Even though by the time I got into bed I’d been awake for over 36 hours, my sleep was broken.
It’s no secret that I’m a light sleeper at the best of times, but the combination of an unfamiliar bed and frequent noise disturbances kept waking me.
I’d left the door ajar as I knew the cats were used to going into the bedroom. But this meant they were repeatedly in and out of the bedroom, and having zoomies, throughout the night. I think this was also because they, too, were in an unfamiliar routine.
Once they settled, one slept on the foot of my bed and one, I think, slept with Anna.
I woke again in the early hours at the sounds of the call to prayer from the nearby mosque.
And then off and on until I could hear Anna was up and pottering around. I could tell she was trying to be super quiet so I opened the curtains and door but stayed sitting on the bed, playing with the cats, as I also knew she’d be getting ready for work and I didn’t want to get in her way.
Anna then told me she’d be leaving for her sisters’ place to work and would stay there until her flight; I wasn’t expecting her to leave until later.
We said our goodbyes and then it was just the cats and I.
I took my time getting ready, finished unpacking and made myself a coffee.
There’d been no set plan for the day, so I decided my agenda was simply to explore my local area, starting with the market that Anna had mentioned.
Before I’d arrived, there’d apparently been several days of a sea mist that had completely obscured the sky; when I left Anna’s flat the sky was milky and hanging low with cloud. I hoped that this, too, wouldn’t last for days.
The open area we’d passed the day before had been transformed into a large, bustling market across several levels. According to Google maps it’s technically a souk and there is an open roofed walled structure and steps on the site. Almost all the stalls used black tarpaulins and so the market stood in stark relief to the landscape; it could be seen from some distance away.
I passed a vendor selling roasted nuts, chickpeas and corn on the cob and entered the maze of the market.
Now, I’m someone who feels somewhat conflicted about markets: on one hand, they’re a great place to people-watch and absorb some of the local culture; on the other, I can find them both over-stimulating and overwhelming.
This one was quite chill, as markets go.
Mostly I was left alone; few stall holders called out to me and the locals (for the market was pretty much exclusively attended by locals) generally didn’t even acknowledge my presence.
I’d found my anxiety was fairly high – probably a legacy of how bad my mental health has been this year rather than actually related to my surroundings – but the lack of hustle helped me to relax a little.
At the entrance to the market, the stalls were mainly clothing and household items. I saw entire tables where women were rummaging through piles of clothes that the signs indicated were 3, 5, or 7 MAD per item (that’s 23p, 39p and 55p), and countless stalls selling djellabas, caftans and shoes. I also saw more big pants than I’ve seen maybe ever – piles and piles of them.
Other popular stalls were selling various repellants and poisons for a myriad of creatures, as well as dishes and cookware.
As I walked further into the market, though the archways and up stairs, I passed more food-based stalls: egg sellers, a stall selling what I think were sheep’s legs (I also saw an entire sheep’s head further down), spices, garlic (urgh!), bunches of herbs and olives.
On the upper level were fruit and vegetable stalls, including a vendor selling sugarcane juice. I’d loved this in Zanzibar but the sign was in Arabic, so I Google translated the photo and ordered myself a glass in French. The stall holder added fresh ginger and lime and served the juice over ice. My glass cost me 7 MAD (55p).
It was refreshing and gave me a burst of energy.
I decided not to buy anything yet, as I still wanted to explore and didn’t want to have to carry anything around with me; it looked like the market would be there until mid afternoon, at least, so I decided to risk it.
As I left the market I reflected how Morocco often gets a bad rap; most of what I’ve seen online talks of locals scamming tourists and constant hassle from men, but, so far at least, that’s not been my experience at all.
Meandering to the sea front, I found a moody sky and high waves crashing onto the shore. Anza has a long promenade, dotted with seats, basketball courts and play areas. I walked the length of the promenade and then headed back to explore the village itself.
A couple of men I passed did say hello and ask how I am/ where I’m from but I made it clear I didn’t want to converse and they did leave me alone. There also don’t appear to be any beach boys in Anza.
The village consists of several streets of houses, shops, restaurants and surf huts.
There are a lot of street cats, and very much like Istanbul I saw dishes of food in alleyways for them.
Whilst I know some of the best restaurants aren’t the ones on Google maps, I had looked to see what places and prices were like. One highly rated spot that was still seemed to be a ‘local’ spot was a fish place.
So I wandered until I found it.
It was a small restaurant, with a huge grill made out of half barrels billowing smoke at the front. There were a small number of seats across the road, and both a covered outside seating area behind the grill and an inside seating area, with an open kitchen.
Aside from two surfer girls sitting inside, everyone eating at the restaurant was local.
I was shown to a table and a paper table cloth was put down in front of me, followed by a small dish of lentils and one of a tomato and onion salad.
The owner told me the tradition was on someone’s first visit they choose their fish from the table of fresh fish next to the grill. I’m pretty sure this was a fairly liberal version of the truth but I went with it.
I chose a fish I didn’t recognise, as I like to try new things, and showed the boy helping me the Arabic translation for ‘I’m allergic to garlic’ that Anna had written for me.
He told me they don’t grill with garlic. I noticed however that they were serving the fish under a heaped pile of raw onions, so I asked him not to put onion on mine too.
Resuming my seat, I began to absorb my surroundings.
The other diners were mainly couples or men eating alone. Most people were drinking water and Coke – one man had a tall glass of juice.
At the table next to the grill, a chubby child was eating with vigour. As I watched, one of the waiters poured some of a lemon drink over the child and whilst I still don’t understand what that was about, it later transpired that the child was the owner’s son.
An old man appeared in front of me. He gestured to a chair at my table and I nodded my consent to him sharing the space. He sat diagonally opposite me and tried to strike up conversation but he didn’t speak any English and the only language we had in common was French. But I couldn’t understand all he was saying to me and I’m not fully sure I managed to accurately convey the concept of cat sitting to him!
I realised that aside from a teaspoon to eat the lentils and (diced) salad, everyone was eating with their hands.
I’m no stranger to this, but I’m used to the East African way of being brought a jug and soap to wash with before you eat. There was actually a sink at the back of the restaurant but it took me a long while, and a lot of people-watching, to work this out.
The old man received his food first, as the fish I’d ordered was quite sizable. He ate quickly, and somehow managed to talk the whole time. As soon as he’d finished, he left.
Sadly, I was told I couldn’t eat the lentils as they’d been cooked with garlic, and my salad had onion so I couldn’t eat that either.
That left me with fish and bread. But it was still a substantial meal and I copied the local way of using the bread to scoop the fish. It wasn’t as easy as using chapati, as the Moroccan bread has a fluffy middle and crusty exterior, but it was delicious.
I had a small water too and my total bill came to 70 MAD (£5.47).
Leaving the restaurant, I continued to explore the streets. By this time, the clouds had passed and the sky was clear.
A Siamese cat with startling blue eyes came to say hello, and inadvertently led me to a cut through that took me deeper into the village.
I walked past homes with washing on strings outside in the street and along palm-lined pavements.
Getting my bearings, I headed in the direction of ‘home’ and emerged next to the Carrefour supermarket.
I popped in to have a look around (I’d been in a supermarket with Anna already when we were in Agadir and browsing supermarkets in different countries is one of my favourite things to do).
The layout was a little confusing at first – I couldn’t see where the check outs were – but I had a browse and then picked up a few bits.
Leaving the supermarket, I crossed the road back to the market which was now even busier than in the morning.
And whilst it was still more chill than most other markets I’ve been to, I did find that on the second visit there were more stall holders vying for my attention. I still only saw one other non-local there, though.
I retraced my steps, this time paying more attention to what was being sold.
On the steps, a man with a stump for a leg lay on the floor next to an old woman. I don’t know what happened for him but my heart went out to him.
I headed to the produce section.
After buying some tomatoes, I asked a neighbouring stall holder in French how much his limes were. He said 7 MAD and a lady nearby said to him, in a surprised tone, “Seven?” This told me all I needed to know and so I just smiled, thanked him and kept walking.
I picked up limes for 2 MAD a little further down – and the man even put an extra one in the bag when he weighed them.
This may just be a me thing but I often find myself going blank when shopping for food – especially if I am in a new place and haven’t planned what I may be eating.
I therefore picked up random items at the market.
Leaving with my purchases, I walked back to the flat and found myself sharing the lift with a man who also struck up conversation. But rather than the French and Arabic blend that had become familiar, this man only spoke in French. Perhaps as he thought that’s what I would speak? Not sure.
By the time I got in, my lack of sleep was catching up with me.
I lay on the sofa and cat #2 immediately stretched out on top of me, like a furry blanket.
His purring lulled me into sleep and I dozed.
I woke just in time to head to the beach for sunset. This time, at golden hour, the beach was transformed from the way it looked in the morning. The waves were still super high, though.
Feeling hungry, I decided to find a place to have something to eat. I didn’t really know what I fancied until I passed a place making crepes. I ordered a chocolate and nutella crepe and the owner suggested I try their ‘special juice’ which was a blend of fresh fruits.
He told me he’d give me a special price as I have such a lovely smile; spoiler alert, it wasn’t a special price – I later saw the menu!
The seating for the cafe was across the road, on the beach itself.
As I headed over, a dog was chasing a cat around the corner of the cafe nearest the road. The cat was giving as good as it got and the people around them were laughing.
Nervous of dogs, I took a seat as far as possible from the commotion – right near the beach itself.
The crepe was really good, and exceptionally generous in terms of the amount of Nutella in – and on – it. I ate it and then sat with my juice, watching the sun sink below the horizon.
Around me groups and pairs of locals had gathered to do the same, mainly drinking mint tea.
I felt at peace.
Suddenly, I was aware of a presence to my left. A dog had appeared next to me and before I could even think beyond that awareness suddenly it was jumping up on me. I tried to push down the rising panic and act calm, and said firmly but not loudly, “No. Down.”
The dog’s response was to bite my hand.
I must have jumped because in the seconds that followed, my much-loved cloth bag from Kenya was on the floor and the dog had taken hold of that in its mouth and appeared to be about to drag it away.
Instinctually, I reached for the bag. It’s one of my most treasured possessions (and I’m not really one for possessions) but also it contained my purse – and, more importantly, the keys to Anna’s place).
The dog’s response was to lunge at me. I hadn’t left my seat, which was one of those bucket-shaped plastic garden chairs and not the easiest to get out of and found myself trying to fend off the dog, which had jumped back up on me and was snapping at me.
Feebly, I said, “Please help me.”
I had no idea who was actually around me, and at the time was so panicked it didn’t occur to me they may not understand English, but almost immediately a woman who had been sitting to my left came to my aid. She shooed the dog away from me and it went for her too.
Then, a small child appeared and started picking up the stones made up the floor covering and throwing them at the dog. The dog wasn’t hit or harmed but the stones broke its focus on the woman and it started to run away from them.
The child continued to throw the stones until the dog was fully on the beach. It then sat down near some construction work, where it stayed.
I thanked them both, my voice trembling. The child disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared and the woman simply nodded and smiled before resuming a phone conversation.
This scenario, for me, had been one of my worst-nightmare scenarios made real. It took me a while to even be able to leave my seat as my legs were like jelly.
I didn’t once take my eyes off the dog.
As soon as I was able, I shakily left my seat and went to pay. The owner asked if I had enjoyed and I said the food and juice had been great but not so much the being bitten by a dog part. He didn’t seem phased or surprised, telling me the dog was “only playing”. I told him that’s not my idea of playing but his only response was to tell me he’d see me again soon.
He wouldn’t.
I made my way back to the flat still feeling like I was having an out of body experience.
Luckily, the dog hadn’t caused me much physical damage; I had two raised puncture wounds that hadn’t drawn blood and some swelling.
The mental damage, however, was far more significant.
When I got in, I began asking on socials for insight on what had just happened so that I could process it. A LOT of people started advising me to go and get checked for rabies. So I ended up going down a rabbit warren of research on whether this was actually necessary and, if so, what the process would be.
Anna had connected me with her sister, Mary, in case I needed anything and by coincidence she messaged me when I was mid-research to give me the number of a reliable taxi driver. I told her what had happened and she said I should get checked and that she too would look into where I could get rabies treatment.
It seems in Morocco, you can’t get the rabies vaccine in hospitals or at a GP surgery, though it does vary by municipality. In Marrakesh, you can go to the L’Institut Pasteur du Maroc but I had trouble finding where I could go in Agadir.
Eventually, a response to a post on Reddit named the Bureau Communal d’Hygiene as the place you should go for most municipalities. I Googled ‘Bureau Communal d’Hygiene Agadir’ and could see from the reviews that I’d found the right spot.
It wouldn’t open until the following morning, so I resolved to go there then and headed to bed.
When I used to own cats myself, they always knew when something was wrong: this was also true of my surrogate fur babies. Both of them followed me to bed and firmly planted themselves either side of me. And there they stayed until I got up the next morning – no zoomies, just gentle purring soothing me.
I’m so grateful for them.
Read about what happens next here >>