As I needed to head into Agadir for my third rabies vaccine, I decided to check out the Majestic’s Moroccan breakfast, as recommended by Anna.
Their Haira soup dinner had been my favourite meal in Morocco to date.
Anza doesn’t have any marked bus stops and the bus journey takes three times as long as a taxi. As I’m also not a morning person, I decided I’d get an InDrive to Agadir and the bus home.
Fortunately for me, Moroccan times seem to align with my own natural rhythms: breakfast for locals appears to be more of a late morning/ brunch thing, lunch around 2-4 pm and dinner closer to 8pm. Locals seem to stay up quite late also; even children commonly play outside until 10pm, or even later, at the complex in which I am staying.
I ordered an InDrive and, once again, had a driver arrive in a car that wasn’t the same as on the app. He told me this was because he’d recently been in an accident, showing me a photo of his smashed-up car. This didn’t exactly instill confidence in me, but given he was the second driver in a few days in this scenario, and his ratings were good, I decided to risk it.
In reality, the ride was uneventful and I told the driver to drop me anywhere that was convenient for him near the Mohammed V mosque; he was grateful and told me people from the UK and US seem to understand the necessity to choose a safe drop off spot (if a taxi suspects an InDrive car they will cause trouble, including calling the police – there have been occasions where tourists have been taken to the police station for questioning whilst the InDrive driver is fined). Apparently, with Moroccan passengers they tend to insist on being dropped off even in places that are risky.
He pulled into a nearby side street, I paid him and we exchanged goodbyes.
Unlike when I visited during the evening, the Majetic restaurant had tarpaulins shading the seats from the sun. I asked in French for a table for one and was instantly given a seat nestled near the entrance to the restaurant, sitting on a sofa.
The restaurant busy and, once again, everyone except me was a local.
Every single table had a pot of tea on it, even if the customers also had juice. Most of the other customers were also eating breakfast.
I ordered a tomato and cheese omlette (10 MAD), a small orange juice (12 MAD) and a pot of Moroccan mint tea for one, Originally I’d planned to have coffee, as that’s my go-to morning drink. But my personal rule is to do what locals do and so coffee wasn’t an option! I also couldn’t resist ordering msemen with butter and honey for 7 MAD.
When the food arrived, I hadn’t quite appreciated how much I would be given.
The omlette arrived in a sizeable steel pan with handles, and was placed on a kind of coaster due to the pan being hot. It was oozing with cheese, contained a rich, spiced, tomato sauce as well as olives, slices of lime and a chilli. It was accompanied by a large khobz bread, which the locals use to scoop and eat the omlette (you’re not given cutlery).
My tea was served on a silver tray: an ornate silver kettle, springs of fresh mint, a large block of white sugar and two glasses. As few people eat or drink alone here I guess two glasses come as standard.
Learning from my faux pas on my first evening, I poured a little of the tea into a glass, folded the stems of mint into the teapot, poured the tea back into the teapot and added the whole block of sugar (I don’t even usually take sugar but couldn’t figure how to break it into smaller chunks and Anna had told me it was better with sugar). I then let it brew for a while.
I was halfway through the omlette when my msemen arrived. Feeling pretty full already, I knew then that I’d over-ordered but I was also savouring every bite, as everything tasted SO good.
The ratio of bread to omlette was perfect, but it did mean I had to eat the whole khobz in order to eat the omlette. And I wanted to eat the whole omlette as it was a perfect blend of cheesy, tomato-ey, spiced goodness. With bonus olives.
Mirroring the locals, I held the teapot high above the glass to pour my tea. I’m not sure why it’s poured from a height, but I’m trusting the process.
Just as with the soup, I’d been given a piece of what felt like paper with my meal – the sort that is used to wrap fish and chips in the UK – and I attempted to wipe my fingers on it. The locals were doing this, but as soon as the waiter spotted me doing it he placed a pack of napkins in front of me, for which I was grateful.
“C’est bon!” I said, smiling. It’s good.
“Parfait!” he responded, returning my smile.
By this point, I was already full but I wanted to taste the msemen and wasn’t sure about the etiquette for asking to wrap food to go here.
It was warm, flaky, goodness and a perfect accompaniment to the tea, but would have been equally good without the butter and honey, in my opinion.
The tea had taken me by surprise, as though I’d had Moroccan mint tea on my first evening it had just tasted like mint – I hadn’t realised it also had actual tea in it. This tea, however, had a caffeine kick which was complimented by the freshness of the mint.
A man who had been sitting next to me stood, wished me “Bon appertit” and then left.
At the point where the msemen defeated me – I couldn’t finish it all, despite my best efforts – I asked in French where I could wash my hands and was directed to a sink at the back of the restaurant. The same paper used with meals was used for drying hands at the sink.
Once again, I was charged the menu price and not an inflated tourist price, as the restaurant had been accused of in reviews.
I left very happy with my decsion to start the day with a Moroccan ‘breakfast’ and began walking in the direction of Souk El Had.
Passing the park, I reversed my journey of a few days prior and was able to navigate to the souk without the help of Google maps.
I’d given myself a side quest for this visit, as my favourite maxi dress has been coming apart at the seams and I had tried once to get it fixed in the UK but had been ghosted by the local seamstress.
In the souk, there are several tailors in a row and I’d brought my dress to Agadir in the hope that one of them could fix it. A local had told me it shouldn’t cost more than 30 MAD.
The only issue was, once back in the souk I could NOT find the tailors!
I’d entered through a new entrance and found myself amongst endless furniture shops. When I emerged into the section of the souk with trinkets and vegetables no matter how I tried, I couldn’t find the familiar areas.
On this visit I was also constantly approached, either by stall holders or beggars. Even as I was about to enter the souk, a family (two adults and two children) carrying bags filled with shopping passed me and the father stright up asked me for money to help his family. I’m not opposed to helping those in need, but I really dislike being treated like a walking ATM.
One stall had a live tortoise and iguana: the stall holder was calling out “Iguana” to me but I know animals like this are used to lure tourists and I just kept walking.
I also don’t like stall holders initiating conversations or calling after me, as I quickly get overstimulated and overwhelmed.
One guy went as far as to ask to touch my hair, reaching for it before I’d had any time to respond, and then trying to sell me argan oil for my hair whilst complimenting both my hair and eyes.
My hair appeared to be pretty popular on this visit, as several random men complimented it as I passed their stalls.
I began to feel anxiety taking hold of my body, so rather than continue in my search for the tailors I decided to get my vaccine now and then re-enter the market through the entrance I’d used originally, as that’s the one that had taken me past the tailors.
Google maps led me out of the souk and straight to the Bureau Communal d’Hygiéne.
This time there was no one on reception downstairs, and I headed directly to the first floor.
A lady was in the rabies office with the doctor, so I took a seat in the waiting area but it wasn’t long until the lady left and the doctor called me in.
She didn’t speak English and took me by surprise by gesturing that she wanted to inject my right arm – not least because she was standing on the left side of me.
This may well not make any sense to you whatsoever, but I can only tolerate the thought of injections in my left arm. I’m right-handed and somehow the thought of it in my right feels far worse.
So when she gestured for me to turn my right side to her I shook my head and pointed to my left arm.
“Pourquoi?” she exclaimed.
I understood her asking why, and in clumsy French tried to explain that it was pretty much all in my head but that because I write with my right hand I prefer to have vaccines in my left arm.
This dialogue should have been my sign not to get to complacent about these injections.
Because this one HURT.
It felt like she rammed it in and the pain was such I audibly gasped. She apologised in French but removed the needle just as clumsily and dismissed me, even though I could see a spot of blood on my upper arm.
I knew I was flushed and I’d started to feel light-headed through shock.
Carefully, I made my way down the concrete stairs and shakily left the building.
Next to the Bureau Communal d’Hygiéne is a petrol station, and next to that is a cafe. I headed there as I knew I couldn’t deal with the extreme sport that is crossing roads here until I was feeling less woozy.
Even crossing the petrol station forecourt felt like a challenge, as a scooter narrowly missed me.
I reached the cafe, where just a few men were sitting, all alone, and ordered a coffee and a water. I took a seat and lamented the lack of air conditioning or fans: mostly I didn’t find the weather particularly hot but, at this moment, I was sweating.
My arm was aching – which hadn’t happened with any of the other vaccines – and I felt so unwell I had to rest my head on my arms for a while. I don’t know quite how long I sat in that cafe, but it was definitely over an hour.
When I went to the counter to pay, I found the lady asleep on a chair.
I hesitated, not wanting to wake her.
After waiting a while, however, I realised I badly needed the toilet and the cafe toilet was locked with a key.
Tentatively, I said, “Excuse me!”
She opened her eyes and apoligised in French as she hurried to the till. She told me she was exhausted and I sympathised. I asked her if I could use the toilet and she unlocked it for me.
As I left, I thanked her again and she told me I’m very kind.
I still didn’t feel okay, so crossing the roads were extra stressful and I flinched as a car beeped me even though I was three quarters of the way across a zebra crossing; I’m so thankful for the rare drivers who stop and wave me across. Here, traffic doesn’t generally stop for pedestrians at a crossing so you have to time it so you can weave around the traffic. Occasionally, a kind driver will stop and wave you across. And some, usually a marked taxi, even wave with their arm to alert traffic in the other lane to slow down. They’re the real MVPs! But they’re incredibly rare.
Eventually, I made it back to the souk and the first ever entrance I’d used.
And there were the tailors.
Several identical stalls stretched out ahead of me, all with singer sewing machines. Just as I was wondering who to approach first to ask about prices, one made eye contact with me and smiled.
I walked up to him and began speaking in my clumsy French, but he actually spoke English also so I soon switched.
Taking my dress out of my bag, I showed him the seams that needed repairing. He held up a corner and then immediately slotted it into his machine.
Panicked, I said, “Wait!” and told him I wanted to ask how much before he started work.
Initially he ignored me and started sewing, but then I think he sensed my rising panic and told me the price was whatever I wanted it to be.
“Pardon?”
“You pay what you want and can afford,” he told me. “I’m Muslim and it’s not about the money.”
With that, he began feeding the seams of my dress through his machine. We chatted a little as he worked and he let me take a photo of the stall – as long as I cut his face out – so that I could promote it.
He was finished within minutes. Moroccan money is in coins up to 20 MAD and then from 20 up it’s in the form of notes. I’d taken out a 20 and was rummaging in my purse for a 10 MAD coin, as I wanted to give him what I’d been told would be the maximum price for his work, but he took the note and gestured for me to leave the coins alone.
I thanked him and we bid each other goodbye.
Heading for my tranquil spot, as per post-vaccine tradition, I got stopped by a particularly persistent stall holder.
I told him I was finding the near constant demands for my attention overwhelming and though he sympathised he was insistent I at least look at his wares, telling me this is all part of their culture.
He had me there.
Patiently, I let him talk me though the items I’d already been shown on my last visit, such as the blocks of perfume and Anise toothpicks.
“Come!” he ushered, and led me into the shop itself.
He began pointing out each of his individual spices for me, as if I’d never seen a spice before: cumin, paprika, coriander, tumeric, ginger and a spice mix for fish.
I nodded politely and smelled the proffered samples of each. He then showed me the items on his shelves, including cannabis tea.
Just as I was planning my escape, he gestured for me to sit on one of the low benches next to the shelves and hurried off with his silver teapot.
I’d been told it’s considered rude to refuse food, drinks or gifts so sat down. Within a few minutes the stall holder returned with two clean glasses and his teapot. He began brewing the tea.
Pouring the Moroccan mint tea from a height he handed me a glass and we clinked them together before drinking.
As we drank, we talked about a wide range of topics. He told me he loves to travel, and showed me pictures of him in Lisbon, Moscow and somewhere in Spain. He particularly loved Russia as he enjoys cold weather. He also showed me photos of his Masters graduation ceremony, which was during Covid, and told me the stall has been in his family for many years.
I did get a lecture on why I should have children, which led to a debate on the pros and cons of having children in the world in which we live.
He then invited me to his home for cous cous the following day. I was SO tempted by this offer, as it’s such a privilege to be invited into the home of a local, but also as he appeared to be a single man, and he knew I was travelling alone, I was wary of potentially getting myself into an uncomfortable or dangerous sitution. But I also didn’t want to be rude.
So I thanked him but told him I don’t go to the homes of men and that also I needed to meet Anna’s sister (which was true as she’d printed my boarding pass for me) and didn’t yet know what time. He told me his sister and daughter would be there (which felt like an odd combination) and that I should arrive for 2pm, as that’s when he would get back from the mosque and cous cous would be served.
As much as I did want to experience this, my gut felt off about it and I’ve learnt to trust my gut.
We were almost finished with the tea and he began handing me gifts: a spice mix and a bar of argan oil soap. I felt bad about accepting gifts but didn’t want to be rude, so thanked him profusely.
I stood to leave and he insisted on putting his number in my phone.
Thanking him again, I scurried away, heading for my tranquil spot.
I took a seat in the shade of a tree and felt the tension melt away. As usual, the square was a bustle of activity and I people-watched for a while.
My arm was still really sore and even though I had just drunk the tea, the glasses are really small and I still felt incredibly thirsty. I therefore returned to the stall from which I’d gotten a sugar cane juice on my previous visit and bought a pomegranate juice. The stall seemed to recognise me, greeted me warmly and charged me 15 MAD – when I knew for a fact that most of the other juice vendors were charging 20.
Resuming my seat to drink my juice, I felt content.
After some time, I decided to head out and made my way out of the souk via the exit I knew best.
It was clearly the day for pushy stallholders, as I passed more of a shop just before the exit and told the man trying to get me inside “La, shukran.” No, thank you.
A man in a baseball cap commented that they just want people to look inside and I replied that I knew this, but I’d just spent over an hour drinking tea in another stall. He laughed and asked where I’m from – his accent was British but with a subtle addition.
We chatted a little: he’s from Agadir originally but has been living in the UK for almost two decades and comes back to visit his family. He showed me the two fridge magnets he’d haggled for and was pleased with his deal.
As he was doing this I noticed little woven bracelets, and whilst I don’t collect anything per se I do have bracelets from quite a few countries that I’ve visited. My Kenyan one is my favourite.
I started looking at the bracelets and asked the man if I should haggle as there was a price displayed and it wasn’t much. I know haggling is the done thing in a souk but it’s not something I’m particularly good at.
His response was to hand a coin to the stallholder, who handed me the bracelet. Another gift.
The stallholder told me I’m trouble (!) and I made a halo gesture above my head along with my best innocent face in response. He cackled with laughter.
The man, Sajid, asked if I’d like to go for a coffee and I accepted as I felt his perspective and story would be interesting.
We walked together out of the souk and over to quite a high end cafe – it looked like it could be part of a hotel.
Choosing a seat by the window, Sajid gestured for us to sit and asked what I wanted to drink. I’m not the best decision maker, and prefer to look at a menu, so I just defaulted for a latte.
By European standards, all the drinks I’ve had in Morocco are super small. My latte was no exception. But I do like how coffee automatically comes with a small bottle of water here.
Sajid and I chatted easily. He told me about his family and also his life in the UK and I told him about my travels. We were briefly distracted by a cat climbing down a palm tree next to us, leading to a conversation about how Moroccan goats climb argan trees. Rummaging in his shopping bags, he produced a jar of Amlou (a kind of almond butter made with honey and argan oil) and told me he wanted me to take it. My default was to say thank you but I can’t – then I remembered being told it can be considered rude to say no, so I accepted and thanked him repeatedly.
Talking about places I’ve seen, Sajid asked if I’d like to visit Taghazout with him the next day, as it’s a place he’s not been in a long time. Quite a few people had told me I should visit Taghazout but I’d been on the fence about it, not least as Anna’s sister had mentioned they’d stopped going there on weekends due to how expensive tourism had made it. But I decided that I had nothing to lose, especially as Sajid would know the local spots.
So I agreed.
The sun had long set and I told Sajid I should be heading back to Anza. He’d discreetly already paid for our drinks and said he’d walk me to the bus stop as he lived nearby.
I was actually glad of his company as Google maps was a little unclear on the stops and he directed us to the right spot – he was able to confirm with two local women sitting at the stop, who also told him this bus would be the last bus of the day.
He waited with me right up until the bus arrived, and then insisted on getting on with me to check with the driver that it was definitely going to Anza. He then bid me goodnight.
The bus driver gave me change back – Google maps had told me the fare would be 5.5 MAD but the driver told me it was actually 4 – and I took my seat.
Most buses I’d seen were full, but thankfully this one had plenty of space. We all sat in darkness though, as there were no interior lights.
The journey passed quickly and I was just debating whether I needed to remind the driver I needed to get off as we reached Anza when the ladies Sajid had spoken to collectively said, “Anza!” to me. Another example of Moroccan kindness: they’d watched over the strange tourist to make sure I didn’t miss my stop.
I alighted right by the steps that led to my temporary home. I love these steps as they’re a clever combination of steps and a ramp (the ramp kind of zig zags through them and is super subtle.
Making my way up them, I felt that the day had – in spite of the awful vaccine – been a really good day.
Hopefully, a mini road trip to Taghazout would be equally as good.