Arriving in Morocco

Four countries are behind me. And then: a new continent.
And yes – it feels different. For the first time in four years of traveling by bus, I feel out of place. And very ambivalent.

Border Cetua - Morocco

At the border, the drug dog gets into my car. Everything is searched. Incredulous head shakes at the sight of me traveling alone as a woman. Am I seeking company? No. The Moroccan family in the car in front of me is checked thoroughly, right down to their last suitcase. They have to unpack everything.
Later, when we buy the SIM card, we meet again. We talk about racism in Spain and that it's better in England. There, they say, they leave you alone. But it rains too much. They now want to move to Gibraltar. There, they have the best of both worlds.

Tétouan

Tétouan has seven gates and seven medinas. Each with its own hammam, a school, a bakery, a souk. Moah has declared himself my tour guide and shows me around his city for hours. I'm torn between gratitude for so much knowledge and the desire to discover it all on my own.

Everything is here: scents of spices, blood from slaughtered chickens, overflowing trash cans. It's Friday. The muezzin calls. Everyone rushes to pray. The streets are briefly cleared, then awaken in the afternoon as the third prayer begins.
Is it like this every day? Yes, says Moah, five prayers every day. But on Fridays, they wash first. And then there’s couscous.

Within me rises the desire to cover myself, even my hair. As soon as I'm alone, the stares become intrusive, the words too close. It's exhausting. But I will get used to it. That will happen.