Learning to Fly

31.01.23 Marrakech At 11 o'clock, the ordered taxis are waiting for us in front of the campsite. Three taxis, each with six passengers, that's 18 - exactly right. In the end, the taxi will cost us 100 Dirham each, so 10 Euro divided by six. The journey takes about 20 minutes. This time is filled to the last minute with amazement, trembling, despair, fear and praying. It's indescribable, you have to experience it. Trucks, buses, cars, motorcycles with trailers, scooters - those are the worst! - mopeds, bicycles and pedestrians in between, mothers with their babies on their backs and old men with crutches on narrow streets and above all a cacophony of honking, shouting, cursing, sirens and whistles - compared to that, the traffic on the streets of Rome is like a drill ground. It's a miracle that there are no crashes on every corner.

On the sidewalks it's more civilized. Stores and shops in all colors line up and vie for the interest of passers-by. Not pushy, just colorful, like life itself. And here again the contrasts that characterize this country can be seen: There is the impulsive, powerful living just around the corner, maybe through a gate, suddenly there is peace, silence, a garden with lots of green, people sitting on benches reading a book or flipping through a newspaper. Two worlds, just a few meters apart.

We plunge into the hustle and bustle, hungry. Maria is completely in her element: "Do you see that, look here, you've never seen anything like it, have you?" She loves the pulse of 180 and more in this city, she lets herself be infected, driven, enlivened by it. It's as if Corona had never happened. And yet the Hamburg woman, who is nearly 80 years old, was a candidate for the intensive care unit just four weeks ago. Yes, those who ride the waves of this city can also learn to fly...

Just like my laundry. There's a laundry service at this campsite. "Washed, ironed and neatly folded - you can get that everywhere in Morocco," Ricci promised me before our adventure. I trust my old pal blindly. Maybe it's also because of our changed route, but the place in Marrakech is the first one to offer it. I had already considered getting a big bowl and washing by hand, but in trust of Ricci's promise I had always postponed it and adapted the rhythm of my laundry change to the circumstances...

Today was finally the day: I took off my bed linen and packed all my dirty laundry into the duvet cover - it was just big enough. Then I carried it all to the laundry woman. She looked at me with an angry look and signaled to me that this could not be done with 6 euros - that's how much you pay for one service. I smiled friendly and waved it off. No matter how much it cost, I needed fresh... Well, let's leave it at that. She told me I could pick it up in the afternoon. Okay, I thought, that works.

When I arrived at 4:30 pm, two women were dragging a black garbage bag out of the door of the laundry house. From my gaze, one of them could see that I was a bit surprised. She shrugged her shoulders and the bag was already in front of my feet. I paid twelve euros, grabbed the bag with both hands and wanted to swing it lightly onto my back. But it didn't move. I almost pulled my back. I looked into the bag: Indeed, that was my laundry, but it wasn't ironed and certainly not neatly folded. It was soaking wet. Washed, but not spun. And now?

I had a clothesline with me and luckily Birgit and Udo were by my side, who know that I can use helping hands at any hour and minute here. They lent me their clothes rack.

Everything worked wonderfully. I hung the bed linen neatly over the line, the rest over the rack. I was even happy about the light wind that would quickly dry everything. Wonderful, I thought, and started making coffee. It hadn't finished running through yet when there was a knock on the window. It was Ralf: "Hey, I just wanted to tell you that there's laundry flying around the campsite. I think it's yours."