Travel Diaries - Morocco

Definitely not a Guide. Originally Written in October 2021.

A view of Fez at dawn from my riad in the heart of the medina

1. Unintentionally Illegal: Off to a Rocky Start in Fez

Mosque of al-Qarawiyyin

Just a few days ago, if you had told me traveling in the age of Covid is near impossible, I would have naively replied that you can always find a way to work around things. After all, I thought I had done just that by booking a trip to Morocco, from Italy, then back into the EU through Spain, only to go to Mexico for two weeks, therefore eluding the Schengen ban before flying into the United States.

Some thought went into the itinerary: Spain can’t close its Moroccan borders because of its colonial heritage in Melilla and Ceuta, and I’m still not sure why the US banned a heavily vaccinated continent like Europe but placed no restrictions on Central America. A near perfect plan that, in a matter of weeks, would see me walk through customs in Fez, only to be stopped by authorities and have part of my gear seized.

Because of the ongoing pandemic, as of September 2021 people are not allowed to leave Italy if not to visit fellow EU countries. That is, unless you’re flying for work, family ties, or to go back to your home country. I’ve been itching to travel and give my new camera a test-drive for quite a while now, and as someone who carries a lot of gear with him I didn’t think it’d be a problem to pass as a professional photographer or filmmaker, which I kind of am, but not exactly.

I leave Milan under the first heavy rain of the season, without an umbrella because “hey, I’m going to the desert, right?”. I get to the airport after a lengthy bus ride and sneakily place my overweight luggage so that it partially lays on the frame of the conveyor belt. As a former Erasmus student I’m a thrifty traveler at heart: paying excess fees would bring great shame upon my name.

I make my way to the gate and take out my laptop, eager to multitask time away, but the hour separating me from my departure becomes two, then three, then almost four, as I type my frustration away, waiting for a delayed flight. I make it to Fez at 11:00 PM, almost three hours after scheduled time: not enough to get a refund, more than enough for pretty much anything at the airport to be closed. I’m not one to shop at duty-free shops, but I did hope to get a SIM card and let people know I was fine. Mostly, though, I need Google Maps to reach the hostel I’ve booked in the heart of the Fez Medina, which is basically a maze.

With curfew in full swing the airport looks eerily empty: posters of the king with a strong ’90s vibe outnumber the actual airport staff as I start wondering whether I’ll even find a cab outside. However, that won’t be a problem for another couple of hours, as I’m about to find out.

“What do you do for work?”

“I’m a… photographer.”

“What?”

“A photographer.”

“What?”

“I take photos.”

That’s actually more like it. I’m not a photographer.

As the officer types my lies away, I stare at his badge and notice he isn’t a cop, but rather a member of the postal police: the dentists of law enforcement.

“Company?”

“I’m a freelancer.”

“Freelancer.”

Strangely enough, him getting it right the first time around seems like bad news. He gives me a nod and lets me through. I stop for cash at what might be the last open exchange in all of Morocco and, after getting an awful amount of dirhams for a modest amount of euros, I’m ready to go.

“Not so fast!”

I can only guess a policeman tells me in Arabic, or French, or some other language I never bothered to learn.

“Your bag. In the machine.”

Again, I assume that’s what he tells me.

“Not that one. That one.”

My hand luggage? Fair enough. The checked one — or at least 7 of its 12 Kgs — already went through thorough scrutiny.

“Drone?”

“What?”

“Drone?”

“Yes…”

That’s no good, because as it turns out, vintage posters of the king aren’t the only artwork in the airport: a closer examination of the walls also reveals plenty of warnings regarding drones being outlawed by the government. Ironically, the signs look as if they had been designed long before drones ever existed.

What ensues after that is a hour-long exchange with 3 officers, none of whom speaks any English, which could be summed up as: “the drone stays here. Come back tomorrow and we’ll figure it out.” A pretty reasonable conclusion considering I’m breaking the law. So the only thing left for me to do is to break the law a second time and catch a cab way past-curfew to make my way to the riad, which I did.

The Fez Medina is a maze, enclosed within huge walls designed centuries ago to protect its inhabitants. It is the oldest and biggest of its kind in the country, or so I’m told. As the cab driver drops me off in front of the blue gate, its beauty almost makes me forget I have no clue how to get to the hotel. But if there’s one thing you can always count on in Morocco, that’s hustlers.

“Italiano?”

“Si.” (How the hell did he know?)

“Parlo italiano. Ti porto all’hotel.” (I speak Italian. I’ll take you to your hotel.)

I can’t remember his name (this is going to be a thing throughout the article), but I’m greeted by a young man who offers to take me to my riad. He also offers to carry my bag. He then offers to sell me weed. “You’re Italian. Italian people smoke marijuana.” I pay him for his help — I did not buy the weed — with the same change I had managed to retrieve from the cab driver whose fare seemed awfully wobbly.

It’s almost 2 AM as I enter the hotel. The owner, who clearly just woke up, is still eager to show me around and take me — his only guest, apparently — to the gorgeous roof terrace overlooking the Medina. That’s where I’ll have breakfast for the next few days. I pay for my stay and buy some water before trading a hour of sleep with this page I just wrote and another page dedicated to pleading for my drone, which I task Google Drive with translating to French.

In it, I outline a proposal for them to seal the drone and place an official stamp on the package. That way, I’ll be able to show officers in Marrakech I’ve never once flown it. Seems fair, right? I hope so.

Fez. September 27, 2021. 02:45 AM.

2. Fez: Hustlers & Alternative Realities

One of the many stray cats roaming around the souks in Fez

“Corona not finished in Italy?”

“No.” I reply a little dumbfounded. “Here?”

“Yes. Corona, here, one week. Then finished.”

I’m driving back from the airport with Abdul, a taxi driver with a very simple selling proposition: he is a licensed taxi driver — so you’re in good hands — but he promises not to use his license so the ride will be cheaper. Much like the covid claim, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the logic behind this. Still, he came across as the nicest out of all the taxi drivers.

In case you’re wondering, the trip to the airport had proven unsuccessful. I wasn’t given my drone but I was, at least, promised I could get it back when leaving the country. The only problem is I’d originally planned to leave from Marrakech, meaning I’ll have to book a new flight and drive all the way back to Fez to get it. An inconvenient change of plans, but nothing compared to the prospect of parting ways with my brand new drone.

I make it back to the medina and I’m immediately surrounded by hustlers offering anything from tours to goods, kids, wives and daughters. In fact, if there is one way to describe Fez in macro-economical terms, it’s the outrageous surplus of offer compared to demand: from the barrage of shops, all seemingly selling the same herbs and spices, to the array of improvised guides and unofficial cab drivers. If you want my advice, though, pick one and stick to him (they’re generally men) for the entirety of your stay. It’ll be much cheaper (but more on that later).

Thankfully, my stay offered a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the medina. I really want to thank and give a shout out to Maison Famille Tazi, a tasteful riad where every morning I would enjoy a delicious and exceedingly instagrammable breakfast from the rooftop terrace (hands down the best view of Fez). The owner was a surprisingly sweaty man who spoke just enough English and was only around as much as I wanted him to be. In a town based on upselling and cross-selling, you’ll find that to be a refreshing quality.

As lunchtime approaches, I’m busy fending off supposed tour guides while mounting an ND filter on my camera so as to avoid overexposed clips due to the harsh sunlight. And speaking of polarized filters… Where are my glasses?

Damn it. I’m 10 minutes into my trip to a mostly deserted and blistering hot country, and I have no sunglasses. I get distracted and leave my guard down just long enough for a “guide” to convince me he should show me around town. He’s a kid, high school age, probably.

“I’ll take you to the tannery.”

“As in THE tannery? The one you see in the pictures?” (It’s called Number 10, now I know)

“Yes, the big one. The famous one.”

We walk past a narrow arch carved into the seemingly monolithic walls of the Medina. Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by a pungent smell of carcasses and excrements. I tiptoe through a pile of untreated skins swarmed by flies and the occasional starved kittens. Around me are buckets of a substance I do not dare to investigate. It is clear that whatever this place is, it is not the world-famous, tourist-packed, upscale tannery of Fez. The one I will visit later on during this trip.

Hunched-over men walk back and forth, jumping in and out of pools filled with acid and pigeon stools. That’s where the skins sit for a while before they’re ready to be treated and scraped of all fats. The workers wear little to no protective gear, which does make me wonder how long before their own skin is ripe to be turned into shoes. The leather from the pool then gets laid on the ground to dry up in the sun, before being covered in yellow pigments to soak up the color.

I start snapping pictures and filming clips but I have to move fast: keeping up with Mohammed is challenging, plus I feel as if I’m intruding. Today’s just a working day for these people, their working conditions are harsh and I do not want to come across as if I think of it as some sort of spectacle. I realize how lucky I am to have been invited into this place and given a chance to capture it with my camera.

Mohammed teaches me how to say hi, thank you, and bye, perhaps picking up on my discomfort as I try not to act like a quintessential tourist. We finish the tour and walk up a steep hill for an aerial view of the medina. Our next stops include a carpet workshop, a fragrance boutique, and a convenience store selling anything from spices to local food. It becomes clear to me Mohammed’s run out of things to show me and just wants me to visit his relatives’ stores. It’s time to say goodbye. I pay him and make my way back to the hotel where I need to catch up with some work before heading out again towards the Jewish quarter.

I leave the riad on a mission not to let any hustler show me around. I have clearly overpaid my last guide, not to mention I got a return cab ride to the airport for no reason earlier this morning. Between that and the glasses, my first day in Fez has been pricey to say the least. Overly confident despite my lack of an active internet connection, I hesitate just long enough for Mike (I forgot his real name) to approach me with an offer I very much could have refused. He’s going to show me around the old Jewish quarter.

Knowing full well that’s going to be another 20€, I’m too exhausted to fend him off. He seems like a genuinely nice guy and I know walking with him will shield me from other guides who might not be. He tells me about Jewish and Muslim immigration to Morocco after the Christian conquest of the Iberian Peninsula and gets me into an old synagogue that’s not really open to tourists. He even takes me into a few homes where I learn that the islamic architecture typical of riads features indoor balconies so that women can stay indoor, contrary to jewish homes that feature outdoor balconies. I am reminded this is a very different country from the one I grew up in, especially as he shows me a school for “young kids and old women”, an odd combination I decided not to comment on.

Finally, as he takes me to see the remnants of a few Spanish buildings, he mentions he’s never been to Spain but knows the colors and mosaics look very much like those you see in Granada or Seville. He’s never been outside Morocco. I had bought a second flight to Spain to make up for the change of plan that very same morning. I’m reminded of how fortunate I am and, suddenly, the idea of paying me 20 bucks only seems fair.

It’s been an hour and a half since we’ve met; we’ve seen the Jewish quarter and the facade of the Royal Palace. I make my way back to the medina uncertain about my next move: more than one person had told me I’ve already explored most of what I’m allowed to see in Fez, considering I can’t enter the mosques. I kinda want to skip town in the morning, three days earlier than originally planned. As I’m lost in thought, I walk through an open-air market where I see chickens being slaughtered, caged pigeons, kittens so tiny they shouldn’t have been born yet, and even an old lady who faints just as she’s walking in front of me. Perhaps it really is time to leave Fez and go somewhere more relaxing.

I have dinner at La Tarbouché, a lovely restaurant where I taste the most delicious chicken pastille ever and some mint tea, all for 10€, tip included. I meet a couple of young travelers from South America and we make plans to go to Chefchaouen by bus together in the morning.

I’m actually on that bus right now, nauseous from the harsh driving and deliberately dehydrated so I can’t throw up and don’t have to go to the bathroom. I stayed up almost all night to catch up with emails and work. Taking a nap now seems like the sensible thing to do.

PS: two nights in Fez are plenty, just in case you’re making arrangements.

Between Fez and Chefchaouen. September 28, 2021. 10:15 AM

3. Chefchaouen: Hell Never Looked So Pretty

Akchour. A national park just outside the blue city of Chefchaouen

To much of my surprise, people here speak just as much Spanish as they do French. A much appreciated change as I try to shake the rust off my Español, since I’m traveling with Andres and Malinka, respectively from Colombia and Ecuador.

Chefchaouen isn’t just as beautiful as in the pictures I had seen online, it’s also peaceful and quiet, which is nice after the exuberant Fez. I get lost within the narrow blue alleys of the medina, taking pictures as the sun sets behind the hills. It’s quite a small town and I get a feeling I’ve seen most of the spots after a few hours wandering around, so I stop for dinner at Lala Masouda, where I end up chatting with the owner.

Once again, I’m the only guest at the riad I’ve booked. Andres and Malinka tell me they’re also alone in their hostel. I know, because I’m now the proud owner of a sim card, so we can make plans to hike in Akchour in the morning.

I’m awakened at 5:30 AM by the outrageously loud morning prayers blasted from the minaret speakers facing my bathroom window. I had set an alarm for 6 AM to catch up with some work, so it’s not really that I lost 30 minutes of sleep, but rather that I woke up in a panic.

I meet with Andres and Milenka at 10 for a quick bite before we head out to the taxi station, which is really a parking lot next to a gas station. The guy at my riad recommended we go to Akchour, but also warned the “big cascades” — as he called them — are dry this time of the year, so we should hike to “the bridge” instead.

On our way, we drive past huge marijuana plantations that supply the local production of hashish: this part of the country benefits from a unique provision that decriminalized cultivation and consumption of weed. I do wonder who owns and benefits from this business: all around us are nothing but unattended kids, stray dogs and overworked farmers, there’s no sign of mansions, farmhouses or wealth in general.

Side note: if you come here yourself, remember not to take pictures of the cannabis crops: it’s frowned upon and might even get you in trouble.

The hike to “the bridge”, though at times challenging because of the slippery rocks and narrow paths — is one of the most pleasant and relaxing I’ve ever taken. The canyon is gorgeous, pervaded by the soothing sounds of birds chirping and water running through mild rapids and tiny falls. The weather is absolutely perfect and OH MY GOD THE DUDE IN FRONT OF US JUST SLIPPED AND FELL INTO THE RIVER FROM A 6 FEET TALL PATH.

He’s fine. I checked. However, between that and the evidently unstable wooden bridges, I’d definitely recommend wearing proper hiking shoes. It’s not a tiring hike at all, but it can be a dangerous one. Apart from that… just a perfect day and god damn it I can’t believe I didn’t film that.

Fast forward to the Bridge, which I discover is not an actual bridge but rather a natural rocky formation known as God’s Bridge: a beautiful, reddish behemoth under which people can swim in water so cold I can barely feel my feet. A peaceful, natural environment to relax after a 45-minute hike I’d definitely recommend to inexperienced hikers, if not for the fact that man from earlier could have easily died had it not been for the surprisingly deep pool of water below him.

As we reach the bridge and walk into the freezing shallow waters ourselves, we start chatting with David and Kelly, an American couple from Oregon, as well as with a group of young tourists from Germany. We exchange the traditional “where are you from, where are you going, what brings you here” that never fails to start a conversation between random travelers, and make vague plans to maybe catch a cab back together. We chill for another 30 minutes before we make our way back.

The path to the bridge — and back — is packed with kiosks serving tagine. The food is surprisingly good and the vibe just unbeatable: most kiosks have seats and tables placed in shallow pools where you can enjoy your lunch while letting your feet slowly go into an irreversible state of hypothermia. It sounds horrible, but it’s quite lovely, really.

As we sip our tea, waiting for the tagine to be ready, we spot Kelly and David. They join us for lunch. He’s a writer and philosophy teacher, she owns a really cool store of vintage and foreign furniture and clothing. They’re awfully nice. We talk for an hour and eat our chicken tagine while our lower bodies went numb. We then walk back to the pickup point, fulfilling our plan of catching a cab together, in a rare example of travelers doing what they claimed they’d do. Our car stops to let us take pictures of the view, and I even manage to sneak a few snaps of the weed crops, feeling validated after our driver shouted “marijuana”, as if he’d just invented it in a Eureka moment.

When we get back to Chefchaouen — which by now I feel overly confident spelling — Andres, Milena and I figure we should embark on yet another long walk towards the Spanish Mosque, an historical landmark overlooking the valley. A tourists’ favorite for sunsets. There, we meet a former tourist guide turned primary school teacher with a passion for photography. He’s from Chefchaouen but studied in Tetuan (or was it Tangier?). I’m not sure why he came back: no matter how pretty, this town does feel cramped for someone in his late twenties. His eyes and eagerness to connect with strangers tell me he’s not sure himself.

We exchange contacts and talk about photography and filmmaking. He’s bright and incredibly nice. He introduces me to his friend Tarak who’s a filmmaker. They tell me all about the film festival they helped organize every year before covid. Later that night, talking to David and Kelly over dinner, I would find out they also met him and had a very similar conversation the day before. I get a sense he does this almost every day and wonder what it feels like to live trapped in this gorgeous valley, lost within the blue walls of the Medina. Hell never looked so pretty.

The rest of the evening goes almost exactly as planned. Andres, Milenka, David, Kelly and I meet for what would be our last dinner together. We chat, have a great meal on the terrace of a fancy riad in front of the Kasbah, spend way less than we expected and say our goodbyes.

I do wonder whether I’m ever going to meet any of them again, as I set my alarm for 6 AM, fully aware I will be awakened by the prayers anyway.

Chefchaouen. September 29, 2021. 11:45 PM

4. Fez: Keep Your Friends Close and Your Camera Closer

A woman outside a mosque in Fez

I leave Chefchaouen on the 10:45 CTM bus for Fez. At the station, I meet Babak, Hellen and Jessica, a couple from England and an Italian girl who now lives in Guatemala. We hop on what will be a less bumpy ride than my first one, but maybe it’s just because I’m sitting at the front this time around. As a rule, always sit at the front, don’t be one of the cool kids. Cool kids throw up.

We reach Fez where we’re met by Abdul. He took me and my other friends to the station two days earlier and I made the mistake of paying both rides upfront. It’s not like he doesn’t remember that, it’s that he straight up asks for another payment. I trade that for a discount on my next ride to the airport, but once again he’s won. I’m really not good at bargaining.

We hop off in front of the Blue Gate and are immediately assaulted by hustlers and self-proclaimed government guides offering to show us what I have already seen. They get a little aggressive as we politely decline their offers, some even shout we should go back to our countries, which seems to me against the interest of a tour guide, frankly. We all pay a quick visit to our riads in order to drop our bags and I make the unfortunate mistake of leaving my camera. After all, I’ve been here before.

“Want to go to the tanneries?”

“Sure. I’ve already been, but let’s find a different one.”

“This one’s supposed to be the most famous and beautiful.”

“Well, don’t expect it to be like in the pictures.”

“Oh, there’s number 10.”

“What’s that?” As I restrain myself from making a Downing Street joke in front of the Brits.

“It’s the best one. Very famous.”

I see.

I’d like to say I did not know about it because I only look for the least touristy spots like some pretentious and edgy digital nomad. The truth is I had come to Fez largely unprepared, with an outrageous overbooking of 5 nights and barely any idea of what to fill those days with.

We’re escorted up a steep staircase and walk through a gorgeous boutique I can only capture with my phone. Jessica looks for shoes while the rest of us go to the terrace where… Oh… So they do have dyes.

Here’s the thing about Fez. Wherever it is you’re going, people are going to try to convince you it’s the wrong way, only to take you to their own place and tell you that’s the famous one you’ve been hearing about. Having said that, I’m very grateful for the once-in-a-lifetime experience of visiting a rough tannery, one that’s representative of the working conditions of such a business in Morocco. I’m also lucky Babak and Hellen did their research and took me to see Number 10, which was absolutely beautiful. My advice: if you have enough time, do both. If not, pick the one that’s closer to your taste.

I’m always wary of people telling me what kind of experience I’m allowed to enjoy: “don’t go there, it’s for tourists”, “don’t go there, it’s not worth visiting”. Do whatever you like. Go wherever you want. This is your trip, not someone else’s.

We walk around some more then go for dinner at La Tarbouché, where I confirm my suspicion of them serving the best chicken pastille in the world. The mint lemonade is also amazing. Then it’s time to say goodbye. If there’s one thing I can’t recommend more, it’s making new friends while you’re traveling. Talk to people. You’re likely going to meet like minded individuals who are going through your same struggles, and you can help each other out. So here are a few tips I got from them:

1. Don’t eat Couscous at night: it was made for lunch and has been out all day.
2. Don’t eat anything on display, especially if it’s made with eggs or milk.
3. Only buy Argan oil in pharmacies: shops “water” it down with olive oil.
4. There’s another one I can’t remember right now. It’ll come to me later.

I’m off to the desert tomorrow (which is actually today, as I’m writing this in the early morning after a few hours of sleep). It’ll be an 8-hour drive and oh shit here’s the last thing I was warned about! Always stop at police checkpoints. It’s not enough to slow down and lock eye contact, even if they seem to nod at you. Stop, or you’ll get fined.

Probably good I remembered that.

Fez. September 30, 2021. 11:30 PM

5. Sahara Desert: Third Parties Are the Worst Parties

My friend Jessica in the Sahara Desert at Sunrise

Writing about a terrible morning is tricky when you had a great rest of the day.

I’m joined in my journey by Jessica, the Italian girl I met yesterday who was also looking to venture into the desert before heading to Marrakech. The more the merrier. We’ve both experienced the disorienting feeling of getting lost in Fez with no one to turn to but hustlers, so joining forces seems like the best thing to do. I reach out to Abdul and secure a ride to the airport where I’m supposed to pick up my rental.

“Supposed” is key here.

We walk to the little hub in the parking lot where all providers are situated. I look for mine but can’t locate it. I’m instructed to head to the opposite side of the lot. There, I’m greeted by a man sitting on a wheelchair. I ask him about my booking, he tells me to wait, then stands and walks away with no sign of deambulatory defects whatsoever. A real miracle.

He calls a man who calls another man. There’s no shop, no counter, just the trunk of a minivan packed with paperwork and a ridiculous number of payment terminals.

“You’re late. You can’t have your car anymore. Your reservation was canceled.”

Here we go again.

“But that’s my car.” I say pointing to an actual vehicle in front of me. “The first man told me.”

“Yes, but you can’t have it because we canceled your reservation. You can upgrade it for €150.”

How do you upgrade a reservation that does not exist?

What ensues is a negotiation that quickly takes the upgrade down from 150€ to 100€. A decent offer if not for the fact no one is able to show me a badge, the “manager” is some faceless dude on the phone like we’re in a Saw movie and really, what’s up with all those terminals? Those are expensive where I’m from; they have 6 or 7 just laying around. And why? They’re all the same.

I decide to pull the exceedingly Karen move of asking to speak with someone of a higher rank, which just leads to another phone conversation and wait the guy in front of me just found a pumpkin seed in the sea of terminals in his trunk and ate it.

I decide to cancel my reservation and get a full refund through Booking then walk to Avis, with which I have just booked another car on booking with full insurance, because I’m a responsible person. The entire ordeal takes about 2 hours, but I’m finally ready to leave.

“The deposit is €1650,00”

That’s an awful lot. And just barely above the €1500 limit on a lot of people’s credit cards, including my own.

“Also, your car is at another site. We have to call someone to bring it here. It’ll take a while. Or you can upgrade to a different car for just €50.”

“Fine. I’ll upgrade the car. But my card can only manage a €1500,00 deposit.”

“Ok. Only for you, because I want to help, I can get you a discount! It’ll be €1550,00.”

I swear I’m not making any of this up.

“How about a debit card?”

“Yes, but the deposit will come back to you after two months instead of two days.”

“Fine.” I say with the bullish confidence of someone who really can’t afford to keep €1500,00 on ice for two months, but doesn’t have much of a choice.

“Actually, we don’t accept debit cards.”

“SINCE WHEN?!”

“But! If you get OUR insurance, for an extra 100€, the deposit is only going to be €200”

This goes on for about 2 hours. An ideal length in case it’s ever adapted into a Samuel Beckett play. I purposely left out the bits where I call my bank, the supposed Avis manager whose number does not exist, and spot 3 errors in the contract.

In the end, we leave Fez 5 hours and 150€ later, with a less than convenient 11:00 PM ETA in Merzouga, which is an 8-hour drive. Still, the trip to the desert is extremely pleasant: I get to know Jessica and drive through outrageously beautiful landscapes that range from deserted canyons to lush forests. It feels like I’m crossing different nations if not continents, including one of the weirdest places I’ve ever been to.

Jessica had told me about a ski resort where a bunch of Swiss had moved in the past. A place called Ifran, where Moroccan landscapes meet Alpine architecture. The King’s favorite holiday destination. I thought Alpine architecture would be an exaggeration, but I’ll be damned.

If not for the heat, Ifran would look and feel like a chunk of Switzerland, Austria or Northern Italy had been teleported to the Moroccan hinterland: a surreal array of buildings with stone facades and spiky wooden roofs, luxurious green sceneries and spacious sidewalks — which will make an impact if you’re coming from Fez. I barely have time to process all of this when I see a hoard of monkeys (is it a hoard? A group? A flock? Let me know in the comment, like and subscribe) on the side of the road. Monkeys in Switzerland.

We stop for pictures just in time before a bus packed with tourists does the same. If I hadn’t rented a car I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy this, or at least I would have had to do it with a hoard (a flock? A group? Like and subscribe) of German retirees. But it was time to leave the Alps and head to the desert: a completely different but even more stunning environment that we barely got a glimpse of, before the lights went out in Morocco. I do find the roads to be better than expected, but the night is pitch black and donkeys don’t look both ways before they cross. Fortunately, we manage to make our way to Merzouga in one piece, driving through ancient Kasbahs that, for the first time, make me realize I’m in Africa.

I’d like to tell you more about our arrival in the desert, about how nice Mohammed and Aziz were to cook us dinner way past midnight, and about how stunning it is to have the entire camp to ourselves. I have never seen so many stars. I climb up a small dune and enjoy the fresh feeling of the cold sand under my bare feet, staring at a vast sea of nothingness while taking in the peaceful silence. I have a nice shower (in the middle of the desert!), in a tent more comfortable and better looking than any of the rooms I’ve stayed in so far in Morocco. I walk out and start typing away on my laptop while enjoying the chilly desert breeze in the best office I’ve never had.

I’d like to tell you more about all of that, but it’s 3.00 AM and I’ve driven for 9 hours after negotiating for 5. The alarm is set for 6:15 so as to enjoy the sunrise, especially given we’ve missed the sunset, and I do have to sneak-in a quick work revision. I’d like to tell you more but there’s no time. Plus, it’d be hard to describe in words what the desert feels like: it truly is one of the most wonderful places I’ve ever been to.

I kinda don’t want to sleep, but then again I probably should. These have been busy days, but they sure are worth it.

Sahara Desert. October 2, 2021. 03:00 AM

6. Ait Benhaddou — I Can’t Believe I’m Writing This

A couple watching the sun rise over Ait Benhaddou

I wake up after the best 3 hours of sleep I’ve had so far on this trip. Our Desert stay is unreal, with the most comfortable bed and the nicest room I’ve had in Morocco. Hard to believe I’m in the desert.

It’s 6 AM. We leave our tent and climb the dunes to enjoy the sunrise. We spend some time chilling and snowboarding on the sand before a lovely breakfast with — amongst other things — Moroccan bread and figs jam. Two of my faves. A 45-minute camel ride takes us back to the parking lot where we say goodbye to Aziz, Mohammed and the gentle camels who took us there.

I’ve long debated the ethics of riding camels. I obviously avoided major excursions in the middle of the day, but a 30-minute ride in the early morning seemed fair, especially considering we were the only tourists for the night (perhaps the week?) probably making the extra service a literal breadwinner for the camels themselves. They were treated kindly all throughout and looked rather clean.

I have nothing but great things to say about the last 12 hours, so I turn to Jessica and jokingly wonder about what kind of ordeal we must be about to face. After all, there’s been something every day. I have a feeling today might be food poisoning day. Everyone I met has had it.

We start our 6-hour drive to Ait Benhaddou, crossing otherworldly landscapes on pretty awful roads. I think I wrote about roads being surprisingly good in Morocco. Well… They’re not. And it’s not surprising at all. As J gets some sleep, I avoid a truck coming the opposite way that steered a bit too strongly to the left. As I do so, I’m also careful not to go off road: wild animals and deep potholes lay dangerously close to the asphalt. But more on that later.

We stop for a bite and slowly but surely make our way to Ouzarzate, in spite of a few too many stops to bargain with rock sellers (cue your best “they’re minerals, Mary” Breaking Bad reference). Jessica has turned out to be quite the enthusiast.

Sunset is in 45 minutes. We’ve got 30 to get to Ait, according to Google Maps. We figure we’ll make it just in time to watch the sunset from the Kasbah before heading to our hotel. We’ve already missed yesterday’s desert sunset and we don’t want to go 0 for 2. I drive slowly so as not to get fined by the many radars along the way, and mostly so as not to crash. Even then, we still manage to recover a few minutes on the ETA.

Cars coming the opposite way have a tendency to take very tight turns, and so does a truck coming off a sharp bend. It closes in on me. I reckon I could probably keep my trajectory but decide to steer a bit further to the right — better safe than sorry — but next to the paved road is a minefield of holes.

I hit one. There’s a strange sound. Here we go.

“What was that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just an old car. Sturdy, but noisy.”

If only…

It doesn’t take more than a hundred meters for the car to start swerving to the right, as one does when one or more tires on that side lose pressure.

“God, I hope it’s just one.”

We pull over and check.

“What do we do now?” Jessica asks.

“Find a tutorial on YouTube. We’ve got 10 minutes to change the tire if we want to make it for sunset.”

I run to the trunk while she pulls out her phone. I take the lever and spare tire out while she scans the internet for help.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

Now, I’m not the most handy of men. I’m not the most man of men, to be honest. I’ve never changed a tire and I don’t know my way around a fixture of any sort. Jessica herself had only once witnessed someone else change a flat tire, so we might just be the worst people for this. Still… Call it luck, call it drive, call it a really good YouTube tutorial… We actually change the tire in what I can only assume is a world record 15 minutes.

Greasy but euphoric, we fist bump so as to avoid exchanging further grease with one another. We wash our hands and sanitize the shit out of them before we set out again, ecstatic. We won’t make it for sunset, but it doesn’t matter. Something very unlikely just happened and we’ve come out on top.

We drive straight to our hotel just outside Ait Benhaddou and make plans to wake up in time for sunrise. And why not? I’ve been sleeping 3 hours and driving 10 each for the past two. We chill by the pool for a while but it’s too cold to dive in. It’s October and night is falling on the outskirts of the desert. I drag myself in front of my laptop and sit down to record yet another unlikely event, trading a good 30 minutes of sleep with this chapter in what can only be described as a terrible deal.

It’s half past midnight and my alarm is set for 6 AM. My head is spinning, my writing mediocre, and I really wish I could draw some causality between the two, but it would be a lie. On the one hand, I hope nothing goes wrong tomorrow. On the other, what would I be writing about then?

I’d better get some sleep. After all, tomorrow is today already.

Ait Benhaddou. October 3, 2021. 00:30 AM

7. Ouzoud Falls: Travelers Paths Are Meant to Cross, Not Overlap

The Ouzoud Waterfalls

We wake up according to plans at 06:00 AM and make our way to the ancient Kasbah in time for sunrise. Ait Benhaddou is a magical place I highly recommend visiting, especially in the early hours of the day when it’s quiet and fresh. We head back to the hotel for breakfast and are supposed to leave right away for Ouzoud Falls, but Jessica gets sidetracked by the hotel manager who recommends a visit to the local carpet workshop. I know that’s going to make us late and force us to drive after dark in order to reach Marrakech, but what are you going to do?

As I wait for her to bargain with the salesman over a small rug for her meditation practice, I start noticing a pattern: when driving to and from the desert, we repeatedly stop to shop for minerals. I’m a rather patient person, but I realize I probably wouldn’t have been as accommodating with my friends, family or girlfriend. It’s impressive how much nicer we can be to a stranger than to a loved one, isn’t it? Probably unfair, come to think of it.

We set out at 12, a hours after the original departure time. She apologizes for the delay and I say “no problem”, but at the same time I can tell she’s clearly not thrilled about going to Ouzoud. On our way, she hints at how much we’ve been driving over the past few days; I refrain from pointing out who’s been driving, and how much faster each trip would have been if not for the stops. Neither of us is complaining, but neither is getting 100% of what they had wanted from this trip. After all, we’d both originally set out on solo adventures: uncompromising opportunities to go wherever we want, whenever we wanted, and do whatever we felt like.

Here’s what I’m getting at.

If you’re traveling solo, meeting new people and sharing your experience with them is wonderful. I had a great time with Jessica, Milenka, Andres, Kelly, David, Babak, and Hellen. However, after 2 nights together, it is starting to feel as if my solo trip has turned into something different, and I do feel like Marrakech should be the end of the line for our joint adventure. No matter how much of a great time we’re having. Otherwise, I could have set out for a trip with my friends or my girlfriend. It’s hard to explain it without coming across as if I was complaining or not enjoying the company: I’m not and I am. I just feel like this overlap is starting to defeat the purpose of my trip.

I sense she feels it too, so we make plans to spend some time together in Marrakech but also make time to wander around by ourselves. She’ll look for stuff, while I’ll film and take pictures. I also have some work to catch up with. Then, after two nights in Marrakech, I’ll drive her to Essaouira where I’ll spend the day before leaving for Casablanca by myself. I want to see the Hassan II Mosque and film a time lapse at sunrise before driving back to Fez, where my trip started solo and will end solo.

As all of this is unfolding, mostly in my head but partially as an open conversation, we reach Ouzoud at 5 PM and it is worth it. I’m not sure I’d recommend going out of your way to get there, but it is a gorgeous place, and sipping mint tea over the sound of the waterfall is quite a treat after a long drive. We only stay for a couple of hours then hit the road towards the tourist capital of the country: Marrakech. My eyes hurt like hell from the sunlight, having lost my glasses on day 1, and for the fact that EVERYONE in Morocco drives with their headlights constantly on after dark.

Once again I’m writing this when I should be sleeping. We made it to Marrakech at 10:30 PM and it’s half past eleven already. Our riad is lovely. The rooftop terrace I’m currently writing from serves as a peaceful refuge away from a city that, at first sight, frankly did not seem as loud and chaotic as I had anticipated. But then again, it’s late on a weekday and curfew is in action.

Never forget why you’re doing what you’re doing. If you’ve set out to spend some time by yourself, do it, even if it does get tough and lonely at times. Me, personally, I came here to travel and see beautiful places, sure. I also came to meet people, that’s true. I came to take pictures and film videos, of course. But I also came to get away from all the things, places and people that, in part, make me who I am when I’m home, so I can go back with a newly found awareness of who I really am when I’m away from all that.

Once again, as the clock strikes midnight today turns to tomorrow, and I’m reminded I still had some work to catch up with yesterday. Oh well… At least I’m done driving for the next 36 hours.

Marrakech. October 4, 2021. 00:00 AM

8. Marrakech: Dude, How Much Longer Is This Article?

One of the many scooters speeding through the narrow alleys of Marrakech

I know. We’re almost done, I promise.

We set out to explore the city after a hearty breakfast at the riad. Wandering around the souks proves to be an enjoyable stroll in stark contrast to my experience in Fez. Merchants will invite you to check out their goods, but no one will follow you or insist in any way.

If you disregard the constant threat posed by the scooters racing through the narrow alleys of the medina, you might even say walking around Marrakech is relaxing. The city itself is obviously gorgeous. We have lunch in a cozy restaurant almost hidden near the Jewish quarter where we meet an Italian couple from Naples. She’s a playwright and director. He’s a light technician who works on her shows. He’s fascinated with Arabic culture and tells us about his numerous trips to middle-eastern and north-african countries.

Marrakech is the first place I’ve been to in Morocco where I feel I could live for a little while. For the first time since I landed, I find myself in a city that brings together the old and the new; a place that’s vibrant but doesn’t slap you in the face with its overwhelming authenticity. We have dinner in one of the many kiosks all seemingly serving the same dishes in Jemaa el-Fna Square. Some skewers, bread and a few different dips. We pick the one where only locals seem to be sitting.

We stop for tea at a nearby cafe with a spacious terrace overlooking the square. I can’t quite wrap my head around what’s wrong with the tea in Marrakech. I tried to pinpoint it earlier while having breakfast. IT’S LEMON! That’s what it is. They add lemon to their mint tea here. I’m not a fan. I like my mint tea minty. Regardless, we spend some time in silence taking in the moment, staring at the sea of people below us running around the square, walking, selling, eating and living. A part of me wishes I had another night in Marrakech, but then again they say it’s better to leave wanting more. I should come back for a weekend at some point.

Marrakech. October 4, 2021. 11:30 PM

9. Essaouira: Time for Goodbyes

The harbor and city walls of Essaouira

I’m awakened by the morning prayers at 6 AM. I move slowly so as not to wake up the stranger in my room. I get to the rooftop terrace to put in a couple of hours of work before breakfast. For the first time on this trip, my riad is also home to a few more guests: all French, all cyclists. As an Italian person who owns a driving license, I can’t think of a more infuriating combination.

I stare at the couple sitting next to us. He’s of North African origins, she’s a bit older, stereotypically French: blonde hair, heavy makeup, penetrating eyes. Years of smoking have turned her laugh into a raspy gurgle. She’s quite the character. We check out and head to the parking lot to retrieve our car, which we find covered in cardboard cutouts, I’m guessing to protect it from the sunlight. Thank you.

“I would like to try driving in Morocco.”

It’s not the first time Jessica has shared this with me. She’s also mentioned she hasn’t driven in years; she owns a scooter in Guatemala. Morocco is, to put it lightly, not the best country for anyone to dust off their skills. In addition to that, we’re leaving Marrakech at rush hour.

“Would you like me to drive us out of the city first?”

“Nah… I’ll be fine. I’m a good driver. I like driving.”

Except she isn’t, and she doesn’t.

We leave our rather spacious parking lot, but not without some struggles. It’s fine. Parking skills and driving skills are not the same thing, right? We hit the road and, to much of my surprise, find very little traffic, which still doesn’t prevent us from almost hitting a bus, cutting off a scooter and almost running over an old woman who, in all fairness, kinda came out of nowhere.

I’m a little stressed but I keep it to myself. Jess, on the other hand, is honking, swearing and shouting a lot for someone who claimed she likes driving. I take a deep breath and act as a co-pilot, mostly watching out for holes as we can’t afford another flat tire. I’m almost starting to relax when we’re signaled to stop at one of the many police checkpoints you’ll find across the country. Fuck. What if they ask us for the car rental paper which clearly states I’m the only driver?

They do.

“You were going 71 on a 60.” The cop says before walking to his colleague on cue for a Netflix-worth cliffhanger.

“Go on this time. But be careful and respect the speed limit.”

We take off, drive a few hundred meters, then pull to the side of the road in order to switch seats. For the first time on this trip, I learned a valuable lesson without having to pay the price for it. Still, it was not fun.

We make our way to Essaouira and have lunch at Sayef, a restaurant that was recommended to us by Babak and Hellen. Essaouira is one of those expat hubs where people who can’t really surf go to surf. It almost feels like a coastal city in Southern Spain, with a higher percentage of white people than any other place I’ve been to in the country. There’s a park named after Orson Wells, a real champion of the Moors.

As I’m taking all of this in, I hear an American woman speak. It takes me a second to realize, but she’s actually talking to me, unprompted and without making eye contact. She says she’s been living in Essaouira for 7 years. She sounds broken.

“What do you do here?”

“Go crazy.”

Apparently, she had just decided to move out of the country when Covid hit and has been stuck since, right after losing or quitting her job, something she’s not clear about. She says there’s not much to see apart from the medina, mellah, fortified walls and harbor. We thank her and wish her luck.

Most of the shops, bars and stores look permanently closed. What’s left is the usual mix of souks, teahouses and restaurants, sprinkled with a few hostels, art galleries, and boutiques still run by foreigners. Overall, though, the town seems to have been hit quite hard by Covid. I’m guessing that, contrary to our American friend, European expats managed to sneak out of the country through the Spanish border.

I stop for a haircut at a random barbershop. The owner is a boxer, he trains 5 days a week, twice a day. His father was a barber and now he runs the shop. We drink tea and listen to his pre-fight playlist of Moroccan trap music: it’s actually really good. I fall for the upsell and take him up on his offer to shave me: I’ve never had a barbershop shave and figure this is a good place to try. Unfortunately, as I’m getting ready to finally experience the cold touch of the sharp blade on my preadolescent uncouth facial hair, the boxer drops his razor and picks up an electric trimmer much like the one sitting in my backpack. It’s a disappointment that’ll take no longer than 45 seconds and cost me just as much as the haircut. Once again, I lost at the bargaining game.

We head to the harbor, anticipating the spectacle of fishermen returning from their work and setting up a vibrant afternoon market where you can buy fresh fish or eat street food cooked on the spot. Jessica’s heard about it somewhere, but no one seems to be there. And that’s when she does something no one should ever do in Morocco: she takes out a travel guide. I expect a flock of hustlers to storm us, but what happens next is worse. Much worse. (cue French accent)

“Excuse me! Where are you from?”

We’re approached by the pastiest of white men wearing long bermuda shorts and a pair of Birkenstock. He’s got short brown hair and a long reddish beard. His French accent is so strong it’s almost offensive to his compatriots.

“A guide is no way to experience a place. It was written by someone who stayed here for a bit then wrote about it, not by someone from here. I’ve been here for 4 years. I can tell you how to experience Morocco.”

Amused by his lack of self awareness, I scan the back cover hoping to find out whether or not the writer stayed the minimum of 4 years required to pontificate about a country.

“Get a local guide for the entire day! It’s much better. You’ll pay the same amount regardless of how many hours he stays with you. Maybe 10 dirham for 3 or 4 hours. It’s better if they have a beard or a hat.”

Seems like an awfully small amount of money: I paid 200 for an hour on my first day in Fés, and I did that twice. But I don’t have time to bring up the issue of foreign exploitation as my enlightened French tour operator suddenly turns to greet a local man: the one-sided theatrics make it look as if he’d just been reunited with a long last relative; he’s trying so hard to showcase his love for the same locals he’s just recommended exploiting for 25 cents an hour. Priceless.

We seize the moment and leave, heading for a nearby pastry shop before walking to the beach to finally catch a sunset. It’s a long drive to Casablanca and a part of me wishes I’d hit the road sooner to avoid driving at night, but we’ve been chasing this sunset forever. It seems like the best way to say goodbye. After all, I’ll probably never see this person again, and I do feel very grateful to have shared part of my trip with her.

As I’m writing this, I’m sitting in a Casablanca airbnb at 2.00 AM, after a 5-hour drive that’s taken me through countless police checkpoints, my first toll freeway in the country, and even past an ambulance working to recover a body from the side of the road, once again reminding me of how lucky I am and how much I shouldn’t be driving at night here.

If you’re driving through the countryside you’ll see plenty of people on bikes, scooters or donkeys; none of them have lights. Cars coming the opposite way, on the other hand, will happily blind you with their headlights. Morocco is a wonderful place, but it is rugged. There’s no such thing as a lamppost in the countryside. I might be four years short on experience compared to the Frenchman from earlier, but this much I feel confident recommending.

Casablanca. October 6, 2021. 02:00 AM

11. Casablanca: Frankly, a Quote Would Be Cheap

I’m awakened by the morning prayers at 5:30 AM but refuse to get up: my alarm is set for 6 and I need the extra 30 minutes of slumber. I peek out the window to make sure it’s still dark then I set out to film a time lapse of the Hassan II Mosque at sunrise, something I’ve decided might be a good opening for my video.

As I walk to the mosque, the combination of wide roads and tall palm trees almost takes me back to my time living in Los Angeles. Something seems off with the GPS, though: how can I be 16 minutes away when the mosque always feels just behind my next turn? As I reach my destination, I finally understand: the Hassan II Mosque is even bigger than I had anticipated. I get lost staring at this behemoth of architecture separating me from the ocean it overlooks. It’s still dark, quiet. I take it all in before I turn my attention to my gear and set up the shot.

The sharp sound of the shutter clicking at regular intervals informs me that everything is working smoothly, so I decide to catch up with some work on my laptop. A couple of hours later, a local gentleman would inform me I should keep my phone in my pocket so as to avoid pickpocketing. In hindsight, I must admit I’ve been just as reckless as I’ve been incredibly lucky.

My 4-hour drive to Fez is pleasantly uneventful in preparation of the airport showdown during which I’ll finally be reunited with my drone. And even then, to be honest, apart from the language barrier and the fact no one clearly cares to help me, I’m handed the drone without much resistance. Sure, it has been heavily wrapped and taped in a covid pamphlet, rendering its wings unusable due to melted glue from said tape, but I can always replace them.

I make my way to the gate, leaving this country with a deep sense of gratitude for all I was able to experience, both positive and negative. It’s been an outrageously eventful journey that’s left me in great need of a full day of sleep, in part because of the time I spent writing this, to be perfectly honest. In no way had I set out to write a guide or a diary. I was just supposed to film and take pictures. Still… If it can help anyone leave his drone at home, avoid getting a flat tire, or decide not to drive at night, it will have been worth it.

Inside the Semi-Pro European Wrestling Scene

Red Scorpion entering the ring in Bologna, Italy

A picturesque mix of former WWE superstars and young “maybe-I’ll-try-this-at-home” athletes are taking over Europe’s most improbable wrestling venues.

It’s 7:30 PM. I’m sitting backstage looking through a narrow gap in the partition wall dividing me from the audience. There can’t possibly be more than a hundred people outside and I’m starting to feel nervous. I’m not here to perform, that’d be crazy, this is a wrestling show and I’m barely over 130 pounds; I’m here to film the event and I’m afraid that if not enough people show up it’ll look awful on camera.

The scenery looks pretty bad too: we’re in a run-down concert venue next to the highway in the outskirts of Bologna; a fine city otherwise, but this is not its brightest spot. It’s my hometown and I am very familiar with this particular club: amongst other occasions, I came here to watch Redman perform a few years back, and even then we couldn’t have been more than 200 people. This place must be cursed, or maybe it’s just me.

I turn around to see Ken Anderson, former WWE United States Champion and Mr. Money in the Bank, warm up for his match against one of the youngest Italian talents of the night. Chris Masters, the Masterpiece, is chatting at the buffet table while Rob Van Dam himself, two times Pro Wrestling Illustrated Most Popular Wrestler and short-lived WWE World Champion, is getting ready in his locker room.

Rob Van Dam after winning his match against Red Scorpion

All I can think about, as I watch these resilient professionals prepare for a night of wrestling, looking back at the meager crowd gathered in a seemingly socially-distanced manner years before Covid-19, is Riggan Thomson opening line from Birdman: “How did we end up here?”

What else could they possibly be thinking? And yet, looking at their expressions and pre-show routines, they don’t seem disappointed or disheartened: they look perfectly fine. It feels like yesterday I was sitting at home, a teenager before social media, staring at the TV screen day and night to follow the spectacle of the Worldwide Wrestling Entertainment, a company so spectacularly flawed it really makes you question your interest. Those times must feel closer to them than they do to me, I keep thinking: it must be hard to go from arenas packed with fans screaming your name — or yelling at you — to an empty warehouse, where twenty to thirty kids are the only ones engaged enough to shout.

Maybe it’s just a job. After all, they’re getting paid — and I can make an educated guess about how much — and they’re still doing what they love the most. Plus, they don’t have to fight every week, they don’t have to train every day, the aroma of marijuana after the show is pungent and the camaraderie gratifying. Sure, the name-recognition must be missed and the pay cut noticeable, but these people are professional athletes performing long after their sell-by-date, in a physically consuming industry that has seen more than a few of its stars pass prematurely.

As I witness the serenity surrounding these multifaceted performers, weighing it against the pressure they must have felt back in their prime, I finally begin to understand their career paths a little more. Much like anyone else pursuing a career in sports, entertainment, or both, they must have craved fame, success, titles, and recognition; they must have craved jam-packed arenas and people chanting their names. However, there comes a time in anyone’s life, perhaps as early as in your 40s if you’re doing what they’re doing, when the stress of delivering to such an audience is no longer bearable, the risk of hurting yourself — or worse — no longer acceptable, and flying cross-country to be hit in the head with a chair no longer appealing.

A makeshift locker room at a county fair show in central Italy

Tonight’s one of the good nights: over the course of last year I have seen former WWE stars perform on makeshift rings at county fairs; I listened as some of them got heckled by children and drunk 30-year-olds. I stared in awe, impressed by their resilience, skills and ability to entertain even the most hostile of crowds, seemingly enjoying the challenge, tapping into a mysterious and endless well of energy within their souls. I gazed at their showmanship with an odd mix of respect and sympathy.

Today, however, and perhaps finally, as Mr. Anderson climbs the stairs, ready to walk in and officially start the show with his signature announcement, I don’t look at his being here as a failure or as a sign of how merciless time is to every one of us. I finally understand that these performers have found a second life in a ruthless industry that, all too often, deprives hard working athletes of their first one. Perhaps, they have simply found what we are all looking for in our more relatable, less flamboyant, office-based struggle: work-life balance.

Mr. Anderson announcing the start of the show at the Estragon club in Bologna

Originally, I just meant to shoot a short documentary focusing on Red Scorpion, a young wrestler from a small town in central Italy. Unable to immerse myself further in the world of semi-professional wrestling during the lockdown, I gathered my memories and wrote this piece to more faithfully reflect what I had seen.

You can still watch the video below.

“A glimpse into the unconventional life of a professional Italian wrestler (Red Scorpion) striving to make a name for himself in the European scene. An intimate look at a young man’s pursuit of the American Dream, juxtaposed with the reality of a small-town upbringing.” Or something like that… This is what we wrote for the festivals we applied to.

In the Midst of a Global Crisis, Could Tackling Waste Help Fight Food Insecurity?

Picture by Joel Muniz (Unsplash)

The Covid-19 pandemic has exacerbated food insecurity worldwide; at the same time, we continue to waste about a third of the food we produce.

Long before facing a pandemic our society had already been fighting an array of disruptive, globally widespread social issues, impacting anything from our economy to the environment and the lives of countless individuals. Even prior to covid-19, as roughly one third of the food produced for consumption went to waste, almost 10% of the world’s population was going hungry, and while food waste and food insecurity could hardly cancel each other out, it is undeniable that witnessing their contradictory co-existence at a time of global crisis is all the more frustrating.

On the eve of the first ever International Day of Awareness of Food Loss and Waste, which had been designated by the United Nations just two months before the first reported case of Covid-19, I spoke with Angela Frigo, secretary general of the European Food Banks Federation (FEBA).

“Right now we have 430 food banks operating across 29 countries. After the outbreak, food demand increased by 50%. We’ve managed to redistribute 50% more food compared to this same time last year, but it still wasn’t enough and it is not enough today.”

FEBA set up a dedicated website to address the emergency and publish reports every two to three months. In April and July the organization reported the spike in food demand mentioned by Ms. Frigo, which according to the September report has now waned to 30%. The closing of businesses in the hospitality industry “helped”, as surplus food from restaurants and hotels made up for the shortage of donations caused by panic buying and bottlenecks in the food supply chain.

“Panic buying and the reorganization of food and drink manufacturers caused donations from the distribution and manufacturing sectors to decrease. However, lots of new donors reached out: businesses that were forced to close and wanted to donate surplus food; I’m talking about huge chains with thousands of locations. It was a challenge because mobility was reduced and many of our volunteers are over 65. Now, we are happy to see that restaurants are re-opening, and thankfully donations from manufacturers and retailers are going back to normality.”

Lourdes Juan is the founder and Executive Director of the Leftovers Foundation, a food rescue organization operating in Calgary, Edmonton and, more recently, Winnipeg. She is also the co-founder of Fresh Routes, a mobile grocery store that served as an emergency delivery service during the lockdown. I talked to her a week before my call with FEBA to discuss the impact of the pandemic in Canada. I could not help but ask about the country’s 58% of food being wasted every year, and whether tackling that number could help curb insecurity.

“Food waste is one problem in and of itself, and food security is something completely different, which can’t be solved by the redistribution of food alone. I believe it can be alleviated, by mobilizing people to reduce waste and get food to other parts of the city, but we have to be careful when saying that one problem can solve the other, because it just won’t.”

The Food Insecurity Policy Research reported that almost one in seven Canadians lived in a food insecure household at some point in May, and while it is hard to predict the future developments of the pandemic and economic recession, it is safe to say the crisis will have a long lasting impact on both developed and developing countries.

“Food security only changes when there is some sort of guaranteed basic income into households. On the food waste side, I think that for true systemic change we need behavioral change. When food gets sent to the landfill it produces methane gas, which is 25 times more powerful than CO2, so if we want to have a dinner table conversation about climate change, I think talking about food waste is probably the easiest place to start.”

At the beginning of the lockdown, in the span of just seven weeks, Leftovers surpassed the amount of food rescued in all of 2019; but to keep track of the paradigm shift Lourdes is calling for, she believes it is just as important to track the number of people involved as the tons of food rescued: “we’d rather pick up from a thousand locations that have 10 pounds of food each, than to pick up from three locations that have a couple hundred pounds.”

However, in a world perhaps overwhelmed by the amount of news that flooded our homes and devices in 2020, it seems as if issues like food waste and food insecurity haven’t gained much traction, especially amongst young people. In fact, as mentioned by Angela, most food banks rely on the work of volunteers who are over 65, and the lockdowns took a toll on the workforce, as outlined by the FEBA report survey for April, with some respondents warning they had no volunteers to work in such a high-risk situation.

“I think the first step is to ask for help”, Angela adds. “To recognize that we need the help of more people, and that help could come from young people. I think they could have ideas on how to innovate the way we operate. How would they like to contribute? What is their vision for the future of food banks?”

Over the last few years, young people have proven to be receptive to the discourse around social issues such as environmental sustainability and systemic racism, with a surge in protests worldwide in support of movements like Fridays for Future and Black Lives Matter. Perhaps the key to raise awareness on food waste and food insecurity is to recognize how interconnected these issues are, respectively, with the former.

Food waste is responsible for 8% of all global emissions; if it were a country, it would rank third for environmental footprint after China and the US. Such a staggering figure is easily explained by the impressive amount of energy and resources employed to produce food, and by the release of methane gas caused by the anaerobic decay of waste in landfills.

At the same time, food insecurity disproportionally affects minorities: if we take the United States as an example, because of its diverse population, we find that 25,8% of people of color live below the poverty line, compared to 11,6% of Caucasians. Hunger and malnutrition are Covid-19’s most silent and racist weapons, so it comes as no surprise that African Americans are almost five times more likely to be hospitalized, and two times more likely to die, than white people contracting the coronavirus in the States.

The interconnectedness of social issues, now more than ever, looks like a grim version of the six degrees of separation theory: a vicious cycle of discrimination, poverty, and sickness, bequest of a not so distant segregationist past. And while focusing on the United States comes in handy, because of the abundance of available statistics and resonance of news in a politically polarized society, no country on earth was left unscathed by the effects of this year’s health and financial crises.

Ultimately, tackling food waste could hardly prove to be the answer to food insecurity worldwide, and would likely serve as a Band-Aid solution for a limited number of beneficiaries. However, if nothing, it would serve as a statement of awareness and responsibility, highlighting the importance of doing more for our dying planet and most vulnerable communities.