This past weekend, I went to Morocco with an organization called CityLife Madrid. I knew even before coming to Madrid that I wanted to travel to Morocco, but I could never voice this desire without recieving grimaces and exclamations of “I don’t think that’s a good idea!” from my parents. However, I had the opportunity to speak to someone who had also traveled to Morocco while in Spain, and she had encouraged me to visit the country, but only with a guided tour group. So, as soon as I found out that I had a holiday break at the end of February, I booked the trip, for a ridiculously low cost; a cost so low, that my father told me “You better question things when something is that cheap”. I didn’t think much of this comment until later. But, on the night of Thursday the 27th, I began the nine hour bus ride to Tangier.

The bus ride was uneventful enough, although, the majority of my fellow travelers were either highschoolers or college students on study abroad. I like to think that I wasn’t as irritating as they were when I was eighteen–the number of outrageously stupid things they said over the duration of our trip was so great that I began to make a list on my phone, because no one would believe me if I told them. My personal favorites were “I know how to speak French. I can say ‘oui'” and, “What’s mysogynistic?” “It means, like, ‘get down’, woman!'”

Upon arriving at the port in Algeciras, we were informed that we needed to fill out a Coronavirus form for the ferry, essentially letting them know whether we’d traveled to China or not. Because of this, the ferry was delayed by a couple of hours. We arrived in Tangier by mid afternoon, several hours behind schedule, and were greeted by our tour guide, Yousef. We then checked into our “3 Star Hotel”, which turned out to be a “No Stars Hotel” that reminded me strongly of Grandma’s basement, and hit the ground running with a camel ride alongside the Atlantic Ocean.

I’ve wanted to ride a camel for years. When I imagined doing so, I didn’t take into account two things: First, that the camels are probably subjected to abuse, and second, they are incredibly uncomfortable. After just ten minutes of riding, my legs felt chafed and burned. But, it’s not every day that you get to say you’ve riden a camel alongside the beach in Africa, so it was worth it!

After the camel ride, Yousef dragged us from activity to activity; the Caves of Hercules, a beautiful view of where the ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea, and a vist to a Pharmacy, where we got to learn about, and spend our money on, oils, spices, and teas. The evening concluded with a traditional Moroccan dinner, complete with live music, dancing, and a congo line.

My first day in Tangier was jam packed with activites, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a bit of culture shock. Seeing the women, all of whom were either covered with a head scarf, or wearing Burqas, shocked me more than I thought it would; even though I was dressed modestly, I found myself buttoning the top button of my shirt, or pulling my sweater around me, whenever I walked past men (who didn’t try to keep their eyes off all the white American girls passing by). I felt much more self conscious of where I was, and how I looked. All the women I saw were covered up, but the young men looked like some kind of African spinoff of Jersey Shore douchebags. Yousef told me that there is a new generation coming into the country; most women are free to be teachers, lawyers, doctors, etc. But, he also added that if you saw a woman sitting outside a cafe in the evenings, she was from a different part of the country, or another country entirely, because the women here in Tangier don’t do that: This became abudantly clear as we walked the streets in the evening and noticed that the majority of people sitting outside were men.

The men would sometimes let out this loud, yodeling noise at us as we walked past. I appreciated the originality; after getting cat-called and yelled at by Italians, I almost welcomed a fresh, creative spin to the otherwise disgusting and uncomfortable action. Also, Arabic is a language similar to German, only in the sense that everything that is said sounds angry.

I was also struck by the contrast between total poverty on one side of the town, and immense wealth on the other side. The people are so poor that they use their animals, camels, donkeys, etc. to try to make a few Dirham off the tourists: And children on the street try to sell you magnets to help put food on their table. I have never felt more grateful to have been born in the country that I was born, and to be able to now live in a country where I have great quality of life, than I was after my first 24 hours in Morocco. I am also grateful for being able to drink tap water, and just general hygeine.

But, my adventures through Morocco were far from over; I haven’t even told you about my day in The Blue City, or my Travel Story from Hell!