From the Awakening to Travel to Morocco in the 90s (page 3 of 4)

You're looking for a challenge! A trip to Amsterdam instead of Morocco. But it doesn’t have that forbidden thrill anymore...

From the 80s to 2000, I went to Amsterdam at least six times and Maastricht three times—such a pretty city. I have mind-blowing memories and priceless anecdotes from those trips. Though I’m not sure they’d make everyone laugh. 😎

Morocco was one of my dream destinations, just like Vietnam or Egypt. But back then, I had way more dreams than the means to make them happen.

We're still hanging on your every word... What's gonna happen next? A police raid? A chase through the medina? And the photos are stunning, especially the last one! 😉

I started posting before finishing everything, and now I can't speed up because I'm temporarily slowed down by a health issue. You'll have to be a little patient with me...

My first non-family trip was to the USA and Canada. A classic road trip, already behind the wheel...

My first trip to Morocco was a work trip. A tour funded by a local hotel chain for French travel agents... Also in the early '90s, but without the *herb that makes you laugh*... It gave me the taste to go back (despite a nasty bout of traveler’s diarrhea...) !

Hi Joel,

I stumbled upon your beautiful text by chance, and it shows the whole journey that led you to your passion for travel. I devoured it in one sitting and can't wait for the next part. Starting from your early childhood, you bring back so many memories and evoke the nostalgia of a bygone era. Looking forward to reading more from you soon, Larri

Thanks for your kind words—it means a lot that people took the time to comment, making this travel journal more rewarding than I ever imagined. I could’ve done better or made it more complete, but let’s say the essentials are there. Expanding it further just for this site would be a thankless and daunting task, even though I’ve always really appreciated it. There have been others before me who’ve recounted their adventures from the last century just as well, if not better. As I’ve said before, this is my tribute to them. Unfortunately, some of them are no longer here to read it—I would’ve loved to see their comments...

It was reading about the travels in North Korea by... (I’ve forgotten their name), but not their actual writings, that gave me the VoyageForum bug. Today, I’m happy to be back on this forum and reconnect with all its regular contributors—it really missed me for those little gems like your story. Cheers, Larri

When days unfold in a hazy blur, it’s unfortunately hard to hold onto clear memories. In my defense, three decades have done their work since then. I’ve wondered more than once what we could have done for one week, or even three. Time flies when you're happy, after all. I know we laughed a lot, trying to stretch out our youth.

We ended up playing soccer with a group of young Moroccans. For the duration of a game, you forget about age, social status, religion, race. Too bad the game has to end, though. They’re great dribblers, Moroccans. Unfortunately, they’re less skilled at team play. That said, soccer wasn’t really Eric’s thing. We let ourselves get crushed with pleasure—and, let’s be honest, a certain nonchalance.

There were beautiful walks on the beaches and intense tanning sessions to achieve in one week the glow that would normally take three. The sun is powerful at those latitudes.







Of course, the locals were always on the lookout in case there were a few bucks to be made. We couldn’t resist when they offered to cook spider crabs for us right on the beach, fresh from their catch. A delicacy like that, enjoyed in the open air, is pure bliss—there’s no other way to put it. One day, a scruffy guy came up to us on the beach trying to sell something I couldn’t identify. Luckily, Eric knew what it was—being a good Breton. That’s how I tasted my first razor clams, straight from the producer to the consumer.



We tried our hand at fishing a few times on that rugged coast, battered by waves, but with little success. It was the age when you’re still full of energy and quick to dive into physical activities. Well, moderately—it was hot. I’ve never liked the cold and gray, which is why, on the cusp of forty, I left Strasbourg to live in Montpellier. Looking back, it’s like it was another version of me who used to play soccer for a club on Sunday mornings at minus two degrees! If, by some misfortune, my laces came undone at the start of a match, my frozen fingers would struggle to retie the knots on my cleats... Yes, vacations for me meant warmth and blue skies. Spending the whole day in shorts and a t-shirt—pure happiness.







The force of the waves and their relentless erosion had carved out some impressively sized cavities. One of them inspired me to take a very original photo that I was proud of for quite a while—without realizing at first that I was probably the fifteen millionth person to have that idea... Printed in large format, it decorated the walls of my apartments for many years. "No, my dear, it’s not a poster, and it’s not in Corsica: it’s a photo I took myself in Morocco" (the flex!).



Throughout the trip, I tended to feel guilty noticing the limited financial and material means available to people, whether in cities or the countryside. You’d have to be blind not to question the disparity between the comfort and purchasing power we enjoy and the stark deprivation visible in any back alley of a small town. In turn, I found myself in the position of someone who could afford the flight ticket, the hotel, and meals beyond the basics. Yet, I was far from rolling in money. If I enjoyed my first trips so much, it’s precisely because I was fully aware of their exceptional nature and because I hadn’t yet had the chance to become jaded. On the other hand, I’ve never lost my pride in belonging to a civilization that has invented so many things, among others, over the past two centuries. What I could afford, I didn’t feel like I’d stolen from anyone.

Joël’s mom also looks like my godmother. We’re this close to organizing family reunions on VF 😉

Thanks Joel for your such unique travel journal. The photos, your storytelling—it’s really touching.

Thanks Pascale for sharing your satisfaction. I didn’t expect to get so much positive feedback.

I remember exchanging a few balls with the village tennis instructor. He struggled to keep up with my pace, even though I was practically a beginner at the time. It was funny hearing Eric tell me I could’ve taught him his job! The envious look he gave my racket spoke volumes; in hindsight, I also regret not leaving it for him.

This adds to my long list of regrets, which of course includes all the countries I never visited and will never see, a few pointless arguments on VF, all those unnecessary stupid things I did—none of these regrets being as crushing as the ones for the things I never did. 😎

Our end of stay was brightened by meeting a very friendly young couple whose first names I’ve unfortunately forgotten (maybe Amel and Frédéric, after all). She told me she was Franco-Moroccan, and he was a true product of the capital—a real Parisian with that sharp accent, always full of incredible stories. They arrived at the annex hotel with their music box, and we immediately hit it off over a peace pipe. It’s so nice and relaxing to meet kind, communicative people without any fuss.

One day, while we were all together at the village market, a few lazy smoke rings drifting through our minds, I was intrigued by a dried plant a vendor had on his stall. The Parisian asked if I knew what it was. I told him it looked like a poppy, but bigger. When he confirmed it was poppy, I couldn’t believe it. You could buy the stuff here like a pound of tomatoes! Then he said, "With this, you can make *rachacha*." - "What’s that?" - "You do it like tea—just steep a few heads. It’s not bad for the effect, and it lasts a while. But careful, though—don’t drink anything for a few hours after taking it. Otherwise, your stomach rebels and throws everything up without warning. Once, we made some, and after a while, I drank anyway, and I swear, I was talking to a guy while walking, didn’t feel a thing coming, and then—bam—I puked right there, mid-conversation, almost naturally and without pain. I didn’t see it coming at all."

My disbelief was surely written all over my face. I’d met a few Parisians who told tall tales, counting on the fact that, unlike them, people from the provinces generally hadn’t seen or done anything exciting. But in the end, I barely knew the guy. Here was a story I hadn’t heard before.

Since they had a vehicle, our new friends offered to take us for a ride into the countryside the next day. Our affable Parisian, ever the planner, suggested we make some *rachacha* together. We borrowed an old pot from the hotel kitchen and found some kind of electric hot plate with exposed wires in places—handling it carefully was a must unless we wanted our hair to stand on end, which it probably already should’ve been. Theory’s great, but nothing beats experimentation, as any researcher would say.



It was a most pleasant outing. As the effects of the mixture kicked in, we experienced it with Olympian calm and extraordinary serenity. During a few stops, we had the pleasure of exchanging travel impressions with a shepherd or two, some camels, and a few wading birds.









These cultural exchanges were fruitful, but after three solid hours, I realized I wasn’t as resistant to thirst as my friends. Even with all the car windows open, it was still 40°C. After holding out as best I could—like a camel with a sagging hump—I had to drink a few sips of water so my tongue wouldn’t stick to the roof of my mouth and my lips could still form words. Come what may.

It’s amazing how a few sips of water can revive a parched landscape. I felt much better, though I didn’t understand why my friends were hungry. We’d decided to head to a large town, to a well-regarded restaurant. Though in this case, was it more like the *téléphone arabe*? We were about to enter the restaurant when I felt it coming on fast. No warning signs, no nausea or stomach cramps. In a split second, my brain processed several things: - The Parisian hadn’t been lying - I shouldn’t have drunk water - It was about to come out, and I wouldn’t be able to hold it back - There were tons of people around in this town, even a crowd - Run fast to the street corner 3 meters away so I don’t do this in front of everyone—shame.

There was a time when my lightning-fast starts were celebrated in my soccer club, and it’s true you run even faster in an emergency. I bolted, I dashed, I flew toward the corner. And disaster: just as I realized this intersection led to another busy street full of people, my stomach violently rejected the intruder—the two-part mix. The stream was powerful yet completely painless. When it comes, it comes. Rarely has the saying been so fitting. I couldn’t help but notice dozens of strangers had witnessed the scene. Most were laughing, the rascals, probably knowing exactly what was going on. All I could do was disappear as quickly as I’d appeared.

So I played a bit part at the restaurant, slipping out now and then like the Road Runner from the cartoon, pushing the speed limit, because every earthquake has aftershocks. The same happened during the market visit. In this big village, I involuntarily but thoroughly marked my territory, and my consolation was that this day was the most budget-friendly of the trip—my food budget reduced to next to nothing. Once my body was purified, the rest of the day went by in a cheerful atmosphere.

That week in Morocco was a magical parenthesis between two long stretches of confinement in the professional world, themselves nestled within an endless 40-year grind. Sometimes I’d think I wouldn’t have wanted to travel so much if I’d had the chance to live without working. Then I’d think that if I didn’t work, deep down, I’d travel even more. In the end, just as misery gives value to happiness, travel is all the more savored because it’s a lifeline, a breath of fresh air in an ocean of servitude and gloom...

It reads like mother’s milk... of a camel? Is it over??

What suspense! That’s why we can see why some people hope Marien and Pagaljavab keep sharing their travel journals with us! 🙂

We liked it so much that we decided to go back the following year. This time, I was with Maggie, a German girl I’d met... well, in Germany, of course.

It all started with Yann, the little brother of a friend, and his half-French, half-Dutch girlfriend. They’d been nagging me for ages to take me to a techno club in Germany. They kept saying, "You’ll see, knowing you, we’re sure you’ll like it." Eventually, one fine evening, I caved—out of politeness and sheer exhaustion. Yann had a buddy who’d just come back from the Netherlands, where he’d done some shopping and stashed it all in the freezer. As soon as I got in the car, I was told to swallow one of those little pills with a half-moon drawn on it. Top-quality stuff, the kind the Gauls sometimes down to resist the invader. It didn’t take long—we weren’t even at the club yet when I told them I loved them. Only later did I realize what their knowing looks and exchanged smiles meant...

I’d initially had a prejudice against techno music, but I eventually understood that the evolution of modern music, which began in the 1950s with the electrification of guitars, had followed its course to its ultimate point: the fusion of human improvisation with machine capabilities. The result was ultimately very satisfying, as long as there was talent behind it.

Techno clubs had sprouted like mushrooms in German industrial zones. Later, we’d sometimes go to the Jailhouse in Achern, with resident DJs Peter Pan, Tandu, and a charming Indonesian woman whose nickname I can’t remember. That was high-class techno, real trance music—French legends like Laurent Garnier and even David Guetta could take a nap compared to DJs that talented.

But for that first time, we went to this nameless nightclub, sometimes called Blümchen ("little flower") or more often Abflug ("takeoff"). It was located in a large, one-story building on a massive airfield in Lahr, a site that had recently been occupied by Canadian forces stationed in Germany after the war. The place didn’t last long, though, because the staff and certain handpicked clients (no landing allowed!) had a habit of reopening after closing time and lining up long lines (not the airborne kind!) on the counters...

I remember our arrival in the parking lot perfectly—seeing so many cars parked with their doors open and young people dancing around them. I was impressed by the deep bass thumping from that cubic building, while I felt a mix of dizziness, physical well-being bordering on invulnerability, and a warmth pulsing in my stomach and head.

Once inside, once you start dancing, you don’t even think about stopping. From 11 PM to 4 or 5 AM, you lose all sense of time, frozen in... well, ecstasy, obviously.

Between the main dance floor and the restrooms, there was a large mirror. At some point during the night, I caught my own reflection. What a shock—feeling serene and optimistic, perfectly in sync with the hypnotic, almost tranquil rhythm, only to freeze in front of those dilated pupils and that serial-killer stare. A truly singular experience. "You scared me," is the phrase that fits the situation! The most surprising part was rediscovering the sensations of my adolescence, as if the threads of time had suddenly sucked me backward...

A few weeks later, still at the same place, I sat on a bar stool next to a solitary woman. Older than most of the crowd, like me. The first words I said to her were, "You have a beautiful face." Instead of telling me off, she burst out laughing. Life really does what it wants with us!

A few months later, the three of us were walking on the tarmac of Marrakech Airport, but this time for a three-week stay. In the city, we quickly noticed a significant change compared to the previous year—one that would hold true throughout the trip: there was almost no harassment from locals trying to squeeze money out of us in one way or another. At the time, Morocco was known for having one of the lowest return rates in the world. In travel industry jargon, that means vacationers who’d been to Morocco once rarely came back. No one likes to be hassled repeatedly. The tourist police had been set up on June 19, 1995, so we’d just missed its positive influence the year before. In 1996, the situation had completely turned around: it was now possible to explore the country in peace. A few times, we noticed that when someone got a little too pushy, others would quickly step in to let them know it was better not to insist. Without understanding what was said, we deduced that if the police intervened, the penalties were probably pretty harsh...

To mix things up, I’d decided to bring some Kodak film along with my usual Fuji rolls, and I was a bit disappointed with the results, especially in low light. The colors were quite washed out, less vibrant. Now that all this gear has aged, it doesn’t matter much anymore, and at least I can present *something* in terms of illustrations for those brave enough to read this.

In Marrakech, we wandered around and visited a tourist shop that sold just about everything you could imagine bringing home. On a whim, I decided to buy a black onyx egg with white stripes. A pretty imposing decorative object, weighing three kilos—the kind of thing you don’t want to drop from a balcony in a pedestrian zone. After haggling, the price was ridiculously low. The enthusiastic young salesman was really disappointed when I told him I’d just arrived and wouldn’t be walking around with it all the time. He didn’t believe me at all when I promised to come back and pick it up at the end of my stay.

A little later, we managed to find a high-end pastry shop in the Jemaa el-Fna square. I don’t know who the owner was, but the pastries were of French quality—not overly sweet, either. I’ve got a major sweet tooth, especially for chocolate. I bought two and immediately knew I’d hit the jackpot. I was savoring the second one when Eric and Maggie said, "Alright, are we going?" I’d taken too long. Just then, a kid dressed like a beggar appeared in front of me. He didn’t say a word, but his look said it all. He was staring at my cake like he hadn’t eaten in a week. It broke my heart—I didn’t even think twice. I handed him the remaining three-quarters of my pastry, and he didn’t hesitate to stuff it into his mouth. Who knows, maybe he’d never tasted anything that good in his life. Even now, I regret not making the others wait so I could go back to the bakery and load him up with a mountain of pastries.

Wandering through the souks was pleasant and educational, but oh, how gratifying it was to watch the sunrise from a terrace and have breakfast there.









Maggie, who until then had only been to the Algarve—where she’d run into Iron Maiden members who’d bought a castle there—immediately adapted to local customs. I wasn’t too surprised when she wanted a henna tattoo during our visit to the Marrakech souk, but I didn’t think she’d want to buy a djellaba. Sure, the garment was gray—a neutral color—and, I can attest, soft and sensual to the touch. In fact, I found out a few days later that it was a luxury model women often wore at weddings, with a long undershirt beneath. During a walk through the city, I was even more surprised when all the locals stared at her with wide eyes, as if they’d never seen a woman before. Come on, she wasn’t the first Westerner to wear that kind of outfit. In a crowded alley, I thought there must be something special about it that drew so many looks. And then—stunned! On each side, at hip level, there were slits at least ten centimeters long. I hadn’t noticed that. Most importantly—and I didn’t know this—Maggie wasn’t wearing *anything* underneath. Kids might have glimpsed part of her chest, while adults could see a portion of her stomach. "Maggie, everyone’s staring at you." Maggie was so comfortable in the heat that she didn’t take offense. Later, she didn’t wear it much in the city, or maybe just over a swimsuit. Let’s be grateful to all those locals who were shocked but didn’t openly show their disapproval! I probably would’ve been a lot more shocked and worried if I’d known that years later, Iranian scholar Hajatosalem Kazem Sedighi would say: "Women who dress immodestly tempt men, corrupt their chastity, and spread adultery in society, which increases earthquakes."

Maggie was actually a pretty shy girl, which might seem paradoxical given how confident her people can be. She was often very refined, but that didn’t stop her from dropping the occasional blunt remark, like a Prussian helmet, such as: "Kein Schwanz ist so hart wie das Leben." A strikingly realistic quote, though a bit tricky to work into most conversations.

Every time I wandered the streets of a country like that, I felt much more relaxed than back home. It was as if I’d left behind a good part of the conventions, constraints, and stress in my homeland. The freedom of vacation was paired with the freedom of behavior—just mindful not to offend the locals with my attitude. That wasn’t too hard; I’d been taught to respect others well, sometimes too much.

You could say interactions are lighter, easier with complete strangers, especially when they’re full of spontaneity and simplicity.

Since the end of my teens, I haven’t been able to eat breakfast. Apparently, my stomach wakes up long after my brain, and if I eat anything solid within an hour of waking up, I feel like I’ve got a brick in my stomach. So, I’d gotten into the habit of buying a kind of round bread in town later in the morning, which each vendor charged me four dirhams for. One day, I wondered if bargaining might apply to this kind of transaction too—maybe they were charging me more than locals. It wasn’t about the money, but as a young socialist and universalist, it seemed obvious and undeniable that everyone should be treated the same way.

One fine morning, I didn’t wait for the vendor to set the price. I just went for it—I held out two dirhams with the confidence of an old pro who knows the deal. Success! The vendor took them without a fuss, which confirmed to me that I’d been getting the tourist price all along. I was both proud of uncovering the trick and disappointed in myself for not thinking of it sooner.

Then, struck by doubt, I lingered for a moment. Right after me, a local Moroccan bought one of those breads. I paid close attention to what he handed over. You’ll never guess—and I must’ve looked pretty sheepish—it was ONE dirham, the real price! Oh, those guys—they look you right in the eye with a friendly smile, but they still charge you four times the price...

We stayed in Marrakech a little longer than the year before, and I’m embarrassed to admit we missed a ton of must-sees. In the end, maybe we were the inventors of slow travel *and* snobbery toward the beaten path...

If it weren’t for a few photos for posterity, I wouldn’t even remember walking through some of those places. Thankfully, kind internet users later published plenty of detailed travel journals. All I know is that I was probably more touched by the happiness I found in that country than most of them, thanks to some quirk of fate... Some will still grumble about "doping," and they’d be absolutely right.

We took the bus to Oualidia, a good way to keep costs down. With three weeks of travel, you’ve got to make sure you don’t run out of cash after just ten days. Along the way, we saw a storm lingering in the distance, up in the hills. When you don’t know the climate well, you can’t imagine the consequences—where you are—of a storm breaking out kilometers, even tens of kilometers away. Anyway, after a while, the bus stopped for an hour because rivers had suddenly appeared, both in front of and behind us. If you’re unlucky enough to be walking through gorges at that moment, you could easily get knocked over, swept away, and wiped out by the raging torrents that surge from the arid nothingness.

Without the photo, I’d have sworn the storm stayed far away from us. Truth be told, the image makes it look like we faced the apocalypse.



It was a moment of pure joy to rediscover the tranquility of Oualidia, a small town that gives the illusion of never changing. Deep down, we were three pure souls eager to chill, as they say now. The vibe was perfect—it’s so handy and pleasant to have good travel buddies.

We settled back into our second-rate hotel quarters, where the restaurant and its white and gris wines helped acidify the stomach, along with the seafood, the jagged coasts, the local fishermen, and our friends from the previous year. The big boss himself seemed quite happy to see us return. He was especially interested in my camera. I’d read somewhere that imported goods are taxed at around 400% or more, and everyone knows you can score some great deals on certain products in Africa.

I’ve been following you from my sleeper cabin between Udaipur and Ahmedabad, the Rajasthan landscapes bathed in the late-afternoon light at my window—the perfect setting for this kind of reading. Gorgeous photos!

I'm touched. Yet, I was a beginner with a pretty basic camera...

From the start, I paid attention to framing and was constantly on the lookout for interesting shots. You're even more careful and precise when you're working with 36-exposure film rolls—developing them isn't free, and you don't see the results for days or even weeks later...

Anyone who’s read some of Jojoone’s travel journals will be struck by how relatively unprepared the trip was, not to mention the lack of detailed references. It’s true that back then, we didn’t have the internet to spend evenings, weekends, or even months researching our future route. What made it work was that my two buddies were the carefree type, preferring to discover things by chance and improvise along the way. Could I have ever imagined that one day I’d be sharing these little adventures with fellow travelers? Of course not.

Luckily, we managed to pool our meager resources to rent a small Fiat and set off on a modest few-day circuit in the region.

We headed south with Ouarzazate as our first stop. That meant crossing the mountains, and I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised by the different hues of the rocks. I wasn’t expecting that, and since I love surprises, it turned out to be a real plus, making the journey even more enjoyable. Every now and then, during our contemplative stops, I’d make my partners in crime laugh by dramatically exclaiming at the landscape: "Aaaah, eternal Morocco!"







It didn’t take us long to realize that some of the GDR’s recommendations were spot-on. For instance, it’s said you should be wary of locals waving at you near a car that appears to be broken down on the side of the road. Their goal is to befriend you and then take you to a small shop where you’ll feel more or less pressured into buying some zoulis rugs. Sure, I believed it when I read it, but I figured it was one of those things that only happens to other people. So when I saw a broken-down car with its hood open and two guys waving for us to stop, I was reminded of what I’d read—and had a little hunch. I just gave a little smile and stepped on the gas, much to their disappointment. Still, what a thankless job—waiting all day just to finally trick some tourist into spending money!

Around Ouarzazate, you’ll always find someone to remind you that the outdoor scenes from *Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves* were filmed in the area, and some of the sets are still around. That took me back to the early 70s. Once a semester, we’d get to go to the movies. We’d leave the classroom and the school, walking about 200 meters in pairs to a community hall where a huge white screen and rows of chairs awaited us. When the lights went out, no threats or orders were needed to get complete silence. Some of my most cherished cinematic experiences happened there. Even in black and white, the summer skies in *Fanfan la Tulipe* were warmer and more magnificent than the ones we saw in real life. *Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves*, on top of that, was in color. I’ll never forget how Fernandel said "Morgiaaneeeuh" with that accent or the legendary "Open, Sesame!" In real life, the mother of Fernandel’s girlfriend would often exclaim when she saw him, "It’s *her* Fernand," which is how he got his stage name...