Moroccan Out

Strangely, I consider this is my first travel blog… despite typically writing lots whilst traveling. I've been to a few countries, seen an assortment of different cultures and traditions, met friends from different continents, and learned something new in each environment. I’m told over and over again that these adventures ought to be archived, fossilized, and preserved so I can savor them forever. I do an okay job at this. But the thing is, you can never truly capture more than the moment that transpires. I can document through photos, videos, and write pages on pages to try and conserve my experience to retell and share but it always falls a bit short. Naturally. 

I believe it is all worth preservation, but even the good things expire. While I learn and fail and enjoy and complain during my “toddler years” of being an adult, I want to try and make something tangible of it all, in the little bits that I can.

My friend Claire once asked me why I like traveling so much out of all the hobbies in the world, and truthfully I couldn’t really respond. I just like to go places and frankly I think that is justified enough. I like the way I feel when I come home after an adventure- poured into by strangers, a smidgen more familiar with the world I live in, proud of my navigational skills. Now that the ability to travel is widely accessible to me while working as an english teacher abroad, you can fall into the trap of going places just to go… and there is a big difference between going places for fun and traveling with intention. 

*click on the underlined link to check out my "Day in the Life Video of an Aux"*

I don’t mean that you have to disembark the plane with war paint on your face, a color-coded daily itinerary, and a fully charged apple watch to track your 30k exploration steps. Nor is it necessarily wrong to go places just for the hell of it. I mean more subtly that when you arrive somewhere, your time will be richer as you travel with intention, a will to learn, and open-mindedness as you experience both actively and passively.

Often I go on a whim somewhere on a weekend. I have Fridays off, I don’t have any commitments until late monday night, and it’s wicked easy to do while living here. This concept isn’t so far-fetched to my other aux friends that I share life with in Cantabria. All of us have the same long weekends, share the same holiday times, and zeal for adventure. We gather our closest friends and hop on a bus, train, or plane on the weekends and go where we’ve been craving. So maybe I feel like the life I’m leading is normal (in comparison to the people I spend my time with). But what I ought to remember, for my own good, is that this is something special and to fully absorb it all, I have to arrive with intention. 

My preferred medium is storytelling. I write to friends and tell them about the good and god-awful dates I’ve been on, rant about getting violently ill in a hostel in Seville, lying on the cold bathroom floor heaving paella for all the sleepless hours of the night. I like to talk about the cute curly headed bassist of a punk band I met in Belgium who also is a published physicist of research in “donkere materie” (dark matter). These things don’t always capture the intimacy between myself and the places I am in. Arguably they are the components that make up the whole of the destination, or rather these destinations serve to support solely their existence instead. I can tell you the names of all the characters I have been introduced to in Marrakech, Edinburgh, Toulouse, Bordeaux, Bilbao but I don’t really mention the vibe of the city, the energy of the town, or what I did as a wee little traveler. But I’ll give it a go. 

I typically share what I can and in whatever capacity I am able. But there is a part of me that does not want to strip my experiences of their inexplicable glories by uncovering too much. I want it to be my little pocket child sometimes, to have and to hold when I’m ready to relive and feel it all again…but I can do without feeling the paella part again.

I don’t know why I am starting now as far as travel blogs go. It feels almost too late after all the places I have been, but ultimately it’s a silly conclusion since I plan to see a lot more. I don’t know if I will ever get into the influencer travel blogger life. I’m open to the idea, but I think I’m still exploring ways to make it organic and fresh. It’s a saturated market out there! But what I am learning is no two travel experiences are the same, perspectives differ, and those lingering lessons vary from person to person. So as I explore what medium of exposure sticks, I am happy to present my new baby venture of travel blogging! It is a totally new stride for me writing about my experiences in this way, but what is one more uncomfortable venture to take on.

Santander, Spain → Marrakech, Morocco

Before I begin, I feel as though I need to catch up a bit. I’m beginning to discover what destinations stick out to me the most. There are of course overall things I consider such as: reliability of transportation, safety as a female traveler, attitude of locals, the way they interact with tourists, and of course, the nature.

Morocco seemed to check all these boxes and then some.

I love leaving somewhere feeling more connected to the earth than when I arrived. I felt this immensely when I hiked Machu Picchu in Peru. I felt more physically capable than I had ever before- bearing through the 1000 meter elevation gain and braving the intense elements of the ancient Incan gem. Peru was probably my first true culture shock and I think I have been quietly thirsting for more ever since I went in 2021. Morocco had quenched my thirst for the wild in its own unique way. While Peru is green and full of flora and fauna, the outer city limits of Morocco were two vast chunks of a vibrant blue sky and dry arid land, with a jagged sawtooth mountain range meeting them at the horizon.

The first day we arrived, Alex and I found our reserved driver waiting for us outside the airport to take us to our riad. I won’t berate myself for not knowing Arabic, one of the most difficult languages to learn, but I do wish I had brushed up on a bit more French before going so I was able to communicate more with the cab drivers and cashiers I interacted with. But aside from a small handful of language barrier interactions, I was incredibly impressed by how easily some Moroccans are able to switch from Arabic, to Berber, to French, to English, to Spanish (and these are just the lot I am aware of). And whether you share the same language or not, it does not take words to demonstrate friendliness and hospitality. Moroccans welcomed us in nearly every interaction, and that's a good feeling- when you are well received in a country. 

Once we arrived safely home in our beautiful riad, we slept soundly in our rooms fit for royalty and met the next morning for our excursion booking to Essaouira.

A not so quick jaunt from Marrakech (3 hours), when we finally arrived we stumbled upon the cutest little beach town that had musicians filling the corners of the medina with echoing guitar riffs and smooth sounds, my favorite treat. We soaked up the sun, looked out across the Atlantic Ocean, and spent our dirhams all over the medina on trinkets and tchotchkes. That night we put on our nice dresses, powdered our noses, and arrived in style with a tuk tuk to a snazzy Moroccan restaurant. I had never been to a place so swanky that encouraged you to dance with strangers before dinner. There was a traditional band playing jazzy bluesy Andalusi music (a new favorite genre of mine) beside the bar and masses of restaurant patrons, including myself, showed off their two-steps before chomping down on the tagine they ordered.

The next day, Daniela, Anna, and I had an excursion booked to see the Berber (also known as Imazighen) villages situated in the Atlas Mountains. Our tour guide Rachid walked us through his village and explained so much as we crossed community-made aqueducts and even ate lunch at a Berber home. We learned that Berbers actually make up about 40% of the Moroccan population. The term Berber is from the Greek word barbaros which translates to English as “barbarians” and was used to describe anyone who didn’t speak Greek. Although they are still known as Berbers, some call themselves Amazigh which means “noble” or “free”. It was so beautiful to witness their pace of life, become more familiar with their cultural values and see the really beautiful fabrics and pottery that the women craft. Known as the nomads of the Sahara, these people are deeply connected to the earth and live simply and for a day, I was to fortunate to feel the simplicity of humanity. 

The following day we found ourselves exploring the wonderful chaos of the souks in the main Marrakech medina. I sniffed spices I cannot explain, ate khobz and amlou (similar to naan and peanut butter) that still make me drool, and saw crochet patterns I couldn’t conceive. All of this art and energy could be met with a bit of tranquility by getting a typical hammam massage or enjoying Moroccan tea (very sugary!) on the rooftop. That night, Valentine's Day evening, my four girlfriends and I got to experience something really special.

When we arrived at the Agafay desert, we hung out with camels and scrunched our eyes, shielding ourselves from the dust and sand that the beast of a land mass flung around. We were situated in a bungalow-like structure, munching on couscous and steamed carrots, while drums and banjos filled the air in the background. The night had rolled in and the vibrant bright blue sky that stretched for miles turned into a muted one, and only the crescent moon and bright stars were left to hang above us. The band played, the fire burned and probably nearly a hundred other travelers surrounded this circle with bellies full of traditional Moroccan cuisine. Daniela and I got up and started dancing. We twirled our Berber scarves around with the wind and switched from foot to foot to the rhythm of the song. Very soon after, a small older man, mimicked our swaying. His palms were rough and calloused, he held our hands and lifted our arms up and down to the beat as we circled around atop the gravel. Kendall joined. Then our bungalow neighbors. Before we knew it, more people joined us. And then more. And then soon, all the bungalow inhabitants were on their feet, moving to the music. People took turns in the “spotlight”, as they danced freely, uninhibited, with full attention in the middle of the circle. The cycle repeated. A conga line formed. A Frenchman proposed to his fiance and we all rushed to hug the newlyweds. There was so much to be felt.

 I left the commotion for a moment to send a “Happy Valentines Day” text to my parents. As I continued trekking further away, I looked back on the cluster of joy that congregated amidst this piece of dry earth, getting smaller and quieter the more distance I ventured. It was amazing that something so loud and wild to me; music, laughter, people flailing their arms in dance, congregating around flames, was made small and quiet in the great vastness of the desert.

I’ll never be able to relay all the details, all the intricacies of this incredible trip. And perhaps selfishly, I’m happy they are mine to keep forever.

top photos are taken on my disposable camera

bottom row of photos were taken by Alex in the Sahara Desert

An Afterword:

Something I’ve been really digging on is embracing the life of a guiri. A guiri is sort of the Spanish equivalent of what most know as “gringa” or a foreigner in Spain. It really is a lot more liberating when you celebrate how different you are, when you speak your native language freely, and embrace that you are indeed from another country! How beautiful really. I allow myself more mistakes, more errors, more expressive outfits, because I’m not from here. I don’t look like it, I don’t sound like it and I can enjoy it and integrate just the same. Living in the Netherlands, I remember not wanting to speak English on the phone in public places because I preferred blending in as a Dutchie by appearance and behavior alone. I guess I can blend in a bit better there. I guess I wanted to roleplay. But here it is pretty silly for me to think I can disguise myself as a Northern Spaniard…so instead I shall soak up the guiri life.