The streets of Morocco are our home for the next few days. A road trip surprises with strange encounters, changing landscapes and the desire for water.
For the farmers, the surrounding rugged cliffs and the green valleys in between provide their livelihood, while for the rest of the world it is just one of the largest cannabis growing areas in the world: the Rif Mountains. And I'm in the middle of it.
Somewhere in the Sahara. For hours now Hamid and I have been riding across flickering desert sand. My ass has never hurt so much. Fuck camel.
Like blinders, I walk the streets of Marrakech, always anxious not to give the impression that I am interested in anything.
We are strolling through a remote part of Chefchaouen's medina, when the face of an elderly man appears in a small gap in the door. "Salem Aleikum," he whispers to us. The old man is at his door. His smile shows weird and weathered teeth, his wrinkled hand beckons us to himself. We look at each other. Shall we?
The blacksmith's jingle reverberates back from the blue walls, ricocheting down from the ridges of the roof, and penetrates into my consciousness through the change of raindrops through my ears. Suddenly I'm here now, I'm eye, mouth, nose, ear. Morocco. Chefchaouen, in the north of the country, in the reef mountains.
The faces of Morocco. Faces of people we will never see again but who - each and every one of us - enriched our trip to Morocco.
Traveling as a blonde, white-skinned European into an Arab-influenced country, you make your thoughts on the role of women in this culture. Together with their own experiences and many conversations, there are an infinite number of facets to this topic.
The walk through the Jebel Saghro would be my last chance to collect existential experiences in the mountains and I wanted to use them to the fullest. But I had no idea how far the upcoming adventure would take me beyond all borders.