Wanderlust

Stepping out into the port of Tangiers, my best friend and I were briefly nonplussed by what we made out in the distance: these green hills and pale high-rises were not so far-off what we had just left behind in Spain. This was our first time in Morocco, in Africa. Would this enigmatic continent be more of the same? But, once in the rickety old taxi that rattled us up the winding medina streets, the feeling dissipated and we saw a strange new world open out before us.
Unfamiliar, exhilarating–Morocco’s dizzying kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells was unlike anything I had seen. Around every corner, we found smiling faces inviting us to inspect heavy Berber jewellery or jolly wool rugs, cast strikingly against crumbling walls; shadowy men cat-calling; the blent aroma of tagines, Argan oil, musk, and horseshit; the deep rolling rhythms of the African drum; the imposing refrains of the call to prayer.
I had to put aside my usual reliance on maps and for the first time allow myself to amble for hours, stopping here and there to sample Moroccan cuisine, from the bland boiled egg and potato sandwich to Fes’ pastilla-the first time I’ve knowingly eaten pigeon. Never before had I been given so much tea by strangers, or so consistently been laughed at for my shukran in response. Nor had I been to a place whose inhabitants all have a cousin who lives in my home country; met a man whose ‘best mate’ is Mel Gibson; or known of my resemblance to Shakira, Lady Gaga, and, curiously, Michael Jackson.
The bustle was not limited to the souks– Essouira’s markets followed us onto the bus to Marrakech (the cheapest kohl I’ve ever bought), while, squished into the backseat of a Grand Taxi to Chefchouen, a shoe designer and I split earphones to listen to Blur. Nor did the chatting cease on a twelve-hour night train through the desert…
People were always willing to offer friendly advice -that our modest dress was too old-fashioned (Fes), our beachwear too revealing (Essouira), our light travelling pants simply inadequate for the Atlas Mountains’ mid-April snows. So, I had to embrace my inexperience and trust strangers’ words. Without doing so, we wouldn’t have climbed a mountain to play board games with a Moroccan farmer, watched a Champion’s league match down a dark alley in Marrakech, or learnt to make a tagine at home. Without doing so, I wouldn’t have had so many ‘first times’; insha’Allah I’ll have many more.