Shokran, Morocco

Once upon a time in Morocco, we found ourselves caught in a whirlwind of emotions and introspection. This land, both demanding and welcoming, tested our perceptions and beliefs.

Morocco’s vibrant contradictions mirrored our journey of self-discovery, igniting the sixth sense within us: the sense of personal evolution.

As we navigated through its diverse landscapes, we realized that just as travelers are challenged and incited, Morocco embodies growth’s push and pull. The magnetic force of its culture and people challenged us to reevaluate our perspectives, prompting us to reflect, reject, and ultimately embrace the transformative power of contradiction. Our experience in Morocco is a testament to the fact that, like the shifting desert sands, we, too, are shaped by the places we explore and the emotions we allow ourselves to feel. 

One More Thing: The articles are interconnected through shared themes and the experiences of Mel and Michy. Each introduction provides a glimpse into a specific aspect of their journey in Morocco, with their perspectives interweaving to create a holistic narrative of exploration, emotion, and transformation.

Escapes (Mel)

Morocco is not for those who like to escape.

I arrived without expectations and even somewhat unaware. And with the expressive beauty of wild places, especially the paved roads in the middle of the desert, where there is only you and the scent of the Argan fields, a slight sense of dissatisfaction has also made its way inside me. Morocco challenges you, and there is no way around it.

The often unbreathable air, the language you don’t know and which makes communication impossible, and the constant attempt to consider yourself nothing more than a tourist even when you try to understand, respect, and even love the traditions of the place. The flurry of horns and skids that get in your way. And again, the too-narrow space of some streets, the sight of absolute poverty, the intestinal problems that you carry around for a week without fully understanding the reason. The fact that you can’t go out after 5 in the afternoon because traveling safely in Morocco isn’t possible, especially if you’re a woman, because they’ve decided that’s how it works even if the country isn’t one of the most insecure that exists…

All these emotions, combined with my body’s slow ability to adapt, caused me to feel trapped in my own decisions. I wanted to go around to see the rest, to get lost in the imperial cities, to enchant myself with the blue city of Chefchaouen in Morocco, to inebriate myself with the scent of hot spices… but I wanted to leave because I didn’t feel free to be myself, to express my freedom, to claim my disagreement. And all for fear of some repercussions, even without being sure that there would be.

This perpetual expectation of the worst, dictated by some prejudice and physical discomfort, was getting the better of my desire for adventure. As Morocco is precisely this: it doesn’t give loopholes to those who need them. It is a country to take or leave, or at most to return equipped differently.

Smoking and Shisha (Michy)

Personally, I really love the Shisha, that I got to know well in Gran Canaria and that I now look for in every new place I go. For those who don’t know what it is, the Shisha (also called hookah) is a very popular water pipe in Arab countries, in which fruit-scented tobacco is burned using charcoal inhaled through a pipe through an ornate water vessel.

The shisha ritual is an ancient ritual that dates back to indigenous populations, who used to smoke during moments of rest. It goes without saying, therefore, that Shisha is the most favored attribute to the pleasant pastime for oriental people.

Since the hookah was a relatively compact and expensive item to trade during the early Middle Ages, local artisans developed this business and manufactured weapons and household items to be found elsewhere. Indeed, with the development of commercial relations, Shisha was brought to further eastern areas and Europe (the Canary Islands and Spain).

Spending a lot of time in Moroccan homes, I couldn’t help but notice the majesty of this moment. From the choice of taste, through the painstaking preparation (by now, I’m a master of Shisha!) up to the moment of the actual smoke… inhaling water mixed with floral and fruity flavors means getting inebriated and getting lost a little. The breathed oxygen is so vital that it reaches the head, immediately giving you a feeling of pleasant relaxation, honoring the ancient inhabitants of Morocco and their desire for momentary peace before fatigue returns. It’s a moment of sharing, which is why it’s reserved for convivial occasions (although it’s lovely to do it alone to release tension).

An important note: IT IS NOT A DRUG, IT IS JUST SCENTED TOBACCO 😀

Finally, through the evolution of this practice, many hi-tech hookah clubs are being born, which can undoubtedly be considered the next generation of relaxation from the East. Interesting idea for those who are looking for a new business to launch, right?

Female Elegance (Mel)

Traveling from Fes to Marrakech, Essaouira, and Casablanca, one perceives that this country is made up of a cultural mosaic that is not at all obvious. Each woman decides, together with the dictates of her family, which headgear to wear, and each city has more or less accessible moral and completion practices.

Walking through the streets of Casablanca, for example, you notice that she is Arab with strength and grandeur. The city is pure white, a ‘white house,’ in fact, which explodes in its peremptoriness in the city symbol – the Hassan II Mosque, moved by sea and the wind at its back.

The whiteness of the houses is, from time to time, embellished with some image or, symbol, or even object that tells a separate story:

• An untied shoe let go by a traveler.
• The remains of a fruit snack were thrown without control into a pile of rubbish in the middle of the air.
• A mural that tells of the political protest against the King (Morocco, I didn’t know it myself, is a monarchy).
• A pastel-colored scarf that flew away, certainly from a tourist, because the local women keep it firmly on their heads.

Even if it is not mandatory to wear it (yes, you read that right), most women choose to keep it on their heads in respect of their religion and family origin. In any case, women always go out covered from wrist to ankle (for men, from elbow to knee) as a sign of decorum.

The situation in Marrakech and Essaouira is very different; the first is now a melting pot of different cultures and geographical origins, and the second seaside resort is cleared by hippies, surfers, and artists looking for a place in which to express their life in an alternative way undisturbed. In these two places, in fact, for a woman

Western or, in any case, non-practicing, it is possible to walk undisturbed without a veil, with the only request for a decent style (I chose long trousers or just above the knee and loose blouses that did not allow a glimpse of the shapes). Despite this, many tourists poured into the street in skimpy dresses, legs, and bare breasts without being verbally harassed (with their eyes, a whole different story, of course).

Pastel colors, silk fabrics, graceful figures full of elegance in their movements and also in their looks: Moroccan women were simply enchanting in my eyes. And wearing the chador but also the burka gave them a royalty that, as a champion of women’s rights, I didn’t expect to notice. They were emancipated women in their way, who moved around in groups having a blast, holding bags of the most famous brands in their hands (remember the scene in Abu Dhabi from Sex & The City – The film in which Arab women unveiled their designer clothes under the dark veil? Well, it doesn’t seem wildly exaggerated to me today) and who embraced their sisterhood completely. And they were women whose beauty, charm, and elegance were so intense that they could not be hidden even by the darkest and heaviest layer of silk or pashmina.

I loved and respected those women, who smiled and let you pass in line even when you didn’t make a claim, who gave you directions if they saw you lost, and who stopped to translate from French to English when you didn’t understand if they were trying to screw you over. (Remember the taxi drivers, yes?). They were women with their own problems, with a spirit of adaptation and more or less evident acceptance of their condition, but with the desire to travel, discover, and emancipate themselves. Dynamic, curious, fragrant.

They were women just like me. Refined in manners, elegant in moving, graceful in behavior. You couldn’t take your eyes off them, and you forgot forever about the headgear they wore, which eliminated the visual barriers.

Moroccan Tinder (Michy)

I am a 21st-century man and recently single. Why not use Tinder?!? After all, this platform is one of the most used by travelers to have local people at hand who can open up worlds to you, give you pleasant moments, or confirm/eliminate some racial and cultural prejudices. As I always tell my students (I’m also a Life Coach, don’t you know?), in fact, in addition to being the most used flash dating app in the world, Tinder is also a cultural cross-section capable of offering surprises and food for thought, on the state of relations in general.

Here’s what I discovered when I opened Tinder in Morocco:

• There are lots of gorgeous women
• Women are so much more open than what they show on the outside.

If I haven’t said anything new on the first point (Arab women, in general, are beautiful, in my opinion), on the second, I want to spend some more reflection.

I happened to chat with different types of women, some shy and others less so, but the thing that struck me most was the number of women who practiced prostitution from an early age. 18 YEARS OLD, maybe even younger, with the exact same ritual (perhaps suggested by an association of Moroccan pimps): they hook you up online, with a couple of messages they already leave you their phone number, and then they start sending you SUPER HOT photos that they leave nothing to the imagination to the extent of 20-30 tape images. So you find yourself inundated with pictures of nudity, some of which are rather unpleasant, and then with a price list based on the area of ​​the body and a night service of €150 and up. ABSURD! And they are the identical girls who walk around the street with their friends, with bags from H&M, Zara but also Gucci or Prada… in short, the most docile and unsuspecting!

I’m not sure how prostitution works in Morocco, but what I saw certainly left me speechless. If only for the organization of the dynamics, I would say almost always the same, woman after woman or girl after girly. Not to mention, moreover, the whole slew of gold diggers, that is, those who would not have gone out with me unless I had provided passages to and from home, paid dinners, after dinner in hidden places, and even days at the pool or 5-star hotel… not a lousy shopping list!

Ultimately, I didn’t go out with anyone… and not because I didn’t find potentially attractive women for me, but because I didn’t want to!

Precious Friends (Michy)

As soon as I set foot in Morocco, I was still in the free zone; since I had not yet passed the final checks, I was approached by a boy with clear foreign origins. Imagine my astonishment when he starts speaking yes in Italian but with some aspirated letters… which are not Arabic but Tuscan! He was born in Morocco but lives in Lucca; therefore, he is 100% Italian. Youness, that’s his name, helps me with some vicissitudes of customs, and we exchange numbers, promising to see you again as soon as possible. We know how these things go: we get to know each other, promise each other, and then don’t keep it. Well, this time, I am soundly proven wrong because Youness not only arranges to meet me in Jemaâ El Fna the next day but also brings his entire Moroccan family: the bomber uncle (firefighter), his lovely wife, the nanny, and even two smiling little brats.

I discovered that Youness is a footballer from Lucchese (just bankrupt) now looking for an agent (football agents listening… come forward!) and also a charming person to talk to… and he is about to turn 19 that same evening! The evening with the Moroccan family goes excellent: it’s great to move and travel with the locals. You feel at home, protected, and part of a community. Even the family gives me handmade sandals, a gift as tradition wants for a person who has just arrived in Morocco. I’m a little embarrassed, but then to refuse such treatment would be an affront to their culture of hospitality, and so I thank them 10 thousand times. At the end of the evening, we made an appointment for the following morning when my uncle offered to take me to the doctor to have my shoulder checked. In fact, in an episode of Super Michydev Motorbiker the week before, I fell off my motorbike, causing a nice lump on my shoulder. At 11.30 pm, Youness greets me, “I’m going to have dinner.” What??? What? In Morocco, to my surprise, life starts very late!

The following day, I got ready to go to the private clinic for the shoulder issue, making the sign of the cross. A private clinic in Morocco run by a leading orthopedist in the country. I was ready to faint and pay out an excessive amount and even a kidney when the guy the visit patted me on the shoulder, the healthy one, leaving me with a super expensive recovery treatment of the exorbitant sum of €4!

A New Beginning (Mel)

Personally, I’m not the type to be intimidated. And I promised myself, by choosing to leave a month earlier than expected, to return with greater awareness. Looking for better Wi-Fi connections (one of the sad conditions of those who work online is having to give up places to live when the situation doesn’t allow it) and more profound spiritual connections.

Welcoming Morocco gave me so much; hostile Morocco took something away from me in the moments I breathed it.

But it also gave me another chance to take home as baggage: that of facing my internal ghosts. The ghosts of habit, of the sense of adaptation, of the challenge, of my own condition as a woman. Physical but also, above all, mental. You don’t return home the way you left, but you can go back with an extra souvenir: that of the search for your own spiritual light.

Shokran, Morocco. Not all destinations end up with a promise of a new beginning.