkness after sunset was interrupted only by a faint campfire that we lit up at the camp. It provided just enough light so that we could make out each others silhouettes. There was still plenty of time between sunset and when sleepiness would force us to retire into tents. We spent that time telling stories, jokes, riddles, and playing traditional instruments. Djembe (a drum) and Qraqeb (a castanet-like instrument) together produced an enchanting rhythm that echoed into the night. In moments when we were not playing, we heard the same music from neighboring camps.
Desert camps look so lovely in advertisements. When you look at the pictures you imagine the camps to be surrounded by dunes on all sides, and nobody for miles around. The reality is quite different. Camps are not allowed inside the Erg, they are all located on the edges of it. Looking in one particular direction gives you that nice picturesque view. The other side of the camp is bordering on rocky desert. And because the edge of the erg provides only limited real estate, camps are crammed next to each other.
After Merzouga I traveled to the west, along the southern border with Algeria, until I reached the Atlantic ocean in Sidi Ifni. I drove along mostly dry landscape, through only a few villages and across many dry riverbeds. A few months after I left Morocco, that region was hit by heavy rainfall. I remember seeing pictures in the news of the same riverbeds overflowing with water and flooding villages.
In the auberge in Foum Zguid I met a retired couple from Isle of Wight, UK. They were traveling on a tandem bike in the opposite direction as I. Not having any time pressure, they slowly drove from one village to the next, only a few kilometers each day. They fell in love with Morocco and this wasn't their first winter that they were riding a bike along the dusty desert roads.
Sidi Ifni is a coastal village, popular with the surfer crowd. I spent three days there to give me a break from the desert, and also to decide what to do next. I was not yet sure whether I wanted to travel further south, towards Western Sahara, or turn to the north. I decided that Western Sahara just wasn't interesting enough. It's a vast, sparsely populated region without any significant mountains or places to see. So I turned north.
I drove by many campgrounds along the coast. Most of the campers I saw were from France, Germany, or the United Kingdom. Morocco seems to be a popular place where retirees from cold European countries spend the winter. There was also plenty of young people who were seeking waves to surf on.
My first etape was to Taghazout, just north of Agadir. I wanted to see what it is, as it's an often recommended place to visit. When I arrived, I was once again reminded that places lose their charm when they become over-exploited tourist attractions. It may be an ok place for those seeking a nightlife scene with a variety of bars and clubs. Or for those new to surfing who want to try their first lessons on the wide, sandy beaches just to the south. I found Taghazout to be an underwhelming place.
I had one more place inland that I wanted to visit: Toubkal, the highest peak in northern Africa. The town where the trail starts – Imlil – is not far from Marrakech. But back when I traveled through Marrakesh, Toubkal just didn't fit into my schedule. Now that I was near Agadir it was my last chance to go there without a too big detour. If everything went according to plan, I'd be scaling the mountain on December 31.
Climbing Toubkal is only allowed in the company of an official guide. It's not that it is technically difficult, anybody with decent stamina can do it. But because it's a popular mountain, a lot of inexperienced travelers try to climb it. Without the support of experienced professionals, many would fail at best or injure themselves at worst.
I booked a guide for a two-day hike, with a stay at the basecamp not far from the summit. Most trips use the first day to reach the basecamp at 3100m, stay the night, and break for the summit before sunrise the next day.
As we were waking up, I met my fellow travelers I had met in the desert camp. They had already reached the summit and were on their way down. I knew they had plans to climb Toubkal because they briefly mentioned it back in the desert. It was pure luck that we met on the trail. We briefly talked with each other before parting ways once again.
Because we reached the basecamp early, my guide offered me the option to go straight to the summit the same day. His reasoning seemed sound: it's not as cold in the afternoon as it would be the next morning before sunrise, and there are fewer people on the trail. That convinced me, so we continued the climb after just a short break.
There were indeed fewer people on the trail. Most who we met were on the way down from the summit. We only met one other group on the way up and together we reached the summit around 5pm.
It was December 31, 2022. We were the last people at the top of the highest mountain in North Africa. During our descend the sun had set and we reached the basecamp just as the first stars lit up the night sky.
The next morning I saw what my guide meant. About a hundred people got up in the middle of the night and set off into the darkness, all around the same time. Two hours later the first few came back. Not from the summit, but because they had given up. Freezing temperatures or their struggles with high altitude forced them to turn back not far from basecamp.
We had the whole day to walk back to Imlil. We passed many groups of people walking up the mountain in our opposite direction. They were part of the next wave that wanted to conquer Toubkal. I remember seeing a familiar face. One of the guides who we saw going down a day earlier, was once again walking up with new clients. Climbing Toubkal is a once in a lifetime experience for the clients, but a strenuous and demanding job for the guides. Sometimes they don't even have a single day break between the demanding ascends.
From Imlil I traveled back to the coast. First around Marrakech and then straight to Essauira. Out of all the coastal cities, I enjoyed it the most. It didn't emanate a sense of chaos like in Marrakech, and yet had enough life to not be boring.
Essaouira is still a fairly big and busy city, by Moroccan standards. To escape into total tranquility, I drove to the tiny village of Sidi Kaouki, a few kilometers south of Essauira. A few guest houses make up the village, and the wide beach offers itself for long walks.
From Essaouira I once again continued north along the coast. There wasn't much to see or do along the way. I planned one stop, hoping to grab some food and enjoy the nice weather. When I arrived in El Beddouza, however, I saw a place that was literally falling apart. Not a single shop or restaurant at the beach was open, and the infrastructure was crumbling. I knew it wasn't the height of the season, but it was hard for me to imagine this place being anything but the ruins of a thriving beach town.
I was not far from Cassablanca, where I started, and still had more than two weeks of time. I originally had not planned to visit the north, the Rif mountains, or Tangier. But when I saw that I had that much time left, and no other ideas, I decided to travel there.
I drove from El Jadida all the way to Chefchaouen in one go. Over the almost 500 kilometers the landscape gradually changed from dry to wet, from rock to forest, and from beige to green.
Chefchaouen is famous for its buildings in shades of blue, from which it got the nickname «Blue City». Already from afar, the city stands out in the landscape as a bright blue spot on the side of a mountain.
In late afternoon I took a walk up to the Spanish Mosque on a hill overlooking the city. It seemed to be the perfect location to watch then sunset from. The large crowd of people that gathered there as the evening drew closer confirmed that.
A few hours after sunset, the city slumped into a deep sleep. Most shops except a few had closed, and tourists returned to their hotels. Only a few people walked the narrow streets.
I felt generally safe in Morocco. But that one drunk man who chased me through dimly lit streets scared me a little bit. He may also have been high on cannabis. The region around Chefchaouen is famous for growing the drug. Morocco, being an Islamic country, has strict laws regarding drug use. But in Chefchaouen, multiple times I was quite openly offered cannabis while walking through the streets.
In a different corner of the Medina I came across a man who had a bucket of blue paint and was painting the street. Not only are the walls painted in blue, but also the streets that thousands of people walk across every day. It does not take long until the paint starts to tarnish, and nights are the only time when nobody will walk over fresh coats of paint. I hope the cat I saw around the corner was as considerate as me in avoiding the wet paint.
After Chefchaouen I went to see the Akchour waterfalls. A stray dog joined me early on the hike and together we walked the roughly 10 kilometers to the waterfall and back. A few times he ran into the woods to bark at the monkeys. But he always came back to me, as if he was my guardian.
There is another worthwhile place to see near Akchour. The God's Bridge, a natural arch that spans a river in a side valley. But getting to it is not nearly as easy as getting to the Akchour waterfalls. Some parts require wading through the river and climbing over rocks. It's no doubt a refreshing hike during hot sommer months. But the water was cold enough that I did not want to fall into it. My skills with rock climbing definitely came in handy when crossing the more challenging sections.
Just like Chefchaouen, Tangier was not included in my original plans. But now it was close enough, and on my way along the coast. I was walking by the public beach in Tangier, minding my own business, when I saw two familiar faces. The two girls I met in the desert, then on Toubkal, were here in Tangier too. That would be the last time we talked with each other in Morocco.
For the night I booked a guest house in the Medina. Navigating in any Medina is not easy. The narrow streets can be confusing, and the dense buildings block satellite signals that are needed for accurate navigation. In Tangier I had to backtrack a few times, and looked confused enough that a local insisted on helping me. Even the smallest gesture or even one word they speak to help you makes them demand compensation. I was not assertive enough to dismiss this person's help, and so after walking me 20 meters to the correct door around the corner, he asked for a few dirhams.
The host of the guesthouse was not prepared for me, since I booked last minute. But thanks to their hospitality, they managed to find a room for the night anyway. I had one other slightly sour experience that evening with locals when I went out to a restaurant that was recommended to me. Overall, I left Tangier with somewhat negative feelings.
After Tangier I briefly stopped at the Cap Spartel lighthouse. It marks the entrance into the Strait of Gibraltar, and also where the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea meet.
I can say with confidence that Hercules caves a few kilometers south of Cap Spartel are not worth a visit. It cost 60 DH to enter a natural cave that consists of three caverns, one of which was closed off. There was also zero explanation about the history or geology of the cave. I was in and out in 10 minutes.
There wasn't much else to see on the coast between Tangier and Rabat. I stopped only once, in Moulay Bousselham, for a short break before continuing to Rabat.
Rabat is the capital of Morocco. Already on the outskirts of the city, I felt how different its vibe was. It seemed a much more organized and peaceful city. Some of it is certainly because it's full of highly educated people who are working for the government. But the ever-present police and military certainly help too, to keep the peace.
I had seen so many Medinas by then, and after the bad experience in Tangier, I didn't want to see another one. After I arrived in Rabat I went to a public park instead. It was a Sunday and the weather was beautiful. Hassan II Park was full of families who were enjoying the sunny afternoon. There was even a public performance for children happening on at the park auditorium.
The park was in immaculate condition. No doubt kept in good shape, for it to be a showcase of the country's wealth and prosperity. Everything seemed positive at first, but it didn't take long until I started seeing cracks in this seemingly perfect picture. When I entered the park I had my camera strapped to my shoulder. A guard near the entrance promptly stopped me and told me to put the camera away. Fair enough, I thought. It's not an unusual request in a country that's paranoid about security and is known to restrict freedom of the press. I took pictures with my phone instead, just like everybody else in the park. Nobody seemed to mind that.
Later I saw a boy kicking a football in a large, open area. It only took a couple of seconds until I heard someone frantically blow a whistle. When I turned around it was one of the security personnel who was now chasing after the boy. Judging by that reaction, the boy was doing something that he was not allowed to do. He immediately stopped, being aware of the infraction he had just committed. I am wondering what effect this has on kids, when they are indoctrinated from a young age that there is always someone closely watching their actions. When so many behaviours that I regard as normal are supressed by ever-present, authoritarian security forces.
I heard a whistle many more times that afternoon.
A few weeks prior I was in the desert, hundreds of kilometers away from Rabat. When I talked to people, we sometimes discussed politics. I was curious how people feel represented by those running the country in a place so far away. Now in Rabat, I looked around me, at all the people who live a very comfortable life compared to the nomads who I visited a few weeks before. Do they know about the struggles of those who live on the other side of the Atlas mountains? Do they care?
I spent my last few days in Casablanca. It's not a particularly nice city, but I didn't mind as I had started working my day job again. Casablanca offered a decent choice of bars that offered quite places to work from, and that was important to me at that time.
One day before I was to leave Morocco, I decided to visit a quiet beach a bit south of Cassablanca, to experience one last taste of Moroccan nature. I was alone on the beach, enjoying the sunset. Later, two men appeared in the distance, but I didn't pay too much attention to them. When they came closer they noticed that I was taking pictures and immediately started walking towards me. My experience has told me that this is never a particularly good sign. Just like in Rabat a few days prior, I expected that they would tell me to hide the camera and stop taking pictures.
They didn't speak much French, and even me translating to Arabic with the help of Google Translate didn't improve mutual understanding. When they saw that I wasn't taking pictures of them, they relaxed a bit.
They claimed to be from Auxiliary Forces, a security institution whose goal is to establish security throughout the territory of Morocco. I am not entirely certain that they were telling the truth, since they didn't have a uniform, nor did they show me a badge of identification. And it wouldn't be the first time people claimed to be someone else to gain an advantage over unsuspecting foreigners. It also didn't make sense to me why they would guard an empty beach. During my stay in Morocco, this was far from the only thing that didn't make sense to me, but one day before I was to leave the country I just didn't care enough to try to understand.
Returning the car was as much of an experience as picking it up. My flight was leaving before noon, but I came to the airport around sunrise. I did not want to take any chances of missing the flight. My first hurdle was to find the person to hand over the car to. There was nobody in the parking lot except a lone guard. He was kind enough to help me call the rental company, to get them to send somebody over. Close to an hour later I had handed over the keys and was free to go board my flight.
I still have mixed feelings about my time in Morocco. On one hand, I met many warm and friendly people, and created many great memories. But traveling alone was not always easy. It was exhausting to always be vigilant for individuals who might take advantage of me, who were only interested in financial gain for themselves. It was certainly an invaluable learning experience. I'm glad my second attempt to travel to Morocco worked out.