A Quiet Farewell to Morocco

The next few days were a struggle.

From the time I got back from Taghazout I’d been unable to stray too far from a toilet. Fortunately, whilst I felt nauseous I wasn’t actually sick. But, the other, er, end, of me didn’t fare as well.

Sajid did text Saturday morning to ask if I’d gotten home okay but didn’t process that I’d said I was really unwell until much later when I had to point out I hadn’t had a good day because I was…really unwell.

It took me until the late afternoon to be able to risk a trip to the nearby Carrefour supermarket to pick up saltine crackers, some bland granola and a lemon soda water. I felt weak and hadn’t eaten, but couldn’t stomach the eggs, cheese, olives or vegetables that I had in the fridge.

Navigating the crossings were extra hard and I also had to contend with a small pack of dogs on the roundabout, and another two in the supermarket forecourt.

I made it back to the flat without incident, however, and made myself nibble the crackers whilst my furry companions comforted me.

Each day, I’d try to get out just for a little bit, but for the whole weekend I didn’t make it far. Just around the flat complex to watch the sunset, and, at most, into the village.

On the Sunday Anna’s sister dropped off my printed boarding pass for me, as Moroccan airports will only accept printed passes. She left just before sunset and I decided to try and catch it at the beach. As I approached the promenade, I was struck by how busy it was.I’d turned right, instead of left into the village, thinking it’d be quieter but it felt like the whole village was on this strip of tarmac next to the beach.

There were several basketball games, children on bikes, scooters and what looked like mini fairground rides that weren’t tethered to anything. Other children drove around in replica cars. 

Families ate in groups: harira soup, msemen, pastries and street snacks. A plethora of sunset picnics. There were vendors all along the seafront selling tea, juices, corn, nuts, crips and other items.

Lone children bounced balls, shrieking excitedly.

And, of course, stray dogs wove in and out of the crowds. I had to zig zag to avoid them.

At one point, I passed a man in a giant Mickey Mouse costume being followed by several small humans.

There was a cacophony of noise, and as I was already feeling fragile it was overwhelming. I wanted to cover my ears with my hands but didn’t want to appear rude; I lamented the fact I’d left my AirPods in the flat.

I hurried along, wishing my stomach would allow me to sample some of the street food.

Most vantage points to the sunset were blocked with people, but I managed to find a trail in the grass to a half decent spot, quickly snap some photos and then keep walking. 

After some time I spotted a road heading up towards the main road and decided that, rather than retrace my steps and have to endure all the noise and people once again, I’d take this road and navigate back home by walking alongside the main road. This proved to be a good decision as, aside from a gang of screaming boys, it was relatively empty. 

I was relieved to get in.

On the Monday, I decided to tentatively try my first proper food in days. In the mid afternoon I ventured to the village, picked up a plain msemen and some bread, eating the former as I walked as I hadn’t eaten all day.

When I’m not feeling well, or something bad has happened, I have to battle really hard not for my mind to focus on the negatives: I was hyper aware of how, as I navigated the village, my fear of the dogs, distress at the dead, bloodied cat under a car and nausea at the smell from the factories, or maybe drains, was consuming me. I had to really force myself to acknowledge the good too: the kindness of the people, the beauty of the sunset, how safe this place feels.

But a surfer guy in a car parked on the road I was walking on leaning out and trying to sell me some sort of tour or activity unsolicited REALLY challenged my mindset! I really hate being approached unsolicited by someone trying to sell me something.

Just before sunset, I headed to a fish restaurant next to the mosque in the complex in which I was staying and chose a table where I could see the sunset.

The customers who’d been eating as I arrived soon left, and neither of the men working at the restaurant spoke English. I managed to communicate I’d like a menu and they gestured that they didn’t have one.

So, together, we pointed at random fish in a chiller cabinet – I have no idea what most of them were – and they weighed them to tell me the price. I selected one but, even though I’d tried to communicate my allergies in both French and Darija, I still spotted my fish being carried to the grill covered in some mystery green liquid. Stopping the man, I half-mimed that the fish needed to be plain as I have allergies and am sick and he took it back into the kitchen area, where he washed it.

I was then brought bread and a tomato and onion salad even though I’d tried to explain I couldn’t have onion.

My French accent must be awful because when I also tried to communicate that their fridge was warm and did they have any chilled drinks as I’d like a cold drink they had to get a man from the neighbouring burger and taco place to talk to me. But this did produce a cold can of lemon soda from the kitchen.

I was just pouring my drink when Aziz appeared from nowhere. He told me he was going to the mosque to pray and said he’d come say hi after, then headed inside. I’d not yet replied to a message from him asking how I was and felt a stab of guilt.

My grilled fish arrived and I tentatively began to eat it with the bread. Almost immediately I was surrounded by six stray cats. One of which sat on the chair next to me and tried to paw at the fish. They completely ignored my attempts to shoo them away – as much as I love cats I’m not okay with them having the audacity to steal my food right in front of me and block me from eating it.

The owner appeared and began chasing the cats away. They responded to him.

He then retrieved a bowl of fish parts from the kitchen and set it down at the side of the road. All bar one cat went to feast on this meal; the one that remained didn’t take his eyes off my fish. He was a cat on a mission, clearly.

Aziz returned, carrying a tray with tacos (the Moroccan kind) on it. He asked if he could join me and I gestured for him to sit.

He got us some bottles of water and we chatted about how I’d been. His theory was that there had been some sort of allium in the sauces in the tacos I ate in Taghazout; he told me commonly three sauces are added.

Asking me what I’d thought of Taghazout, I reluctantly told him I’d been underwhelmed and admitted I’m somewhat of a beach snob. He tried to show me more beautiful Moroccan beaches on instagram but these too were rocky and whilst they did have a form of beauty they aren’t aligned with the beaches I vibe with the most.

Aziz told me how he’d been tutoring English in people’s homes the past few days and was wondering if he should get an office. In the meantime, he was about to help out in his dad’s juice shop in Agadir and suggested I drop in and we could have a drink together. I told him I’d see how I felt.

We were sitting under a sign that read, ‘Miftah’ and he told me that was the classical Arabic name for ‘key’, which was the name of this area. He also told me the Darija equivalent but all I can remember now is that it began with a ‘C’.

I’d finished my fish and he began feeding what was left to the cats; it made sense that they were so aggressively claiming their rights to it earlier.

Aziz then told me he was returning to the mosque to pray again and asked me to wait. 

The temperature had plummeted with the setting sun and I’d left my hoodie at home, but I waited and before too long he re-emerged. He went to pay for his tacos and I paid for my fish.

As we met in the middle of the two restaurants he asked if I’d paid and admonished me when I said yes, telling me he’d been intending to pay. This was confusing to me but given my experience with Sajid, I began to wonder if Moroccan men just pay for you as standard, even as a friend.

Together, we walked from the restaurants and Aziz offered to walk me home, thinking I was staying in the village. I had to explain to him I basically was home! 

We high-fived and bid each other goodnight.

My stomach coped well with the fish, but still was very unsettled and so on my last full day, Tuesday, I decided against travelling into Agadir which had been my original plan.

Sajid had stopped messaging and I also didn’t hear from Aziz: I confess, I had a moment of feeling incredibly alone, which I think really stemmed from having to care about myself for days whilst feeling sick. This is something I do in the UK too, and it’s always isolating.

My mood wasn’t helped by the fact the cats have a water bowl in the living room that they like to spill the contents of – on this occasion they’d somehow gotten water in front of the tv cabinet and when I went to switch on the light I slipped on it, banging my already arthritic knee. I did have a little pity party, and a bit of a cry, in that moment. 

I therefore didn’t do very much at all on Tuesday, other than try to catch one final sunset.

Waking up on my final morning, I felt something alien to me: excitement to return home. That’s so rare for me; usually I feel I need longer wherever I am.

It’s not Morocco’s fault; it’s just how things panned out. Trying to navigate a place whilst in a state of terror is exhausting and then being sick (I also never get sick on my travels) AND bruising my knee severely was just a little too much.

I packed and cleaned the flat feeling effervescent with happiness.

Aziz messaged: he’d thought I was leaving the following day. The dynamic between us, however, had changed completely. He firstly complimented my profile picture (I hadn’t changed it). Then, he made a highly inappropriate comment about how I should have invited him to stay over with me for a night or two. This instantly made me feel very uncomfortable and I told him saying anything of that nature was a sure way to get blocked. 

Of course, as all men do when caught testing a boundary he claimed he’d been joking and then stopped responding when I called him out on that too.

I had one last look around Anza souk before leaving, picked up a final sugar cane juice and then popped an Immodium before lugging my case down five flights of stairs as I’d been told to leave the key inside the flat and the lift required a key fob.

I’d called an InDrive but the time changed after I’d booked it and I would have missed the airport bus. So I cancelled and called another, who arrived within minutes.

Unfortunately, when we reached the bus station area he ignored my requests to drop me wherever was safe and told me he’d get me closer – only to end up getting us caught in a series of traffic lights and dropping me off much further away, meaning I missed my bus. 

He’d meant well.

I now had a choice of calling another InDrive to get me to the airport or wait an hour for the next airport bus. 

After some research on the times to get through Agadir airport’s departures I decided to wait. 

As I was waiting, Aziz popped up in my messages to ask if I’d made it to the bus station. I told him yes and then he asked me to send him pics of me. Something in the way he made the demand gave me the ick, and combined with the earlier exchange, I blocked him. That may not have been the best approach but I felt incredibly disrespected and he’d made my skin crawl.

The bus arrived, driven by a lady bus driver, and departed exactly on the hour. I was one of only two passengers on board and the drive to the airport was super smooth.

If you know me, you’ll know I’m no stranger to airports. But I’ve never had an airport experience quite like the one I had in Agadir.

After queuing to get checked in and my luggage tagged, I had my passport checked on the way into passport control, IN passport control, on the way out of passport control, at security AND after security – five times in total. No idea why. Bags are also scanned on the way into the terminal as well as at security, but I’ve experienced that elsewhere.

Departures was super small. I used up some of my remaining MAD (I hadn’t spent anywhere near the amount I’d exchanged) on some food and spent the remaining time swapping my SIM card and posting a blog post.

Once on board my flight, I found that there was only one lady in my row but, my goodness, could she talk! She managed to talk for the entire three and a half hour journey, in fact.

This lady had been to Morocco six times in a year. I saw all her photos and got to live vicariously through her stories: although mostly she’d been doing the normal tourist stuff she’d also befriended locals by returning so often and through them had also experienced some of the magic I usually do.

She also told me all about the friend she travels with, who has had two romances with locals, both of whom have stereotypically fleeced her for money after the love-bombing stage – this is a lady in her sixties. 

Most worryingly, she told me of the time her local friend has searched her hotel room and removed a camera from behind the television; he told her this is common in Moroccan hotels due to the law that locals can’t be in the same room if they’re not married. I don’t know how true this is, but she definitely had the experience.

It was a relief when we landed.

I’m SUPER grateful for the ability to get a glimpse of local life in Morocco, and being a temporary cat mother, but – for various reasons – I didn’t vibe with this trip in the way I have with others and I think that’s even come through in my writing.

The majority of the Moroccan people I met were wonderful and super kind; I enjoyed some great food. And I only saw a very small part of the country, so absolutely could have a different experience in other areas.

But the reality is we all align with different places in different ways, and also our experience of them can be shaped by events.

No regrets, just gratitude.