Disembarking the flight and bolting towards immigration and passport control is a weird habit of mine (I still cant get that crazy New York pace out of my system) . Although knowing that the quicker we made it through Marrakech´s airport meant more time at the Gnaou and World Music festival in Essouira, justified my pace. (The festival was a week long crazy music, and jumping up and down lots, festival with an unbelievable amount of young crazy Morrocans.) But after watching others with disdain retrieving their bags, and after peering through the bag´s carousel opening, I knew with a sinking feeling that we were backpack-less.
But being without our things brought us blessings and experiences we wouldnt have otherwise had:
- Shopping for undies in a Morrocan bazaar (army camouflage style – 100% polyester) and then requesting receipts (scrawled pen markings in Arabic on the back of a crushed pantyhose package)
- Bargaining for new clothes that we would throw out a few days later
- Having Benjy fly into Morocco to visit us (in an attempt to locate our bags – which no one could find, we reached out to a friend in London for help, and instead of locating our bags, he brought himself (and some welcome deodorant)
Finally, we learned how little we require in life. We saw that we can easily be happy wearing the same smelly clothes, and jumping the night away to the bizarre sounds of Gnoan music.
