Disclaimer: If I ever decide to travel to the U.S. and someone at border control happens to read this—I am not attacking any country or any specific president.
But my dear Donald: What kind of mess have you gotten the world into? I support the idea that inhuman mullahs should be removed from power and replaced by a government backed by the majority of the people. But the way this is being handled leaves many questions unanswered. The same goes for the West’s idea of imposing democracy as a form of government. Prescribed as if by a professor of medicine who hasn’t set foot inside a hospital in ages. After all, everyone knows that patients can react differently to prescribed medicine.
In the case of Iran, I get the impression that someone sprayed the strongest mosquito repellent into a wasp nest, expecting all the wasps to leave and be replaced by peaceful bees. But the wasps are still there—and more aggressive than ever. The consequences? Fatal!
Disastrous for the Iranian people,
Disastrous for the global economy,
Disastrous for stranded travelers
I check in at the airport in Cape Town. This marks the start of a nearly 40-hour journey that, instead of going through Doha as planned, will now take me via Ethiopia to Egypt and finally to Morocco. I ask the friendly lady at the counter whether my luggage will be checked all the way through to Casablanca. After all, I have a nearly 18-hour layover ahead of me in Cairo. Maybe, she says, and refers me to the ground staff in Addis Ababa. Once there, there isn’t much time for questions. Every employee I encounter calls out to me: “Cairo? RUN!” I run.
When I arrive in Cairo, I ask politely at the baggage carousel. “Of course it’s been checked through,” the man behind the counter grumbles at me in his charmingly gruff manner. This slightly passive-aggressive attitude seems to be the norm here in Egypt, I realize during my stay WITHOUT my suitcase. It’s as if there’s an international North-South divide, I think, and I’m reminded of my homeland, from which I am so far away. Along with my suitcase, most of my clothes and my toiletries have also vanished somewhere in African transit.
Eighteen hours later, my hope of stocking up on deodorant and toothpaste before continuing my journey is fading. I’m thwarted by a grumpy border official; apparently, access to the terminal is only permitted with a printed boarding pass. We’re still in Germany here, I think, trapped between security checks and grumpy border officials. I have no choice but to wait in this sparse area for the check-in counter to open, even though I don’t have anything to check in.
And good night, Marie.
A few hours, an Armani deodorant for 30 euros, and a quick brush of the teeth later, it’s finally time to go. Royal Maroc Air, also known as RAM in industry circles, is calling for boarding. When I reach my seat, a nasty surprise awaits me. I had strategically chosen it so that the middle seat would remain empty. That plan didn’t work out at all. On the contrary, my plan had backfired. Sitting in the middle is a Moroccan who looks like a gorilla. Not one of those athletic young guys who still have something to prove. More like a silverback gorilla who has already secured his place in the family. As if on purpose, his body extends left and right beyond his seat. I have no choice but to spend the next 6 hours trying to touch his arm as little as possible. I pay for it with a stubborn stiffness around my ribcage—hopefully a visit to the hammam will fix it.
Having finally arrived in Morocco, I set off on my final leg of the journey to my destination, Marrakech. A nearly three-hour train ride lies ahead of me. Unlike with Deutsche Bahn, all the trains are running ahead of schedule. In my compartment, I meet Zaid, a young tour guide from the Atlas Mountains who now organizes luxury tours through Morocco for people aged 60 and older. We chat the entire train ride, and thanks to him, the time flies by. My suitcase, which actually made it all the way to Casablanca, is sitting in the aisle of the car outside my compartment due to lack of space. This gives me a knot in my stomach. After all, I’d just spent the last two months in Cape Town learning never to leave anything unattended. Nothing happens during the three hours.
When I arrive in Marrakesh, I'll be exhausted.
Overwhelmed by the noise.
Overwhelmed by the dirt.
Overwhelmed by a completely new culture that is foreign to me.
I make my way on foot to my apartment in the Gueliz development. This is where I’ll be living for the next month. As if by divine providence, I’m greeted immediately upon my arrival by the call of the muezzin. I realize at that moment that my immediate neighbor is a mosque, but I quickly come to realize that you get used to the heartfelt “Allahu akbar” five times a day.
The people here are all very friendly and open-minded. In a way, Marrakech is a wild mix of an international metropolis and ancient traditions. This is also reflected in the clothing, ranging from sweatpants to chic designer clothes to traditional robes and women in burqas. It takes me a while to realize that while many people here do ask for money, unlike in Cape Town, you feel safe everywhere. Most people speak French, the older ones only Arabic, and some also know English. I try a mix of Duolingo French, English, and Google Translate Arabic and realize once again: I may not have a natural talent for languages, but I’m good at imitating accents. So to my ears, I sound like a native speaker.
Do I like the city? I'm not sure yet.
The city’s ancient traditions and identity are best found in the medina, the old part of Marrakech. Here, groups of tourists jostle through the narrow alleys, constantly being overtaken by scooters and horse-drawn carts. Everywhere you look, there are things for sale that nobody needs but people buy anyway. As I write this, I’ve just escaped the hustle and bustle of the narrow alleys to the Secret Garden, which, admittedly, isn’t really that secret anymore. Still, I’m enjoying the heavenly peace that reigns here. The medina is a world of its own, to which I’ll dedicate a separate story once I’ve fully explored it.
Now I need to figure out what my new go-to hairdresser, Abdu, is up to—he asked me for my WhatsApp number. In my sometimes somewhat naive belief in international understanding, I willingly gave him my number. Since then, he’s been texting me regularly, and what’s even worse, he sometimes calls me, too. Since one of his first questions was whether I was married, I’m now hoping he doesn’t have a single sister…
