Coping With Travel Sickness in Chefchaoun, Morocco

Figuring myself for a young gun with a few travel notches on my belt, I felt a desire to extend myself and spend a month in the blistering heat of Morocco. I was, and please note the past tense used here…, somewhat new to the pitfalls of extended excursions through foreign lands.

The beauties of Morocco

We travelled from Marrakech to the once “Hendrix” habitation town of Essaouira, up through the High Atlas and further north to the labyrinth that is Fez – The worlds most intact medieval Arabic city; a lot of ground covered and feeling at the heel of my own perfect health.

In retrospect, the one personal rule I have learnt from visiting such a country is; just because you’re surrounded by inexpensive goods, (food, clothing, etc..), it’s no reason to “cheap out”, so to speak, on fundamentals such as food. I promise you that this is no lesson you would want to have to learn the hard way.

With caution completely left to drag at my feet, and lost in the confusion that surrounds the phantom manners of Morocco, our senses go into overload; every turn is glorified by the day hustlers, drug peddlers and faux guides championing restaurants, hotels and souvenirs.

Unfortunately there comes a time when the unbridled enthusiasm of such a crowd of people boils over with the heat and sits aside your burgeoning delirium. This lead my cousin and I, (of whom I travelled with), to one of the most diabolical bouts of food poisoning either of us have had to endure – ever!

The scenery was beautiful before we chundered all over it!

After having spent 4 days in the myriad of back alleys and side streets of the Fez medina, we set forth to find the bus station and make for our next destination – Chefchaoun. Having spent copious amounts of money on trashy gifts and the odd luxury we thought it best to find a cheap sandwich on our way out. 15 minutes and 10 Dirham (less than a euro) later, we had found our ailment; a simple sandwich of egg, beetroot, lettuce, tomato and cheese.

We ate them quickly and heaved ourselves to the bus station. Hastily we purchased tickets for a sum of 5 euros or so and got ourselves on the bus to Chefchaoun. The bus somewhat resembled a shell of rusted metal, encased in broken windows and a motor not indifferent to a lawn mower. We took off and begin to cascade through mountains whilst the mercury tipped 45 or so. As the bus continued to swagger I felt a pinch in my stomach, hinting that the sandwich might not stay down – I panned across to my cousin whose face was also contorted with agony. It’s the face of shortcomings, this I’m sure of.

The bus drove around another corner, and with an almost perfect synchronicity, I doubled over in shivers, ripe with abdominal pain. The bus ghosted down the hill and shuddered to a perfect stop on a side road. A throng of people piled out onto mountainous roads and stared dumbfounded into the mechanics of the motor. A wave of despair took me by the hand. The engine had died. Hours of diluted consciousness pass us by. Unable to remove ourselves from our blankets and ill-gotten comfort of the bus seats, we laid idle as others hitched their way forward. Our only excursion was to exit the bus for a bout of wretched sickness. We uttered nothing. In our state we were any easy target for exploitation; a man came forth and proclaimed he has found us a lift to Chefchaoun.  We readily agree!

This is kinda how we felt 4 days into our confinement!

When we arrived (5am in the morning – the bus broke down at 3pm) – we took shelter in a hotel room for 3 consecutive days. Unable to eat or move, the only exercise we received was a ‘back and forth’ trot between the toilet and our place of slumber.

For the weeks we spent in Morocco prior to our hell bent stanza of sickness we played chess on end. For some reason this had a slight interplay with our delusion of half baked consciousness. For the days we spent in the hotel totally sick, we both experienced a reoccurring dream that was unrelenting in its presence and synchronicity of our temporary habitualness.

I would dream of a monumental chess board that spanned whole house blocks, myself playing the game in a regular fashion. Like a 1950’s twilight zone moment, my cousin experienced the same thing simultaneously.

We attempted only once to play a game of chess during our incaceration. With every piece moved, our stomachs rippled with pain until we gravitated towards lavatories. Chess seemed to be every much the protagonist of our now brittle frames as the egg salad. We felt like poisoned dharmas with a fleeting trail of grandeur and expectation.

And what did we learn from this experience?  Simply this; at some point whilst on the road, or even on the path - you will have the worst night of your life!