Morocco After Europe

It’s absolutely astonishing how much a simple 90-minute boat trip can transform one’s surroundings.  The ferry ride from Spain to Morocco pulls me from the ordered world I’ve known for the past six months into a bustling, chaotic onslaught of sensory experience.  I think there is no other ferry ride in the world that can unite two such vastly different realities.

Even though it’s my first time in Morocco, the country feels somehow familiar and I’m quickly set at ease.  The run-down campsites feel much homier than the impersonal mega-campsites of Europe.  The makeshift stalls set up on roadsides make me sigh with happy homecoming.  The muezzins calling the faithful to prayer tug at my heart strings.  And the markets full of fresh – and cheap! – produce make me salivate (and over-buy).

Admittedly, I’m initially shocked by the absolutely nut-case drivers and the amount of garbage everywhere.  But each bump or jolt as we drive down roads in various stages of disintegration jogs my memory.  We’re back in a region of the world that we know well, and it feels good.

Morocco may be on the African continent, but it is anything but typically African.  Morocco is a Muslim country, and it has just as many Middle-Eastern influences as African ones.  Arabic script dominates street signs and shop entrances, and the spoken language (a dialect of Arabic called Darija) is shouted in markets and whispered in alleys.  Men dress in the loose-fitting robes worn in all Muslim countries, though their djellabas sport pointy-tipped hoods that look bizarrely like KKK hats.  Women cover their heads and bodies, but instead of dark, dull colors, they don bright, decorated fabrics, and sometimes cool cowboy hats with tassels.

Morocco also displays European influences.  The flat, brown-tilled landscape of the north looks more like Spain that Africa.  You can get seafood tapas in many mid- and upscale restaurants.  And some of its medinas, or old walled cities, were built by Europeans – one, El Jadida, still displays its old Portuguese tiles, and another, Essaouira, bears strange similarities to Bretagne, France.

Of course, once you look a bit more closely at the disintegrating façades and chaotic markets, you know you’re no longer in Europe.  And once you see past the typically-Muslim male-dominated society, you spot female police officers, read about women politicians, and see more long-flowing hair than on the entire Arabian Peninsula.

What I’m quickly learning is that Morocco is much more complex than its initial familiarity makes it seem. I’m pretty excited to get to know it over the coming months – and to share my experiences with my wonderful readers!

Our first afternoon in Morocco, we drove 80km to our first campsite in Assilah.  My navigating brain must still have been in Europe-mode, because I had Bruno avoid the toll-way in favor of a more scenic route.  Big mistake – those 80km took us almost 4 hours, and we arrived in Assilah at dusk.

The following morning, we continued our transit south, stopping briefly at Lixus, a hilltop of 4,000 year-old ruins right on the side of the route nationale.  We stretched our legs as we climbed up the hill, past badly-ruined, mostly unexcavated remnants of Carthaginian and Roman public baths, an amphitheatre, and salted-fish factories.  The mosquitoes from the nearby marshlands were out in full force, but at least we got to see some workers excavating the ruins and the skyline of the nearby modern town.

Our first true stop, later that day, was in Moulay Besselham, my only must-see town between Tangier and Taroundant (where our impending family reunion would take place).  This fishing village is right on the edge of the Merja Zerga National Park, a lagoon of international importance because it’s a key stopover point for migrating birds.  I wanted to visit because winter brings the largest flocks – herons, ibises, spoonbills, plovers, egrets, and of course, flamingos.

As we approached the town’s two campsites, at the edge of the lagoon, we were hounded with touts.  Boat tour!  Sunset boat cruise!  Bird watch on my boat!  We were approached so quickly and by so many guides that I felt like a fish being fought over by a flock of seagulls.

I hadn’t been touted in several months, so it was a bit overwhelming.  It was also disappointing and frustrating since this was my biggest concern about traveling in Africa again – the inability to blend in and the undesirable interactions that that can create.

Once we were safely in the campsite, we looked at the map and tried to determine another way of entering the lagoon.  There wasn’t, however, a road that would bring us anywhere closer to it than we already were.  The next morning, we tried walking as far out along the edge of the lagoon as possible, but it was muddy and we didn’t get very far.  We spotted a few herons and ibises, but nothing we hadn’t seen in the previous weeks driving through southern Europe.

Initially, I felt irritated that the locals couldn’t organize themselves in a “European way” that was more according to my sensibilities – like opening a stall or shop, advertising, and waiting for people to come to them.  Then, I forced myself to understand things more empathetically.  Morocco is a huge tourist destination, especially for retired Europeans in camping cars.  The last time Bruno was in Morocco – in 2004 – he remembers little but row-upon-row of camping cars in campsites all along the coast.  Since last year, however, the campsites are practically empty.  People appear to be scared to visit Morocco, perhaps because of instability in North Africa or the recent terrorist attacks in Paris.  I’m guessing the locals of Moulay Besselham had become used to supplementing their meagre fishing income with boat tours for retirees and that now they must feel like their very livelihood is at risk – hence the aggressive touting.

Still, we opted not to take a boat tour into Merja Zerga National Park, but the insight made me just a bit more zen each time we left our campsite to walk into town.

I’m guessing it’s a zen I’m going to have to call upon often as we drive through Moroccan traffic jams, negotiate fair prices in local markets, catch whiffs of foul-smelling odors in towns, squat in dirty Turkish toilets, and of course, get touted at least a few more times.  It’s a zen I haven’t had to call upon much during these past six months of easy-travel in Europe.

But it’s a zen I’m more than happy to bring with me on our bumpy ride through Morocco.