Salam Morocco!

Morocco has changed a lot since my last visit 15 years ago. It’s even younger now. In some places and at certain times, you can hear Bollywood techno just as loud as the “Allah u akbar” from the tops of the minarets. Worlds are merging. Last time, all the women were veiled. Not any more, especially the young ones, some of whom are almost dressed up like Turkish women in Cologne on a Saturday night.

Legs of mutton hang in the sun. A thousand sacks of spices shine on the roadside. Housewives bargain for the best price for Nana mint. Beggars sit outside the entrance to the mosque. Essaouira is like a time machine. Incredibly old, new, smelly and fragrant, narrow and spacious. Medieval marketplace in the here and now.

I sit in a street café for a last litre of freshly squeezed orange juice. Young couples pass by, holding hands and making out. Old bearded men look grimly after them. The young Moroccans are fighting for a better future. Some are wrong. You can tell that some of them only want your money before they even say a word. With others, you can smell the hashish before you see them. Many are very aggressive. A few are simply excellent hosts. They stay in your memory.

Two weeks of travelling in Morocco have made me calm. The travellers are just as colourful as Essaouira. There are those who always run anxiously after a guide, from one tourist trap to the next. Some take a quick look down a side street, but then make a hellish effort to find their way back to safety. Then there are those who are travelling alone but are still too afraid of anything new. These are the favourite victims of traders and misfortune. Finally, there are the few who – apart from the colour of their skin – could almost be mistaken for Moroccans. They move in the crowd like a drop in the sea. They merge quietly with new countries. That’s how I want to travel.

People in hostels are the better travellers. I don’t know why. Certainly not because they are younger. Maybe because they have less money and are therefore travelling with more open eyes? It can’t be that either. Two weeks in a hostel in Essaouira easily cost me 50% more than two weeks in a 4-star cemetery in Agadir. But it’s worth it. The words were better, the stories deeper, the celebrations more intense. The only thing I can complain about (or not): I don’t want to listen to any more Bob Marley for the rest of my life. Never again.