What a first day… It definitely didn’t go as planned, but it turned out exactly how it should have.
I get off the half-empty plane and admire the beautiful but small airport of Agadir. Inside, I sit down and connect to the airport’s free Wi-Fi. Except for a two-week trip to Tunisia in February, this is my first time outside of the EU. I rest for a few minutes, nicely organizing all my stuff in my shoulder bag again. I’m trying to purchase my E-sim, but find it more expensive that I had anticipated, so I go over to the Orange stand where 8 girls are calling out “Free sim!”. The card is free, but usually the data is expensive, but I am lucky because it’s ten times better than the E-sim. I ask for 10GB (for €10!), and she puts in the sim-card. When she says they only take cash, she sends me over to the other side of the room with a smile. I take off, but stop midway, confused that she didn’t ask me to leave anything – I could just flee. However, the girl was too sweet, and I don’t want to start my trip with a bad conscience (karma is real, guys), so I get cash and go back to pay the girl.
I booked a hostel for my first night. I don’t like planning too far ahead because you never know where you’re going to end up. I honestly hadn’t looked too much into it – it was the cheapest and first one I found on Hostelworld and the location looked fine (little did I know). When I try looking up the address in Google Maps, nothing comes up, and I optimistically try again five times. With no success, I try the address in Apple Maps, and this time I do get a location. I get on the bus waiting in front of the airport, after asking the driver if it goes to Agadir and he said yes. I look outside and see the sun setting slowly, turning the sky different shades of orange. While like most people I enjoy watching the sunset, it’s not something I would necessarily go out of my way for. Frederique (one of the volunteers in Lisbon), on the other hand, has a (what I call) unhealthy obsession with sunsets. She mentions her love for them at least twice a day. Watching the orange sky, I think of my friend who would love to see this view.
On Maps, I see that the bus has gone too far already, but I expect him to stop soon and decide to just walk the way back. The walk is one straight line and there’s so many people and the cars are driving fast and I think how amazing it is that I am here in Morocco.
The sun is completely gone, and the sky has turned dark blue when I leave the busy road and enter a quiet alleyway. It’s been a few minutes since I saw another tourist and I wonder where the hell is this hostel hidden. Despite the many warnings I heard before coming here – about how dangerous Morocco can be and I shouldn’t go outside alone at night – I am not scared. People are staring at me, but most of them say “Bonsoir!” and smile at my when I walk by. It’s only when my phone lights up the notification you have arrived at your destination that I feel a little panicked. After calling the hostel, I discover that the address was wrong, or my Maps was wrong – either way, I was in the wrong city. It isn’t particularly late, but it’s dark, I am in a Moroccan alleyway, and I am tired from the long trip – what now? I sit down on the side of the road, which must be a weird sight in a small neighbourhood where tourists don’t come.
I look for the nearest hostel or hotel and walk a couple minutes to a dead-end. Literally. While my phone shows me a hostel around the corner of this street, this corner doesn’t exist, and I end up staring blankly at a couple of unlit houses. There’s a group of little girls laughing with me and I think I hear one of them say: “You need help?” But before I can answer them, a skinny man comes up to me. I have already realized that in this country I will have to rely on my basic French. Part of me appreciates this because it is a chance to practice my language skills. The man and me have a confusing conversation in a made-up language somewhere in-between French and English. I tell him Hotel! Hotel! But he looks at me crazily, and I lose hope of finding something nearby.
When we’re not getting any further in our conversation, the man tells me to follow him. He says he knows some people who know better English. Now, I know that as children we’ve all learned not to follow strangers. Let alone in a dark alleyway. Let alone in a different country. But I swear, he looked really friendly. So, I follow this stranger in an even darker alley and there’s small and bigger children playing and instead of scared, I actually feel so comfortable. The children are running around and playing all together and they look at me with wide eyes when I walk by.
The man calls some women over and explains what he has understood of my situation. The women, too, make crazy faces at the idea of a hotel in their area. They discuss something about the map on my phone, but it’s in Arabic and I’m just standing there waiting for them to let me leave, so I can take a taxi to the first bed possible. Then, my good karma from before finds his way to me, and the youngest woman (who was the only one speaking decent English) asks me what exactly it is that I need. Desperately I say: “I just need a bed to sleep”, and she answers: “If you want, you can stay with us.”
Again, I know I shouldn’t go with strangers, but after a little conversation I find out this girl is called Samira, she’s my age, speaks both French and English and her family lives around the corner. While she and the other women are talking some more, I sit down on my bag and take out my journal to write about this journey. However, I never really get to writing because my attention gets asked every few seconds by the playing children – who are now, apparently, playing with me. One by one, they walk up to me (it feels like a little competition of who dares to come closest) and they say proudly either ‘bonjour!’ or ‘hello!’ to which I reply with a smile every time. This goes on for a while until Samira tells me to follow her and with her mother, we walk to their home. I am startled and lost for words, both out of gratitude and a little bit of embarrassment. Samira shows me around their house and I admire the cozy place they share with their family of seven. Samira is the oldest. She has three younger brothers (Khalid is 16, Mohammed is 13 and Younes is 11). A friend of the oldest brother is living with the family too, and they treat him like their brother.
Just the same, the women of the family invite me in their home like they didn’t just meet me in the streets twenty minutes ago. The brothers all seem very excited and greet me with smiles as big as I’ve ever seen, and when the father comes home, he, too, welcomes me excitingly. They serve me tea (delicious, by the way) and give me sweets and nuts. They make a bed for me and tell me I can stay as long as I want, and while I don’t want to exploit their hospitality, I consider taking on their generous offer.
We share a delicious dinner, and they teach me a few Arabic words that I forget immediately after I pronounce them half-correctly. I play Fifa with the youngest brother and watch tv with the second one. Samira joins me in the guest room and some time after midnight we go to sleep.
For some reason (being my chaotic mind probably), things always seem to go wrong in the best way possible for me. I am still surprised how calm I was during this whole situation, but I am so grateful for finding this family. In a supposedly very dangerous area, I find the sweetest people alive and they give me a bed and food, but most importantly, a look in the real Moroccon life. I would take staying with locals over the best hostels any time. This is really the best thing that could happen to me here.
I only have limited internet on my phone and while their hospitality in unlimited, their Wi-Fi isn’t. I will try to update soon, because I know there’s going to be so much to tell (I already have so much to tell and it’s been two days!), but I feel like it’s going to be busy too.
Bye!
-Cels
CelsAway 
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