Fleeing from the long shadows

10.02.23 Sidi Ifni I'm sitting here in my motorhome with a hot cup of coffee, enjoying a clear view of the Atlantic Ocean, where the wind and rain are raging today, making the waves dance. And not just the waves: My motorhome is rocking violently, almost as if it's being pulled by ropes trying to hold it back.

I was lucky this morning and was allowed to move from the third row all the way to the front. Two campers left. Maria was the quickest to react and reserved the two spots for herself and Ricci. But he didn't want to switch anymore and gave me the opportunity. In return, I had to promise not to report him to the crew members. When I met him, he had just come out of the shower - it was almost noon. He had been in bed until 10 o'clock today, he confessed. He needed that sometimes because as a tour guide, he always had so much to think about. I can understand that. I know, thinking can be quite exhausting sometimes. I will keep my promise and not say anything to any crew member...

When I wanted to thoroughly clean my espresso pot this morning, I met an old Frenchman at the sink. Snow-white hair tousled by the wind, tall, slim, suntanned, well-groomed hands. He smiled at me and whispered, "Bonjour." His blue eyes shimmered softly, gently, almost a little wistful. I said, "Hello," and started scrubbing my little pot. But my attention was focused on the old man. He had an espresso pot like mine, two cups, two plates, and cutlery for two - so he wasn't traveling alone. With a small sponge, he gently stroked each item and slowly lathered it up, then rinsed it under running water tenderly, almost lovingly. Every small movement seemed controlled and deliberate. When he relaxed and made larger movements, his hands began to tremble. Only now did I notice that his head also shook slightly. Parkinson's? I'm not a doctor, but it was clear that the man was sick.

Nevertheless, he was in Morocco. In Africa. Just like many of his countrymen who want to escape the cold winter in their homeland and the shadow that looms over their lives and seems to grow bigger every year. But: These people here do not resign to their fate! They fight. They search for the beautiful moments in life, for moments of happiness that exist at every age, that perhaps need to be sought out and are becoming rarer and rarer to find. But only those who search will be rewarded. Those who do not search have already begun to die...

Nowhere is this clearer to me than at the often spartan campsites here in Morocco. When an elderly lady laboriously kneads and rinses her laundry with water and soap in an old, half-dilapidated stone basin, and kneads and rinses again and again. Not with effort or determination, but calmly, relaxed, wearing old faded jeans and a wrinkled, faded T-shirt, with a smile on her face, perhaps lost in thought, or maybe focused on one of those moments of happiness that have become rarer but are all the more valuable.