Month in Morocco

A New Chapter

Saying goodbye to the UK was bittersweet. I was leaving behind a girl that I was falling for, a friend who was letting me crash at his place for free, a drone that I was allowed to fly (fuck you and your permit policies, Morocco), and a country where I could order food without using google translate. But I was ready for the next step. Ready for a new continent. Ready for a new adventure. Plus, I believed my “business plans” would start in Morocco. Between my adventures, I could carve out time every day to develop my ideas, which upon looking back, was harder than if I had stayed put…but I digress. Well, one thing I was for sure not going to miss: UK prices.

Marrakech

I flew into the Marrakech, Morocco airport, about an hour’s walk from downtown…so naturally I walked the whole thing rather than pay for a taxi.

En route to my hostel, I found out that this city was one of the places where Google Maps would not be that helpful. Sometimes Maps thinks you can pass through brick walls, swim across rivers, and teleport into homes. Significantly worse than a usual street in NYC, but still not as bad as Venice with Maps, I eventually found the hostel, checked in, grabbed some dinner, and went to bed. Next day at breakfast, I sat down next to 2 Americans and a Swede, with one objective in mind: had any of them been to the coast? How was the surf?

I knew that the best season was September to March, but as it was mid-April already, I wanted to get a dirt/in-the-weeds view of the situation. Not the bird’s eye/sometimes inaccurate view that Magic Seaweed (MSW) provides. Lucky for me, the Swede just came from the coast and was a surfer. He fit the stereotype: lanky build, tan, bleach blonde, wavy-haired, free spirit, who may possibly have a minor weed addiction. Although it seems all the best surfers I know are shorthaired (Kelly Slater is bald for Christ’s sake), I still have a cognitive bias when it comes to what I view as the “surfer look.”

The Swede was a chill dude and filled me in on all the appropriate information: Yes, the surf is still manageable, but fading quickly. A lot of the traditional surf breaks are getting wind blown, the water slightly choppy, and there were still hoards of people fighting over the waves like the American masses on a Black Friday. One break in particular stuck out to me. In a town called Imsuoane, there was a right-hander that claims (or makes the case for) the longest break in Africa. If you catch it early, you could ride the wave for like 2 minutes. Say less. That morning, I formulated my plan: stay in Marrakech for a couple days, go to Essaouira (also a surf town) for 2 days, and then take another bus to Imsuoane.

With my “life admin” out of the way, I began to look around for any other miscreants who may want to hoon around Marrakech. Right at that moment, I saw 2 curly-haired, rugged, simple, yet well-dressed guys walk down for breakfast. Colored shirts slightly wrinkled as if they had slept in them from the night before (classic backpacker look), I overheard their conversation and immediately labeled them Brits, probably brothers. Turns out they were cousins, and more than happy to join the Swede/I for a little walkabout the city. The Cousins had been in Morocco for a couple days (coming from Tangier the night before) and had somehow already effortlessly assimilated into the culture. It definitely helped that one of them spoke French. For the next couple of days, we got lost in the streets of the Medina and ate our way through Marrakech – drinking heaps of mint tea, Tagine, and Couscous. I couldn’t help but notice a lot of similarities between Morocco and Turkey – the religion, the food dishes (Tagine is basically the clay pots that they love in Cappadocia), the architecture/mosques, the hustle of the people in the streets, the overall culture/way of life.

The timing was particularly special, as it was during the last few days of Ramadan. Because of this, the streets were quite empty during the day, but electric after sundown. A tradition I started was to find a cafe and order tea right around sunset – the changing from day to night with the Moroccans during Ramadan felt like I was in a live timelapse of calm to chaos. The gardens (Jardines) were also quite stunning, with my favorite being Jardin Majorelle. If colors had a smell, it would be the flowers that overflowed in a natural yet symmetrical style throughout the guided walkways and copious archways that drifted through the Jardin walls. After collecting my footage and promising to make the Reel/TikTok trend of “pretending to be in a Wes Anderson film,” I jumped on a SupraTour bus headed to Essaouira. I didn’t realize then how good I had it. Unlike the main bus company in Morocco (CTM), Supratours have strong AC in their vehicles.

Essaouira

My days in Essaouira were a time of impatient waiting before the storm. Upon arriving, I immediately realized that this Greek-like, blue-and-white town was a kite surfing spot, and the waves were too small to do any traditional surfing at this time of year. Cursing the mudbloods that are kitesurfers, but at the same time secretly wishing I could override my cheapskate nature and pay for lessons, I ended up enviously watching these “wannabe” surfers on their devices. It was nice to feel the sand under my feet, the salt water smell, and the coastal wind that makes you want a hoodie on a +30 C day.

Reflecting on my goals, I realized this was a perfect time to make some headway on my ideas. So where am I at? I’m a little under 3 years of being a nomad, +1 year of quitting the job and not working, and coming to the realization that the longer I stay abroad, the more I don’t ever want to work again. Yes, I miss my friends and family, but I owe it to them to “live my best possible life.” To figure out how to live a bold life and do “epic shit.” At this point, I still don’t know what that fully means. Should I go back to my friends in the States and live out that “Friends” “How I Met Your Mother” time of my life? Or continuing burning cash in the outwardly flashy, but often lonely road of solo travel? And what should I do with the “burning cash” situation?” I have some offers to work remotely for “the man” aka companies, but is that me “selling out?” Will I never be able to indefinitely break free from the 9-5 life? With all these questions, it seems a project for me could be to build something of my own, around a topic that I genuinely love. I know I like to travel, so I decided to build out a customer journey of the typical traveler, to see if there were any gaps in the current market solutions. This resulted in building a PowerPoint deck on the current landscape of the travel market, what I viewed as current gaps, opportunities within the gaps, and constraints within the opportunities. Can take the boy out of consulting, but not the consulting out of the boy. But the keyword in all of this is boy. I still feel like one, and as such, could only think about getting to Imsuoane as quickly as possible to catch some of the last good waves of the season.

Imsuoane

I needed some preparation though. Turns out, in a lot of Morocco surf towns, there are no ATMs. And there were no traditional busses going from Essaouira to Imsuoane. After asking around, I learned of a “Soup to Souk” shuttle that takes the route and booked it for the next day. Getting into Imsuoane before sunset, I immediately dropped off my shit in the hostel and headed to the nearest surf shop. Within the hour, I was out on one of Imsuoane’s 2 breaks, this one called “The Cathedral.” And boy did it feel like one. The erosion of the beach over time had created a cliff. Restaurants and surf shops overlooking the ocean, and rocky steps down the cliff led to the paddle-out spots. As it was high tide, the “beach” was basically nonexistent and I entered the water directly from the rocks. Finding the channels to paddle out was quite seamless and, once beyond the break, I took a moment to soak in my surroundings. Wow, I’m in another country, another continent, surfing again.

Now, something to clarify: I have not and I do not call myself a surfer, but a surf advocate. A passionate seeker and willful student I am, but I have lacked the consistency, drive, and skill of what I deem to be classified as a “surfer.” I one day would love to call myself a surfer, but want to know that I have earned that title before I’ve bestowed myself it. In my journey, however, I have been very privileged to be out in the water of some top-tier spots (California, Hawaii, Portugal, Indonesia) and as always, love to analyze the particular breaks and unique nuances within my surroundings.

Cathedral was no different. With the aforementioned cliff and restaurant perched on top of it, I felt as if I was a modern-day gladiator in an arena, with people viewing/cheering from the nosebleeds. And yet the waves in front of me and the need to paddle kept me fully occupied at times. It’s this juxtaposition that I think is special with surfing: the desire to be alone and one with nature, yet still at the same time to perform and show off to one’s friends. I also love the hunt. The hunt for the proper wave, the correct takeoff timing, the thrill of my (incredibly small, but riveting) drop-in, where you feel light as a feather. And then the knowledge that even if/when you catch the wave, you know the feeling is temporary. No matter, there will always be another wave.

Salt-watered hair still dripping over my tangerine-colored trunks, sunburnt, eyes red, smiling from ear to ear, I made my way back to the hostel. Here I met some future friends – a German, a Swiss, and a Pole. These guys had been in Imsuoane for the past 6 weeks, living and breathing the surf life. Talking with them and the Moroccans running the hostel, I learned a lot about the 2 breaks (Cathedral and the Bay) and how much I had missed out on over the past month. The break I had surfed that day could become more than 4X the current size. The other break (the Bay) was the long right-hander, reef break that was currently pretty mellow in size, but could have some final good days before the season was officially a wash. I was obsessed with how they talked about everything surf. It seemed every conversation went back to a previous or current day out on the water. Here was a paradise, a bubble, in a little shitty town that really doesn’t have anything going for it, except the waves. But that was all that mattered. It protected us from the world news, from previous relationships, from our quarter-life crises. Like an alcoholic looking for his next drink, like a serial killer looking for his next victim, like a mother looking for her child, all that mattered was catching that next wave.

I awoke the next day to find the surf flat (as predicted by MSW). Devastated, I still decided to walk around the town and beach to get familiar with my new surroundings. I learned 2 key things:

1. There are a lot of stray dogs here, and they literally have their own “gang” with regions. If another dog from outside the pack was to cross the imaginary border, (usually in pursuit of a trash can) the gang dogs would attack it and eventually scare it off its course. That same attacked dog would patrol its borders elsewhere, as if a scout searching for any trespassers. Once, I saw a black lab cross its path for some peanuts on the street, and the patrol dog howled to alert its crew. When the crew showed up a second later, they went after the black lab, who was prepared, and quickly bolted back from whence it came. The patrol crew did not even eat the leftover peanuts, but were satisfied that the black lab didn’t get to them. We humans really are animals and no better than dogs.
2. Even during the offseason, the beach in this little town can get busy. Swarms of tourists will bring out the foamies to surf the 1-2 feet whitewater, the local Moroccans will draw lines in the sand and set up football (soccer) games, and the other bystanders will hang out by a cafe to read / people watch. While I was walking the oceanfront, a ball drifted towards me. I wasn’t going to miss this chance. I did a quick kick-up, juggled a few times, and sent it back over to a Moroccan. My little display of showmanship worked, and luckily, as they were odd-numbered, I was motioned over to play. Communicating as if we were playing a game of charades, (none of them spoke English) I was assigned a team and played football with them for the rest of the afternoon. Ah, this is why I love sports. It’s a universal language.

Although I had a great time that afternoon and it was a highlight of my time in Imsuoane, I wish that ball never rolled over to me. As a result of playing barefoot, I ended up having 2 massive blood blisters on both feet, which made surfing quite difficult for the rest of the week. Every time I did catch a wave (a rarity), I felt as if I was standing on spikes. The walk to the beach made me feel like a cripple with my haphazard hobbling, and the salt water (while relieving at times) did not help the feet heal whatsoever.

With the season waning, the last few good surf days over, and my blistered feet, I decided it was time to bid goodbye to Imsuoane and make my way up to the North of Morocco. I stopped by Essaouira for one more day to do the tourist stuff, and then I was back on the road to Casablanca. En route, I gained a fascinating appreciation for my goateed, suited-up, tie straight, Moroccan driver. I have never seen a more horn-happy, hairy armed (when he took the suit off), man. He only spoke Arabic, which made it tough to learn how long our snack/toilet breaks were, as well as if he could turn on the AC. But his ability to deal with the ever-winding roads while changing the music on his playlist was enchanting. He conducted business transactions at stoplights and once made a transaction for some mint leaves within 10 seconds, before throwing the change at the merchant and tossing the leaves on his dashboard.

Casablanca

Oh and now we come to Casablanca, the soulless city, as I like to call it. Even before visiting, all locals I met from there only asked me one question: “Why?” I wasn’t so sure why I visited myself. It could be because I heard of a famous old movie with its title. Or I mistakenly thought that it was the “White City” due to its name. Or maybe because there was an easy bus route there from Essaouira. Most likely a combination of all three, I found Casablanca to be a city that would be ok to work in (seemed like there were a lot of business opportunities as the economic capital of Morocco), but probably bad for my mental state. The typical waiter, city walker, businessman, father, mother, and child all seemed to have the same expression on their face: Dead behind the eyes. Whenever I struck up a conversation, they seemed to sway all their positive stories towards times outside of the city, and viewed their life in the city as a “phase.” Wanting to leave the party before the cops show up, I booked a train (they have trains in Morocco?) to Tangier. Yes, they have trains (in certain areas). And they are just as good as any European train I’ve been on.

Tangier

On the train ride to Tangier, I realized I was traveling too fast to actually get any work done on my ideas. Self-doubt and insecurity began to creep in. Hello darkness my old friend. But while I was concerned with breaking the promises I made to myself, I also realized that I need to follow “whatever sets my heart on fire.” And currently, that was traveling fast, writing, and making videos. So I decided I was going to do that, and pick up the pieces where they may. Continue down the path of the hedonistic treadmill, if at least for a little while more.

Checking into my hostel, I immediately went to the rooftop to catch the view. In the corner of the rooftop was a slender, olive-skinned, blueish-green-eyed girl, gracefully putting a cigarette to her seemingly soft lips. The divergence between 2 thoughts popped into my head at this moment: A cigarette is terrible for you and we all know it can kill you, and yet here in front of me is a girl that could single-handedly bring low-rise jeans back into style. And herein lies my problem: If I saw an out-of-shape man smoking a cigarette, I would automatically associate him as a loser. But take a fit individual, well-fashioned and groomed, in the exact same scenario: sexy. The double standards I have are remarkable.

“Hey”

“Hey, this is an incredible view right?!?” I wasn’t talking about the buildings.

“Yeah, it sure is.”

“Are you American or Canadian?” Tough to miss that accent.

And so the conversation continued, classic topics for backpackers: Where you from, what’s your route, how long have you been traveling for, you know, the typical stuff. Stuff that gets boring real quick for me. But this young Lindsay Lohan (if she never did drugs) looking individual had a unique background: Yes, she was American, but had spent half of her childhood in Brazil. She also spoke Portuguese and Spanish fluently. Damnit, now I’m the uncultured stereotypical American in the group. I gotta change that at some point and brush up on Duolingo. All of Morocco was a good reminder of that. In every place I’ve ever been before, English was always the first or second language spoken. It was the language of movies, music, and the hostel world. But here in Morocco, English fell to 3rd or 4th place with the locals (Arabic, French, Spanish, and then English). And while it was helpful becoming friends with an American-Brazilian who could ask “Espanol o Ingles?”, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous.

For the next couple of days, we collected a group of other travelers (an American, a Dutch, and a Brit) and explored the town together. Lots of coffee, tea, camel rides, cave exploration, nougat snacks, and random conversations later – I decided Tangier was not bad. As I was coming from Casablanca, my overall opinion might be slightly skewed.

Chefchaouen

The blue city. The white girl wannabe influencers really come out of the woodwork in this place. But I get it, there are only a few towns that I thought were as picturesque as the cobbled streets, the streaks of freshly painted blue walls (they had just added a layer), the sights and sounds of the souk (market), and the surrounding silhouette shape of mountains that look down on the town as if providing a celestial blessing from above. I purposefully spent most of my time here alone. I didn’t want to make friends, I had some more “life admin” to do, existential thoughts to have, and videos/creative ideas to pursue.

Life admin consisted in planning my future travel to-dos: 1) book a flight to Egypt. Against all concerns from several friends about it being unsafe and me inevitably being scammed, I couldn’t shake that desire to see the pyramids. 2) Trekking through the Sahara Desert by Camel/foot 3) Hiking in the Atlas Mountains. After booking my flight to Egypt from Marrakech, I decided to figure out plans for numbers 2 and 3 later.

The existential thoughts were not worth dwelling on, but I did go down a rabbit hole of creativity while in the blue city. I’ve often found this to be the case: the more I find a place blooming with beautiful backdrops, the more “life” around me, the more creativity and “life” I can produce from within myself. My poison of choice here was around AI. I’ve spent a lot of time in the past years exploring this topic, but I started getting a more grounded idea of what I could personally use it for. My favorite two tools were 1) autonomous agents. I ended up building personal programs for them to determine visa status and pricing for countries/places I wanted to visit, alongside a bunch of other metrics I was interested in tracking. Although promising, the downside was that often, the information provided was still inaccurate or outdated. 2) Stable diffusion. This was some specific tech I really liked – it didn’t function that well on my low computing-powered Mac, but I saw the potential and was learning how to incorporate AI into my video projects.

Fez / Sahara

When I arrived in Fez, I decided to switch off my “project Mitch hat” and prioritize setting up a Sahara trip, that would lead me back to Marrakech. Outside of that, I explored the Medina, Tanneries, and rooftop bar scene with some Brazilians and a Dutch. During our exploration, I hit my breaking point with some of the Moroccan peddlers. I’ve spent a lot of time around cities, and am quite used to being bombarded and barraged with lines like “Hello my friend” “Come here” and “I’ll give you good Moroccan price.” But Fez tipped the scales, as they do not always respect personal boundaries. I was grabbed several times and literally pulled in directions, which I find to be unacceptable. Needless to say, I did not buy anything in Fez, but now that I have a more clear/level head, am thinking deeply about why they behave the way they do. 1) It works. The average scared tourist will end up buying from them just to get out of the situation. 2) They do not know any better. The souk in Fez was quite different than other Moroccan cities in that it was a very thin (basically one-way) snakelike pathway that led through the Medina. Those who grew up there would be used to constantly brushing shoulders with others and talking 2 cm away from your face. Taking a note out from Matthew McConaughey, I chalked it all up to “cultural differences” and decided I would probably behave the exact same way if I was in their shoes.

I ended up spending 2 days in the Sahara – words cannot describe the experience. I truly felt like I was living out 2 of my favorite childhood books: The Alchemist and The Horse and His Boy. Trying to find my own personal legend, running away from what I know, while also running towards things that excite me. The desert brought out a lot of emotions. Trekking around by camel and foot, I caught some of the best sunsets and stargazing I’ve ever seen, met Berbers (families of indigenous nomads that live in the desert), and even got to sandboard. Not nearly as riveting as snowboarding, but quite harder to turn, as the board I borrowed had no straps. Being around that much sand, something that effortlessly slips between your fingers like nothing, was a good reminder for me of the fleeting nature of life.

Mount Toubkal

After analyzing my budget, I decided that eating street food had paid its dividends and I had enough money to pay for a guide to hike Mount Toubkal, which was not only the highest point in Morocco, but all of North Africa. After convincing a friend, Tony, to join, we were told by the tour operator that 2 other people would be joining. This was a huge plus, as the price of the tour went down the more people we had. Tony and I conjured up ideas of who the other 2 people could be: 2 sorority girls, an old married couple, the honeymooners, the friends. I settled on 2 Germans in their late 20s. Seems like a very German thing to do, this hike. Turns out it was 2 Austrians (brothers), around the same age as us. They did get slightly offended when I assumed German, and said, “When the Germans go on a hike in Austria, we end up having to send a helicopter.” We finished the hike on day 2, waking up at 4am to catch sunrise at the peak. While I didn’t think the hike was that difficult during the process, the following days I was aching and quivering in the knees whenever I saw a stair.

The Pool

After all the adventuring, I spent my last couple of days in Morocco reading, writing, and people-watching. I found no other better place for the latter than the pool of my hostel. This pool was the meeting spot. It’s like we went fully around the moon, from house parties before phones to swiping on Tinder, back to the OG spot of poolside chats. I loved being a fly on the wall here, eavesdropping in on random conversations and psychoanalyzing people I will never see again. A lot of Americans provided entertainment and fit the usual stereotypes. There was the Hawaiian, who was not actually from Hawaii, just a transplant baby, but made it their whole personality. Then there’s the Californian, who finds it impossible to do anything on their own. Like a leech, looking for some boy toy to play with and solve all her travel plans. The Germans, who tend to find each other and group up. They would usually mention the difficulty of finding a drink in Morocco, and could be found at the restaurant bar upstairs. The Dutch, who, similar to the Germans, when asked about if they speak English, say “a little bit.” And then they speak more coherent sentences than you. The Brits, who ended up buying me a bunch of wine just to continue playing cards late into the night. The Aussies / Kiwis, who throw out more slang than the fries portion you receive at a Five Guys. Main nationalities covered, there were also some French, Moroccans, Spanish, Belgians, etc. All walks of life, all gathered by the pool. It was never about the water.

In Flight

Welp, that’s my egotistical, condescending, irrational, nonsensical thoughts around traveling Morocco for a month. Hoping that when I reread this, 10 years from now, future Mitch is not absolutely abhorred by the atrocious words coming from the page.

Off to the pyramids. But this time, I’m taking a car transfer from the airport.