Moving to Morocco

I remember the first time I went to Morocco. It was like being transported into another time. We went to Marrakech for an extended weekend for a friend’s 50th birthday. We didn’t leave the hotel without a guide. The Souks (markets) felt unsafe, and we were more than happy to have this local guy helping us maneuver our way through the city. I did not feel safe, but it was fascinating. There were men dressed in long gowns drinking tea and cooking in these little huts. There were heads of animals hanging on hooks, men racing by on motor scooters, women dressed in long dresses and veils who would grab your hand and immediately begin painting you with henna. The call to prayer would sound every few hours, and we’d see men praying together on the ground. It was like a movie. I had never been anywhere so exotic in all my life. We, of course, engaged in some tourist activities. We rode camels, ate Moroccan food, and watched belly dancers. The few days passed quickly, and by the time we left, we were blown away by the experience.

Whoever could have imagined that I’d be living in Morocco within a few years and all of the fears I felt on our first visit would fade. Within weeks of living there, I would befriend the market sellers. and before long, I was haggling and getting into it with the best of them.

When Nic asked me what I thought of the idea of moving to Morocco, I just looked at him like he was crazy. Remember the snakes, the monkey, the guy putting his hand up my butt……….? Was this really a place for us to live? We decided to check it out. We went for a weekend to Casablanca. The vibe there was more modern than in Marrakesh, and after touring around for a few days, both Pia and I were sold and thought that maybe it would be okay, after all. We went to a couple of restaurants on the beach, and there we were surrounded by a lot of ex-pats (mostly French), and I thought that we would probably do okay there.

So, by August, we were moving ourselves to Morocco. For the first month or so, we stayed in an apartment in downtown Casablanca. It was very modern and nice inside but outside was another story. Every morning when I opened the windows, I would hear all kinds of vendors walking by trying to sell their goods. Each vendor had their own call, almost like birds. The man selling eggs would loudly roll his “r’s” making a loud sound and then ending with a click. There was the guy with the wheelbarrow who would yell, “heeeeeeey hup, heeeeeeey hup”. He was offering his services to pick up any unwanted household items. Anything. There were the musicians that danced on by, dressed in long traditional outfits. They had all kinds of instruments that they were banging and blowing on. It was like a Moroccan version of the pide piper. They would look up at all of the buildings, hoping to see a head pop out to provide them with entertainment in exchange for a coin or two. People would throw down coins from their windows. Clink, clink. We had to be careful because if they saw you so much as look out from the window, they would play even louder so that you would stay. If you went back in, they would stand below your window and play until you came back out with a coin. Once I realized what was going on, I stopped popping my head out. There was a constant stream of vendors, and it happened every day. It was amazing.

I quickly learned in Morocco that there was either the good part of town or the bad part of town. However, to get to the good part, you usually needed to walk through the bad part. There was no choice. As we were going to live there, I just did my best to familiarize myself with this new city’s atmosphere. I found that people were amiable. There was a lot of poverty. I have never seen anything like it, and I’m still not over it, to be honest. The number of kids in bare feet strewn all over the streets just hoping for a handout. They looked dirty and drugged out. I can’t say I blame them. I learned later that many of these kids were strung out on some kind of glue that they would sniff. They had no chance at life. It was very sad. So, as we leisurely strolled along the main boulevards, heading into the shops, we’d find ourselves walking over some of these kids. It was awful, and it made me feel guilty about buying anything.

It wasn’t just kids, either. It was everyone. Women, men, children, grandparents, everyone. When I arrived, many people said to me, “you’ll get used to it.” I never did. I wanted to take everyone home. I found it very difficult.

Pia and I spent that first month getting out to as many places as we could, usually with a goal of finding the next great lunch spot. By the time our month downtown was finished, I think we’d eaten in just about every restaurant we could possibly go to in Casablanca. We found out that the Bondi Coffee Kitchen was the best place to hang out downtown, we discovered that the Tahiti Beach Club was the nicest spot on the Corniche. and we learned that life in Casablanca was pretty nice if you knew the right spots to spend your time.

We had a good start to our life here and it didn’t take long before we started to feel at home in Morocco.