The Magic of Morocco

2024 will be a pivotal year of my life when I close one chapter and start a new one.

I am taking a few months off to recharge, reflect, and look for new challenges worth working on.

Naturally, there will be some vagabonding.

The essay below was written in October 2019 on buses, trains, planes and airports as I was travelling across Morocco. To this day, this is one of the most meaningful trips in my life, and the essay was the first proper long-form reflection on my life, which became an invaluable ritual thereafter.

I like re-reading it once a year to remind myself what I’ve been through and to get inspired for new adventures.

For context, 2019 was a tough year on many fronts - from getting promoted to a huge role (that I was not ready for) and moving to New York, to flying 150,000 km and having to finally accept a breakup that had been lingering for the last three years.

The imposter syndrome was intense, and at times, I felt like I was drowning. 

So, in search of new adventures, it is once again time to revisit my journey across Morocco.

I have purposefully kept the original text as is (aside from minor edits). This is authentically me (vintage 2019), and I like to keep it that way. Plus, we don’t get to change the past; we can only learn from it and make adjustments in the present.

Onwards to whatever is out there.

G

I am leaving the port city of Essaouira at 6 am under the subtle morning prayers from the mosque and the sounds of steps and motorcycles. Merchants are starting to open the souks - another day in the gladiator ring for the oldest profession.

So, as the bus climbs that mountain hill into the darkness, I am writing those words and thinking about the magical three weeks I had here...

Oh wait, I was here only for three days. And yet, three days was enough time to ground me, focus my thoughts, and show me the way. Life is not one epic desert wedding, and it is essential to mix the highs of social and alcoholic intoxication with the cleansing nature of a similar (if not longer) detoxication. It has officially become clear to me now that most of my travel requires a careful balance of community and solitude.

Like a drug addict experiencing painful withdrawals and cravings for more, my first 24 hours in Essaouira were rather grey - more decadence, more dancing, more champagne…the lust for life and depravity was endless…more, more, more! The fear, ego, resentment, defensiveness, and desire had swept my mind.

Alone again, nowhere to hide from my desires, coming down from the greatest of highs…The cure was in front of me. I only had to give in.

So, what makes the coastal town of Essaouira the perfect location for this scene? Let’s look at the facts before I start spinning stories.

Choosing Essaouira was simple - from the hustle and bustle of prominent tourist destinations like Marrakech (including a 3-day wedding), I wanted to disappear completely before heading to Casablanca. Hiking did not sound like a great idea after a 5-day bender in the desert, so I looked west to the coast, and there it was. I booked a dirt-cheap room the last day I was in Marrakech and bought my bus ticket an hour prior. Simple. No grand plan.

The anticipation started building as the three-hour ride through the mostly empty desert came close to an end.

“We must be close!” I thought. Yet there was no sign of a town close by…

The terrain suddenly changed and became greener, and as we were going round and round one of those mountain roads, the view was suddenly unobstructed, and there it was - down at the bottom of the mountain, a modest white city showered by the rays of the sun. Someone gasped in the back of the bus…intoxicating start to this journey.

Essaouira is tiny. You won’t have a problem covering it in a day. It’s basically one small medina, a few neighbourhoods connected by one boulevard, and a beach with cafes and surf spots.

The neighbourhoods are interesting to go through to see how locals live. The end of the weekday is incredibly fascinating - kids coming back from school and playing on the streets (not filmed on Snap), women sitting outside on benches (reminds me of my grandmas), men finishing up work before going for the obligatory end-of-day tea. Fresh pita bread is delivered to all stores (it seems like they make it in one place?!), and nobody goes home without getting some.

The medina is where one will spend most of their time. It is absolutely enchanting! Situated at the very tip of the coast, surrounded by medieval walls, it is filled with white buildings with blue doors and window frames and tiny alleys that only locals know how to navigate (me, on the other hand…).

Unlike parts of the medina in Marrakech, this one has no roof, so the sun shines from above all day as ritual drumbeats sound around you, and trade is happening everywhere. The walls facing the ocean are a movie set, figuratively and literally. A 50m stretch covers the length of the medina directly facing the ocean, large guns situated on every other opening, ready to fire at anything that comes out of the blue depths. Angry waves hit the rocks underneath.

This slight mist is always on the horizon as if purposefully adding more mystique to this battleground. You are pacing like a general, ensuring all soldiers are at their stations. The heat makes you sweat, and the constant wind keeps you on high alert.

Then I found out this was the actual set for the city of Astapor in Game of Thrones Season 3. You cannot write this script. The adrenaline is real now.

Hours later, as the sun sets, I buy bread from the market and sit peacefully on one of the guns, enjoying the view. There won’t be a battle today, but I feel like I’ve won one. Not sure what exactly…

Life is simple.

At night, every alley is well-lit with yellow light, almost resembling the effect of torches; hooded shadows move from alley to alley, the last of the fresh fish is sold on the pavement, and magic is happening.

The only thing your imagination needs to trip over and lose sight of reality is a drop of any mind-altering substance or even a few hits of Morocco’s finest…then the real movie begins…

Musicians are playing in random alleys. Most of them seem my age, backpacking their way through life, having (it seems) left France, Spain, or northern (capitalist) Morocco.

For a second there, as I am listening to them play, my brain starts flirting with the idea of this wandering lifestyle, a travelling circus act, hitchhiking from city to city, performing to get by….but then I am reminded of the copious amounts of champagne I had a few days ago and my love for the good life, parts of which is supported by continuous growth and certain level of wealth (used as a tool and not the end goal).

The temptation of throwing in the towel and “leaving the system” is real, but what the Manson family marketing campaign is not telling us is how the party ends (for most people). Your job sucks, and you don’t like your city?! Well, find a better and more fulfilling one. Or maybe you want to bust your ass in a medina, opening a souk every morning at 6 am, haggling for 12-16 hours with ignorant tourists, only to do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and so on…

My point is - you want to travel for a few years in your 20s, fantastic! The stories you create will be priceless, and you will be a much more exciting person to talk to. But disappearing from the face of the earth because “the system sucks” is simply not the answer. Life is a struggle and a game, and one must find a way to deal with all of it, enjoy the adventure, and win instead of aimlessly hiding and wandering.

I digress…god, I want more champagne!

9 am…

I’ve spent the last 2 hours writing almost non-stop on the way back to Marrakech as the sun rose over the Atlas Mountains and the desert, and I got enchanted again, reliving my last three days. How is it that even a fucking bus ride could be exciting and dreamy?! This country is madness…

My stomach is starting to make funny noises. The idea of a late breakfast in Marrakech to kill time before my flight to Casablanca is beginning to creep in.

I am reminded of the absolute feast I had the last three days. Not a single bad dish, not a single bad bite. Fresh local sardines the size of my palm (oh yes!), octopus, John Dory, lamb, chicken Mediterranean/Moroccan/French style, all the good stuff, please, and thank you.

And then there was dessert…all the dessert, all homemade, ready for you to notice. Tiny restaurants hidden in dodgy alleys, where you wouldn’t look unless the map told you good stuff was hidden there. Go to Havana and try finding fresh homemade desserts outside of La Guarida and the upscale hotels. Meanwhile, I am eating a croque banane, made to order, with homemade creme fraiche ice cream in a 20-seat eatery in a fishing town in Morocco with a population of less than 80k.

This was the rule and not the exception…WTF?!

And how is the service so impeccable (outside of the surf spots, of course)?! Meanwhile, I can’t get a coffee in most places in NYC without a certain look (especially if you don’t tip 20% on your $4 espresso). This is the first time in my life I’ve ever hugged the waiter and maître d’!

Is it simply the French influence? God damn, the French again…

I hear it’s very similar in Spanish/French villages, too. I’m baffled…

So, I did mention a wedding…

I started the Morocco adventure in Marrakech, where I came for the wedding of my friend (and boss). More than 100 people came from around the world - from small villages and tiny islands to the largest metropolitan centres.

All had planned their year around this one event. Outside of immediate family and a few school friends, the majority of attendees had met the groom and the bride somewhere around the world on one of their million adventures - a dive boat somewhere in the Pacific, a backpacking trip to Asia, a few-year stint living in a small village in Spain, a tiny island in the Caribbean with a population of 150 people….the stories and destinations were endless.

Yet, here we were, all together in the middle of the desert, to celebrate the life and bond of these two. Emotions are heavy; the spectacle is intense!

At the start of this decade, I left my home and country searching for something without a clear notion of what that was. Ten years later, as we conclude the decade, it’s all staring me in the eyes. There is too much to say and not enough words to express it…

Oh, and the 3-day wedding…if you know, you know. ;)

Midday…

Last day in Morocco, a few hours left before my flight.

I’m having a final beer to make the end official. Maybe a second to last one...I do have a lot of dirhams left, after all (and the thirst of a camel).

The last two days with my friend were a journey on their own. It almost was the perfect ending to put everything in perspective and crystallise my thoughts.

He came to Casablanca to meet me on the final stretch of my journey across parts of Morocco. Casablanca sounded like the perfect venue - a modern metropolis on the ocean, with heavy French influence, yet anchored in Moroccan tradition. I could see the long days and nights strolling through the promenades, losing track of time in the beach cafes, reflecting on life, and watching the epic sunset giving a golden glow on the infamous white city. Where else can you live that bohemian dream?

As it turns out, not in Casablanca. It’s hard to stress how underwhelming that place is (for the product they seem to be selling). Ex post facto, my boss described it as “an industrial nothing city”. It looks like 50 years ago the country wanted to develop a large modern city as its crown jewel, where you could come as a foreigner and feel partly at home. But in the process, it sold its soul and traditions, executed the whole plan exceptionally poorly, and it all went to shit.

The French were definitely not in charge of this!

Extremely polluted; poor infrastructure; hardly walkable and without great transportation system. I can look past all that, but the city simply doesn’t provide many exciting things to see or do. The medina is completely irrelevant, parks are hard to find, and while the mosque is impressive, it does feel a bit over the top.

Forget about bohemian - it hardly passes the minimum standards of liveability. I will go as far as saying I’d happily go back to Havana than return to Casablanca.

One great thing about Casablanca, though, is the direct train to Marrakech (and plenty of other destinations). Determined not to spend an hour more here, we booked our tickets and boarded an early morning train to relive the drama and spectacle (the first time for my friend).

Marrakech is called the Red City for a reason. The entire place is like one giant clay tennis court, surrounded by miles and miles of slightly lighter-coloured desert and the Atlas Mountains in the east and south.

The city is clean, spacious, very walkable (maybe not in the midday heat), and completely flat. There is a cap on how high buildings can be, which results in a city spread out miles in every direction that still feels like a desert camp, albeit slightly larger and more modern. Sunsets and sunrises are not a luxury but an everyday ritual observable from every roof. The pink/purple sky is infectious.

As with every desert camp (small or large), at the centre of Marrakech is the medina – packed with souks, cafes and riads, it is a city in itself. This is where the magic happens. A centre stage for traders, wandering travellers looking to taste it all, housewives with colonialist accents on the hunt for a rug matching their new fireplace, kids running around looking for trouble, scheming teenagers, and hungover travellers (me).

In that regard, little has probably changed from centuries ago. The fresh smell of spices, fruits, olives, leather, and meat is guiding you. The main square is the stage for misfits, snake charmers, storytellers, acrobats, dancers, and musicians, and at night, it really comes to life with the help of fire and moonlight.

From the start until the end, the energy of this place is deafening. Go there hungover at your peril…

The whole thing is an ecstasy for the senses, and you should give in! To say it is picturesque is an understatement. Not too many miles outside of Marrakech, you can relax in the green Atlas Mountains, live for a few days in a desert oasis, or just build your own extravaganza in the middle of the desert, where you get married and throw a massive, over-the-top decadent party under the stars…not that I know anything about that.

Marrakech is where the story began and where it ultimately ended 11 days later, and in all of that, it became quite clear to me that travel is relative, and to appreciate a place, you need to have context and perspective.

The first time we travel we compare everything to our hometown, as we don’t know anything else. Everything is new and exciting, or we have a terrible experience and are put off by leaving the safe space of our home.

In both cases, the fear of a bad experience leads to the tendency to over-plan every trip into the unknown with lengthy research, detailed itineraries, bookings, things to see, things to do, and angles to take photos from…there is one sure way to suffocate travel (and life), and that is to over-plan it. The mystery is gone, and you miss out on an experience of endless possibilities (positive and negative). Also, very often, we fail at planning!

I guess I like travelling light (literally and figuratively) and letting serendipity lead the way while doing a general level of due diligence. ‘Bad’ experiences are only another reason to understand and appreciate who you really are and what you really enjoy, which usually leads to more positive adventures in the future.

Just try not to end up in a Mexican prison by following serendipity…

It’s been a long fucking grind of a year, filled with a lot more struggle than usual, but I return back to NYC a refreshed man, excited about the opportunities the future holds and itching to finish the year strong! It might just be that the Moroccan escape turned the switch in my mind, and I can now say, “I am going back home to NYC”.

I am also looking forward to the Christmas break, which is now approaching. I’ve not been back to the motherland since last Christmas (a 5-day binge earlier this year doesn’t count).

It seems many of my friends are going through their version of the “end-of-20s identity crisis” and are acting out. The journey to find yourself is long, but it could be postponed indefinitely until something in the system breaks – breakups, zero professional actualisation, or another lonely move to another part of the world.

One day, you end up alone without any distractions, and the questions are too many, and the answers are simply not there. It’s only through pain and struggle that you find your way out, but it’s not easy. Those lonely nights, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, desperately trying to go to sleep so it can all go away, but the struggle is powerful, and it’s not letting go.

This is when it’s darkest…

I am reminded of the quote:

It seems that many people my age (and older) are at the start of this maze. I feel fortunate that I consciously entered it a few years ago – putting in the work to build self-awareness, master my emotions, and consistently meditate and reflect on my life. The work you do when you are alone feeds into your personality and, ultimately, into your relationships. Still, people fear being alone because all the buried questions and emotions start to surface, and there is nowhere to hide.

Also, ‘alone’ is always misconstrued as ‘lonely’, and those are two very different feelings. You can be very lonely while surrounded by many “friends”. ‘Alone’ is simply the time when you recharge and reflect on your experiences and channel them into some learning, which feeds into the rest of your life.

But before I go to bed thinking I’ve found nirvana and all the answers from one trip to the desert (without a shaman or help from the good stuff), let me remind myself and my monkey mind that I have none of the answers. And sure, I’m rested and am excited to be back, thinking I’m invincible, but the next dark night is just around the corner, and the only solace I can find is that, at least nowadays, I am a bit more fearless, staring at the ceiling.

Morocco is a decadent spectacle, a dramatic story, a magic show. Every city has its colour, every medina has its character. There is so much more to see, more to eat, and more to do. This might be the conclusion of my first attempt to capture parts of the carnival, but I will certainly be back many more times. Desert, Dakhla, Chefchaouen, Fes, Tangier, Marrakech…I will be back!

P.S.

Can we please make it obligatory for every meal to start with a small plate of olives? Breakfast, lunch, dinner, any day, every day! Let’s put it in the constitution if we have to.