I didn’t think I was going to miss Morocco that much. I enjoyed my 10+ weeks of living and surfing on the country’s Atlantic coast, but I never felt that an irreplaceable, everlasting bond had been forged — the type that would gnaw at me to come back like what I felt after leaving Brazil, for example. However, on an unassuming Wednesday afternoon I received a work email telling me to jump on a flight to Portugal that same night to cover a surf contest. As I hurried to pack and sort out my apartment and rental car, nostalgia crept into my thoughts.

The nostalgia was a familiar concoction of emotions I had often felt since starting this travel phase of life. Just as when I left Brazil, or India, or Reunion Island, it was an amalgamation of the people I met, the places I had seen, new words of a foreign language stored in my brain, and the transition from entering a completely unknown setting to attaining a level of comfort and routine. Evidently, there was something special about Morocco locked in my subconscious — certainly more than I realized.

As is usually the case when I travel, the people I met were the main source of said nostalgia. Solo travel reminds me of the first week of college when no one has friends. Suddenly, the boundaries you had in high school regarding who could be a potential friend are broadened. And my time in Morocco was no exception; the people who entered my orbit were a lively, funny mix of personalities and nationalities.

One day while trying to figure out how to paddle out at a new spot, I struck up a conversation with a French surfer who studies theoretical physics in Sweden. We became a surf squad for the two weeks he was in town, carpooling for our surfs. He declared I was a “robot” for being a multilingual American who could hold his own in a chat about Italian music. On the bus to Taghazout I connected with a young Dutch couple on their first trip off the continent. They were more than ten years younger than me, but we shared many meals and surf sessions. Funny enough, the young Dutch guy had bookmarked an article a few years earlier about an American surfer who had quit his job to travel the world. Later he put two and two together that the author was me.

While I was eating dinner alone one evening, another woman also eating by herself asked if I wanted to join her. I wouldn’t have dared approach her on my own because I thought she was a local. (Gossip spreads like wildfire in the village of Taghazout.) But as we broke bread, I discovered that she was a lawyer from Saudi Arabia working remotely and learning to surf in Morocco. We were two of the few long-term residents of Taghazout and naturally struck up a friendship. Through the Saudi lawyer I met an extremely extroverted, linguistically skilled gay Egyptian/Kuwaiti man who had some movie-worthy tales to tell. While on vacation as a child in Egypt, war broke out with Iraq and he discovered that his home had been destroyed. He didn’t return until decades later to find the remnants of his childhood.

I grew close to a young German surfer in Essaouira who was stretching his travel budget by crashing on a local’s couch. We got into a routine where I would pick him up at the crack of dawn each morning to go for a surf. In Taghazout, I’d often stop on the streets to chat with two Brazilian hostel volunteers to unleash my Rio de Janeiro-influenced Portuguese. Then there was Yassin, the gregarious waiter at Cafe Yoba who helped me search for my stolen phone and invited me to authentic Moroccan lunches. And finally, after more than a year of online classes, I met Ziyad, my Moroccan French teacher, for the first time in person.

Perhaps I didn’t have the time to truly reflect on the meaningful connections I formed, but the unforeseen nostalgia I felt while packing my bags was all the proof I needed to realize that they left their marks on me.

As far as why I didn’t immediately (at least consciously) feel a yearning to stay longer in Morocco despite all the lovely connections I made, I have a theory: Living in a non-secular monarchy takes some getting used to. I see myself as someone who can easily adapt to different cultures and scenarios, but in some ways, the acclimation period in Morocco got tougher the longer I stayed.

I grew up in California within a bubble of generally non-religious peers. And, even as non-religious as I am and as secular as the U.S. government claims to be, the world in which I grew up is built upon Christian foundations. I am a product of this environment.

I do have some religious friends. One summer I even wanted (then regretted) to go to Bible camp because my friends were going. But the extent to which religion forms the basis of society in Morocco presented some challenges. As I try to gently wrestle these confusing thoughts into words, I realize that as a quick visitor to the country, you might not even feel this chasm. The longer I stayed and the deeper my life wove into the societal fabric, the more this invisible barrier became apparent.

Before I dive too deep into the controversial world of religion and tip-toe the fine line of telling it straight and getting canceled, this is not at all a criticism of Morocco or Islam. I’m just going to point out adjustments that I had to make. I’ll start with some obvious ones.

1) I learned how to shape my work schedule around the daily prayers. My apartment was slightly uphill from the mosque and about eye level with the speakers mounted on the building’s minaret. The five daily prayers were pretty deafening and would disrupt any meetings or phone calls. And on Fridays, the holiest day of the week in Islam, the prayer in Taghazout would last for two hours. I learned to live like the locals and just take Friday afternoons off because there was no way to focus with the mosque’s speakers booming through my apartment.

2) I don’t drink much alcohol to begin with, so it wasn’t that hard to do without it in Morocco. But alcohol is considered “haram” in Islam, which, for those who don’t know, is a laundry list of forbidden things that also includes pork and pre-marital sex. Islam is the state religion in Morocco, but there are unwritten rules that allow certain establishments to sell alcohol. In Taghazout, two restaurants had beer on the menu, and in Agadir, the nearest big city, there was even a liquor store. From what I gathered, there were no issues with foreigners drinking alcohol, but locals could run into issues if the police wished to arbitrarily apply the Islamic laws to them.

3) By Moroccan law, unmarried men and women cannot share a room. Since I was traveling solo, I didn’t have to deal with this much, but from what I observed, as a foreigner it was generally ok to break this rule. When I was booking Airbnb’s, I noticed that oftentimes it would require marriage papers for couples, but whether this was actually carried out, or just added for compliance purposes, probably depends on each case. For foreigners who date Moroccans, this rule can become frustrating. If you connect with a Moroccan who is keen on breaking this rule, you need to be sly about sneaking them past the public eye. Some people could care less, but others absolutely believe it’s their duty to intervene.

Those are a few of the surface level customs that I had to mold my life around in Morocco. But when I delved into more profound beliefs and morals, I found myself treading in more uncomfortable territory. For example, one question I pondered: To what extent should I accept the homophobic views of another person? There is a whole spectrum of how strictly people adhere to Islam, but, as I collected experiences over the months there, it was clear that those who are fairly pious are not ashamed of sharing their anti-gay views.

To be fair, the U.S. — or anywhere in the world for that matter — has its fair share of religious fundamentalists who harbor homophobic views. But in the U.S. I would never compromise on associating with someone who held such beliefs. In Morocco, where Islam is the law, especially in a small, conservative village like the one I was living in, you might alienate yourself from a good chunk of the town if you start prodding at everyone’s moral compass. I contemplated, as a foreigner, to what extent I should just accept that’s the way things are and keep my mouth shut.

Another example is gender roles in society. One conversation I had with a young local woman sticks out in my mind. She essentially lectured me on how women are inherently born to be submissive and subservient to men and us ‘Westerners’ are silly for believing otherwise. My life experiences and upbringing obviously taught me the opposite. But it was the conviction with which she dictated those words that burned them into my memory. It seems like a depressing way to live.

I am very cautious to not base my opinions and observations too heavily on individual experiences or events, knowing that one life experience is not always representative of a country or religion as a whole. I’ve also learned that, in Morocco, like with any religion, there is a whole spectrum of believers, from fundamentalists to atheists, and it varies among demographics. But, on the other hand, I also can’t immediately discard my experiences — what my ears have heard and my eyes have seen. There is a balance to be had between the two extremes.

---

That long-winded explanation of the challenges may have overweighed some of the debatably negative aspects, so it’s only fair to highlight the positives. For the most part, my experiences with Moroccans were overwhelmingly positive. I made a habit of picking up hitchhikers along the highways, which led to some wholesome interactions with people I’d never otherwise cross paths with. Each time, I was met with heartfelt gratitude and a firm, genuine handshake. And I’ll always admire the linguistic skills of Moroccans — many can effortlessly switch between four languages from completely different language families: Arabic, Berber, English, and French.

In my previous post about the life of a surfer in Morocco, I wrote about some of the unpleasant localism that I witnessed. However, towards the end of my stay I realized that a few bad apples really can ruin the bunch. On my last surf in Morocco, one of the locals paddled over to me to introduce himself, surprised that we hadn’t met before after two months. He wanted to let me know that I was welcome at Anchor Point. A few minutes later he turned to the rest of the mostly foreign lineup and relayed the same message: They were welcome and could even come sit at the top of the point with him.

At first, I wondered if this was some sort of a trap to filter out those stupid enough to challenge the locals at the top of the peak. I could see the collective apprehension on everyone’s faces. But he actually meant it, which made me respect him a lot. That one guy left a positive impression on me and (at least temporarily) removed any bad taste in my mouth from previous surf experiences.

The longer I stayed in Morocco, the more challenges I uncovered—but at the same time, the country grew on me as I gained a deeper understanding of the locals and their world. I’ll miss those coffees with Yassin at Cafe Yoba in Taghazout. I’ll miss the amlou nut spreads. I’ll miss petting donkeys. I’ll miss ordering my flat bread msemens in Arabic. I’ll miss mint tea. I’ll miss the people I met. And I’ll certainly miss the surf, which was non-stop in January and February. Morocco was a more-than-worthy destination to call home for the winter of 2024/25.