摩洛哥值得去一次，因为它的文化融合了法国、西班牙和阿拉伯元素。受过良好教育的人讲法语、阿拉伯语和英语，行为举止非常得体，家中摆设欧化，感觉随意舒适。这一点在我几年前从西班牙南部的Algeciras坐船到摩洛哥的丹尼尔后再往南走的旅程中已经感受到， 拉巴特和卡萨布兰卡的摩洛哥人与马拉喀什、舍夫沙万的各不相同。 撒哈拉沙漠地区大部分人只讲柏柏尔语和阿拉伯语。 这一次是从西班牙巴萨罗那飞拉巴特，去马拉喀什进梅尔卡祖附近的撒哈拉沙漠，最后去菲斯、舍夫沙万，从丹尼尔到西班牙
TRIFA。


因为摄影的缘故，去当地人文需要更加细致地观察，发现其文化中最吸引我的和打动我的部分。遗憾的是第一次拍摄便遇到几次被路人直接禁止的警告。伊斯兰国家拍摄的禁忌我了解，所以画面中避免直接表现人，特别是女性。摩洛哥首都拉巴特和卡萨蓝卡相对容易拍摄，只要不是正面对人拍摄，很少有人介意，马拉喀什和梅尔卡祖随意拍，大家知道我是摄影师有时候还主动让我拍摄。而菲斯和舍夫沙万就困难多了，人们会用警惕的眼光望着我的一举一动。一天下午，我行走在舍夫沙万的石板街上寻找计划中的场景，在一处低矮民房转角停着一辆手推车，上面装饰得非常艳丽，车子后面的墙是大面积海蓝色，这是舍夫沙万的特色，全程都是蓝色。这个画面的色彩吸引了我，我上前仔细看看，原来是买小吃的推车，三面周被橙色帆布遮盖，正面留有二个方形的口，像民居的门，车架上装饰了各种鲜花。没人在车子旁边。当我拍完几张还机位时，从民房里走出来一位中年男子，看到我带着相机便我们是否拍了车子。我回答是的，他要求我删除车子的照片。他看起来没有不友善，但是也谈不上礼貌。删完给他看，我就问他为啥不能拍，他看我一眼说拍摄带走了他的灵魂。当天回到民宿跟老板聊起这件事，他说有些人可以把万物都当做灵魂，游客不能带走，所以你拍什么都不妥。他的话得到验证，在菲斯老城里，拍摄老城门洞，远处一群人在聚集，镜头里只能看到背影。当拍摄完成后，一中年男人告诉我不能拍摄，他没让我删除就离开了。我感到莫名其妙，同时有些沮丧，不知老城那里可以拍哪里不可以拍。不过在拉巴特、马拉喀什和梅尔卡祖却不是这样，当车停在撒哈拉沙漠里公路旁时，一处深井旁正巧围着一群骆驼，主人从井里取水饮骆驼。我问司机能否拍摄骆驼和主人，他说你尽情拍。我还是不太放心，要他问主人。他们讲阿拉伯语，主人就招呼我走近一些。他让我随便拍，说这口井最少有50米深，饮完着群骆驼需要最少一小时。我赶忙换了镜头近距离拍摄主人和骆驼。







摩洛哥文化谈不上神秘，可是地域差异比较大。南部人直率，而北部人特别是菲斯和舍夫沙万的含蓄，也许是因为北部商业化程度高的缘故，善于与人斗智。菲斯老城的男孩给我留下不好的印象，我称他们为带路党。当我在巷子里寻找画面感觉时，他们会像幽灵一样突然横在面前，他们以为我在找路，接着便缠着我为我带路。在我意识到进入圈套时，便欲摆脱他，可是他却像香口胶似的粘着我，走哪儿跟哪儿。 他索要20欧元，在我准备报警时，他说5欧元就可以了。在被骗过5欧元后我开始对摩洛哥所有要求带路的孩子拒绝。找成年人问路大部分都没问题，只是几乎没人可以讲清楚英文，他们讲阿拉伯语和法语，我只能凭着手势和方向判定。老城里手机信号不好，手机导航失效，有时手机导航会让我走冤枉路。后来买了地图，拍摄前先大致研究好地图，标注重要路口，再问成年路人就基本不会迷路了。

马拉喀什的广场值得游玩，那里有数不尽的小吃，夜晚各种说唱、游戏、食物令人目不暇接，它就是非洲乃至世界上最繁忙的广场之一的贾马夫纳广场。出了广场，我步行返回民宿，这样可以看到晚上的市民生活状态。走过一个西瓜摊，摊主刚刚切开一只硕大的西瓜，一种固有的西瓜香气顿时拉我回到童年。我爸工作单位每年夏天都要分配几次西瓜，一只西瓜比篮球还大，有的是二个篮球的尺寸。只要分西瓜，我们都要全家出动，使用各种方式把西瓜搬进百米之外的家里。总是有西瓜掉在地上开裂后散发的特有香气，让我无法控制大口大口吞噬西瓜的冲动。气味的记忆带我来到遥远的北非内陆，此时西瓜的香味驻足。我要买一个回民宿享用，大口大口地吞噬。可是这里的西瓜竟然跟冬瓜一样，超过三个篮球那么大，我一个人无法搬动。摊主讲什么我听不懂，从他手势判断估计是让我买刚切开的西瓜。可是半丫西瓜还是很大，我比划着只要一小块。他切下1/4，用塑料袋兜上递给我。问他多少钱，他用计算器按下数字，我合计着人民币1.8元。取出2个迪拉姆给他，他却不收，我以为算错了。他抱起一只西瓜，按下那个数字，告诉我整只西瓜2个迪拉姆。我惊呆了，这么大个西瓜才1.8元人民啊，算起来差不多7分钱一斤，也许不是太准，可是有啥重要的呢？整一列火车把这里西瓜运我国该多好啊。我还是要给他2个迪拉姆，他笑着拒绝了，意思是送我吃。拎着西瓜回到民宿，一口气吃完那块1/4沙瓢西瓜，甜滋滋的，嘴边沾满黏黏的西瓜瓤，我想着摩洛哥人真好，小小的一丫西瓜没什么，可是甜满的我这个中国人的心。后来每次回想起老城里孩子的带路党不愉快的事，这个西瓜摊主的形象便占据我思维的制高点。



菲斯民宿的老板拉尔夫英语很好，他在美国读设计专业，毕业后回到摩洛哥办了民宿，可是他依然是职业设计师。他除了为很多民宿设计，还与摩洛哥最大的马赛克工厂合作，为他们设计产品。他每年去中国，广州、宁波、深圳都有合作者。在他美轮美奂的民宿（Riad）请我喝过下午茶，他开车带我去马赛克工厂，一座二层建筑，一楼是橄榄石窑炉和作坊，二楼是展厅，各种马赛克手工作品值得购买和收藏。晚上拉尔夫为我安排了摩洛哥特有的SPA，原来他在菲斯有二个Riad民宿。为了我们新建的友谊，他为我SPA收费打8折。离我住的民宿步行5分钟便是他有SPA服务的Riad，门铃响过后，一位体态丰腴的女人迎宾。拉尔夫介绍了我给这位SPA师。她带我上二楼来到一间鼻腔里充满清新精油味的房间。拉尔夫离开后，SPA师让我换上棉质短裤，带我下楼进入地下洗浴。原以为她会离开，迟疑中，她看出我的疑虑，解释道摩洛哥的SPA是需要SPA师帮助洗浴的，即热石洗浴。不容我多想，她让我躺在一层黑色石头上，背部顿时被那种温暖覆盖。她说需要至少15分钟。 我躺在那里热着，她就准备调试热水和其他洗浴用品，各种精油瓶子和毛巾擦子。时间到了，我坐在热石上，她开始为我洗浴。她穿着一条短裙，遮不住硕大臀部，上身穿一件吊带，橙色灯光下吊带在我眼前晃来晃去，我尽量不去多想。她用不同的精油擦拭，从头到脚，让我想起小时候公共澡堂里的搓澡。没想到她竟然搓出这么多脏东西，她用水冲洗干净，再次搓，每一遍擦拭完都要水洗干净。地下室里湿热，汗水稀里哗啦地流。她取了水等我喝完继续擦拭冲水，几遍之后结束。离开蒸笼一般的洗浴室，探出头的瞬间，我顿时有一种重生的感觉，身子像风轻得欲飞翔。当我再到二楼躺在SPA床上时，她也换上另一套衣服，依然短裙吊带。屋里点着芬香的蜡烛，耳边传来缠绵的法语歌。她一边以娴熟的手法为我按摩，一边聊起她的事。她与拉尔夫是中学同学，拉尔夫从美国回来后邀请她在这里开设热石SPA。那时她已经考取了政府颁发的SPA师牌照，一直以来生意非常好。不过，因为有个5岁的女儿，所以她坚持预约，不耽误抚养女儿的时间。她说摩洛哥是伊斯兰教国家，她本人也是教徒，可是与其他国家不同的是这里更加开放包容。她不需要像这里的阿拉伯人那样带面纱，她可以做想做的事。既然是开放和包容，那我就直接问她为客人SPA洗浴会不会对她骚扰，她说有过，但是不多，住在这里的客人层次比较高。有一次是美国人，洗浴时那人开始动手动脚，当警告终止服务时他依然不收敛，所以她选择报警。那个美国人自己觉得丢人，当晚就带着行李离开这家民宿。她认为能住在这里的客人都是善良的。至于穿着短裙和吊带，她说你已经感受到了，洗浴室湿热，她身材比较胖，在工作场所穿着没有更多择。



在摩洛哥旅行拍摄，英语只能在酒店、部分民宿和机场使用，阿拉伯语和法语畅通无阻。与摩洛哥阿拉伯人比较难以沟通，而与摩洛哥人（也许是混合了的柏柏尔人、法国人、西班牙人），不过我的确无法判断他们属于哪一种人。我只能凭着观察他们对我的善意程度判断是否能与他们沟通、交流和拍摄。我总结的经验是，如果拍摄时他们没有避开或显示不自然，那么完全有可能在拍完更他们打招呼或者聊天，这一点取决于他们能否讲英语或西班牙语，实际上这二种语言大部分人都不会讲。
舍夫沙万为誉为蓝色之城，从高处望去，看似一个蓝色湖泊。阳光射在小巷子里的蓝色和白色墙面上映出行人和物体，恰好构成一幅幅完美画面。我尽可能地避开人物正面拍摄，可是当遇到一位遛鸟的摩洛哥阿拉伯老人时，他却让我不知所措。

从一条巷子出来，迎面就是一面墙，一位须老人身着阿拉伯白色长袍坐在小凳子上打盹。早晨的阳光和煦温暖，伴着墙上挂的几只鸟笼里传出的鸟叫声，他看起来睡得很深。在摩洛哥拍摄，我没有带中长焦头，仅用35毫米和50毫米镜头。为了避免被惊醒他，被他发现我在拍他和鸟（我当时想起来拍车子时的场景），我轻轻地走近离开只有不到2米的距离迅速拍完转身准备离开。背后他突然的说话吓了我一跳，心里想着会不会被他因为我拍走了他的灵魂而要我删除照片。我惊恐地望着他，他说着什么我不明白，但是从他慈祥的眼神中感觉到他的友好而非不乐意。在我站在原地不知所措时，他走过来握住我的手，依然说着我不懂的话，然后拉我走近鸟笼，他坐下，比划着，那个意思是让我拍，使劲拍。我僵硬地笑了笑，尝试拍了几张，他冲着我笑着。在确认了这样友好的状况时，我便稀里哗啦地拍了他的肖像还有他的鸟。末了，他起身与我握手告别，继续闭目养神。回到舍夫沙万民宿，不解地问老板这是啥情况，他也不能解释。他说大部分摩洛哥阿拉伯人不愿意被拍，特别是老人。
这是真是一个神奇的国家，对这里的人我无法通过几次旅行和拍摄或者与不同的人聊天了解真实的他们。越是如此，我好奇心越重，就越会接触更多的人，没有感觉厌烦。可是有一样东西却让我不能回想。摩洛哥有各种佳肴美味，大部分餐厅的菜单由几道摩洛哥菜和 地中海菜系组成，一般是法语和阿拉伯语，少有英语，我只见过一个菜单是中文、法文和英文的，那是一家舍夫沙万的中餐馆。在大城市餐馆，前菜多为明虾、沙拉，主食摩洛哥特色小羊肉小米饭、通心粉，而小城市或镇子只有塔吉（tagine），土豆泥，炸羊肉丸子等。去撒哈拉沙漠的一路，顿顿塔吉，以至于后来见到塔吉就想吐。事实上，摩洛哥塔吉是塔吉锅上放入鸡肉、洋葱、蕃茄、葡萄干、香菜和摩洛哥红花加入胡椒粉、郁金香粉、匈牙利红椒粉和肉桂焖在一起，有些像我们的火锅，属于比较健康的吃法。回国后的一段时间，我绝对不碰火锅可能与塔吉有关系。
在摩洛哥旅行最好自驾或自由行，尽量不参加旅行团。慢板的生活节奏，各种历史沉积的老城、手工制品和各色人物都需要花费时间仔细品味，在不懂法语和阿拉伯语时最好能下载软件用于跟当地人交流，这样的旅行才充满乐趣。我喜欢住民宿，就是当地特色的Riad，但是一定要花时间甄别找到干净的，店员可以讲英语的，最好是那种设计感很强充满艺术氛围的Riad。旅行拍摄中与当地人交流或交集总是给我留下深刻印象，那些开心的不开心的事情天天发生，我总是把事件记录下来当做我作品的素材，如此可以更好地回味及认识社会。

发表于香港《潮游》杂志2018

Morocco is worth visiting because its culture blends French, Spanish, and Arab elements. Educated people speak French, Arabic, and English, and behave very politely. Their homes have European-style decorations and feel casual and comfortable. I sensed this during my journey a few years ago when I took a ferry from Algeciras in southern Spain to the Moroccan town of Tangier and then traveled south. The Moroccans in Rabat and Casablanca are quite different from those in Marrakech and Chefchaouen. Most people in the Sahara Desert region speak only Berber and Arabic.

This time, I flew from Barcelona, Spain, to Rabat, then traveled to Marrakech near Merzouga in the Sahara Desert, and finally went to Fes and Chefchaouen before returning to Spain.

Due to photography, I needed to observe the local culture more carefully to discover the most captivating and moving aspects. Unfortunately, during my first shoot, I received several warnings prohibiting photography from passersby. I understand the taboos of photographing in Islamic countries, so I avoided directly portraying people, especially women. In Morocco’s capital, Rabat, and Casablanca, it’s relatively easy to take photos as long as you don’t shoot people directly; few people mind. In Marrakech and Merzouga, people were casual about it, and sometimes they even encouraged me to take photos when they realized I was a photographer. However, it was much more challenging in Fes and Chefchaouen, where people would watch my every move with suspicion.

One afternoon, while walking on the cobblestone streets of Chefchaouen looking for planned scenes, I came across a colorful food cart parked at a low corner of a house. The wall behind it was painted a large area of the signature blue of Chefchaouen. This color attracted me, so I approached to take a closer look. It turned out to be a snack cart, covered with orange canvas on three sides, leaving two square openings at the front resembling a house door. The cart was decorated with various flowers, and there was no one beside it. After I took a few shots, a middle-aged man came out of the house and asked if I had taken pictures of the cart. I replied that I had, and he requested that I delete the photos. He didn’t seem unfriendly, but neither was he polite. After deleting the photos for him, I asked why I couldn’t take pictures. He glanced at me and said that photographing took away his soul.

When I returned to my accommodation that day and mentioned this to the owner, he said that some people believe everything has a soul, and tourists shouldn’t take it away, so photographing anything is inappropriate. His words were validated in the old city of Fes, where while photographing an old city gate, a group of people gathered in the distance, and I could only see their backs in the frame. After I finished shooting, a middle-aged man told me I couldn’t take pictures. He didn’t make me delete the photos but just walked away. I felt confused and somewhat frustrated, unsure about where I could and couldn’t take photos in the old city. However, in Rabat, Marrakech, and Merzouga, it was different. When we stopped by the roadside in the Sahara Desert, a group of camels was gathered around a deep well, with their owner drawing water for them. I asked the driver if I could take pictures of the camels and their owner, and he said I could shoot as much as I wanted. Still not entirely at ease, I asked him to check with the owner. They spoke Arabic, and the owner invited me to come closer. He told me to take as many photos as I wanted, saying that the well was at least 50 meters deep and that it takes at least an hour for the camels to drink. I quickly changed lenses to take close-up shots of the owner and the camels.

Moroccan culture isn’t exactly mysterious, but there are significant regional differences. People in the south are straightforward, while those in the north, especially in Fes and Chefchaouen, are more reserved. This may be due to the higher level of commercialization in the north, making them adept at dealing with others. The boys in the old city of Fes left me with a bad impression, and I referred to them as “guides.” When I was searching for scenes in the alleys, they would suddenly appear like ghosts, thinking I was lost, and would then insist on showing me the way. When I realized I was being trapped, I tried to shake them off, but they stuck to me like chewing gum, following me wherever I went. They demanded 20 euros, and when I threatened to call the police, he said 5 euros would suffice. After being scammed for 5 euros, I started to refuse all the kids in Morocco who offered to guide me. Asking adults for directions was mostly fine, but almost no one spoke clear English; they spoke Arabic and French, so I had to rely on gestures and directions. The mobile signal in the old city was poor, and my phone navigation sometimes failed, leading me to unnecessary detours. Later, I bought a map and studied it roughly before shooting, marking important intersections, and asking adult passersby for directions, which helped me avoid getting lost.

The square in Marrakech is worth visiting, filled with countless snacks and vibrant activities at night, including various performances and games. It is one of the busiest squares in Africa and the world, known as Jemaa el-Fnaa. After leaving the square, I walked back to my accommodation, allowing me to observe the city’s nighttime life.

I passed by a watermelon stand where the vendor had just cut open a huge watermelon. The inherent fragrance of the watermelon instantly transported me back to my childhood. Every summer, my father’s workplace would distribute large watermelons—some even bigger than basketballs. Whenever there was a watermelon distribution, our whole family would mobilize to transport it home, often from a hundred meters away. Watermelons would occasionally drop and crack open, releasing their unique aroma, making it impossible for me to resist devouring them.

The smell took me far away to North Africa, and I wanted to buy one to enjoy back at my accommodation, eating it in big bites. However, the watermelons here were enormous, larger than three basketballs, and I couldn’t carry one by myself. I couldn’t understand what the vendor was saying, but from his gestures, I gathered he wanted me to buy the freshly cut watermelon. Even a quarter of it was still quite large, so I gestured that I only wanted a small piece. He cut off a quarter, wrapped it in a plastic bag, and handed it to me. When I asked him how much it cost, he used a calculator to show me a number, which I calculated to be about 1.8 RMB.

I took out 2 dirhams to give him, but he refused to accept it. I thought I must have miscalculated. He picked up a whole watermelon, pressed the same number on the calculator, and told me the entire watermelon was 2 dirhams. I was stunned—such a large watermelon for just 1.8 RMB! That’s about 7 cents per pound! I couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would be if a whole train could transport these watermelons back to China.

I still insisted on giving him 2 dirhams, but he smiled and declined, implying it was a gift for me. Carrying the watermelon back to my accommodation, I devoured that quarter in one go; it was sweet and juicy, leaving my lips sticky with pulp. I thought to myself how kind the Moroccans are. A small piece of watermelon didn’t mean much, but it filled my heart as a Chinese person with sweetness. Later, whenever I recalled the unpleasant experience with the children who tried to guide me in the old city, the image of that watermelon vendor occupied a cherished place in my thoughts.

Ralph, the owner of a guesthouse in Fes, has excellent English skills. He studied design in the United States and returned to Morocco to run his guesthouse, but he remains a professional designer. In addition to designing many guesthouses, he collaborates with Morocco’s largest mosaic factory to create products. He travels to China every year, working with partners in Guangzhou, Ningbo, and Shenzhen.

During my stay at his beautiful Riad, he treated me to afternoon tea and took me to the mosaic factory, a two-story building with an olive stone furnace and workshop on the first floor and a showroom on the second, showcasing various handmade mosaic artworks worth purchasing and collecting. That evening, Ralph arranged for me to experience a unique Moroccan spa treatment at one of his two Riads. To celebrate our newfound friendship, he offered me a discount on the spa service.

Just a five-minute walk from my guesthouse, I arrived at the Riad offering spa services, where a plump woman greeted me after I rang the bell. Ralph introduced me to the spa therapist, who led me upstairs to a room filled with the refreshing scent of essential oils. After Ralph left, the therapist asked me to change into cotton shorts and took me downstairs to the bathing area.

I initially thought she would leave, but sensing my hesitation, she explained that Moroccan spa treatments require assistance from the therapist, specifically for hot stone baths. She instructed me to lie on a black stone slab, and warmth enveloped my back. She mentioned that it would take at least 15 minutes to prepare the hot water and other bathing products.

As I lay there, she adjusted the water and gathered various essential oil bottles and towels. When the time was up, she began my wash, applying different essential oils from head to toe, reminding me of childhood experiences in public bathhouses. To my surprise, she was able to scrub away quite a bit of dirt. After rinsing me off, she repeated the process several times. The basement was hot and humid, with sweat pouring down.

She offered me water and continued the treatment, and after several rounds, we finished. Upon exiting the steamy bathing area, I felt an overwhelming sense of renewal, as if I could float. When I returned upstairs to the massage table, she had changed into another outfit, still in a short skirt and tank top. The room was lit with fragrant candles, and soft French songs played in the background.

As she skillfully massaged me, we chatted about her life. She and Ralph were classmates in high school, and after he returned from the U.S., he invited her to establish the hot stone spa. By then, she had already obtained a government-issued spa therapist license and had a thriving business. However, due to her five-year-old daughter, she insisted on making appointments to not interfere with her parenting.

She mentioned that Morocco is an Islamic country, and while she is a believer, the culture here is more open and accepting than in other countries. She does not have to wear a veil like some Arab women and is free to do as she wishes. When I asked about any potential harassment from clients during spa treatments, she admitted there had been some instances, but they were few, as guests at this establishment are generally of a higher caliber.

She recounted an incident with an American guest who became inappropriate during his treatment. When she warned him and ended the service, he continued to misbehave, prompting her to call the police. The American, feeling embarrassed, left the guesthouse that same night. She believes that the guests who stay here are kind-hearted. As for her choice of attire, she explained that given the humid and warm conditions in the bathing area and her fuller figure, she had little choice in what to wear while working.

When traveling and shooting in Morocco, English is mainly usable in hotels, some guesthouses, and at the airport, while Arabic and French are widely spoken. Communication with Moroccan Arabs can be quite challenging, and I often find it difficult to distinguish between the local people, who may be a mix of Berbers, French, and Spanish. I rely on observing their friendliness to gauge whether I can communicate, interact, and take photos.

From my experience, if people do not avoid me or appear uncomfortable while I’m shooting, there’s a good chance I can greet them or chat after taking their picture. However, this often depends on whether they speak English or Spanish, as most people do not.

Chefchaouen, known as the “Blue City,” looks like a blue lake from above. The sunlight reflects off the blue and white walls in the narrow alleys, creating perfect scenes with passersby and objects. I try to avoid photographing people head-on, but I found myself at a loss when I encountered an elderly Moroccan Arab man walking his birds.

Exiting a narrow alley, I came face to face with a wall where an elderly man in a white Arab robe sat on a small stool, dozing. The morning sun was warm and gentle, accompanied by the chirping of birds from the cages hanging on the wall. He seemed to be in a deep sleep. While shooting in Morocco, I only had my 35mm and 50mm lenses with me, as I hadn’t brought a medium telephoto lens. To avoid waking him or being noticed while photographing him and the birds (which reminded me of a previous moment capturing cars), I quietly approached to within about two meters, took a quick shot, and turned to leave.

Suddenly, he spoke, startling me. I wondered if he would want me to delete the photo, fearing I had captured his soul. His words were incomprehensible to me, but his kind eyes conveyed friendliness rather than displeasure. As I stood there, unsure, he came over, took my hand, and continued speaking in a language I didn’t understand. He then gestured for me to come closer to the birdcage, sitting down and encouraging me to take more photos. I managed a stiff smile and snapped a few shots while he smiled back at me.

Feeling reassured by his friendliness, I took several portraits of him and his birds. When we finished, he stood up, shook my hand in farewell, and returned to his rest. Back at the guesthouse in Chefchaouen, I asked the owner about the encounter, but he couldn’t explain it either. He noted that most Moroccan Arabs, especially the elderly, are generally reluctant to be photographed.

Morocco is indeed a magical country, and I find it difficult to truly understand its people through just a few trips and conversations. This only deepens my curiosity, driving me to engage with more locals without feeling fatigued. However, one thing I struggled to recall was the cuisine. Morocco offers a variety of delicious dishes, with most restaurant menus showcasing a mix of Moroccan and Mediterranean cuisine, usually in French and Arabic, with few options in English. I only encountered one menu in a Chefchaouen Chinese restaurant that featured Chinese, French, and English.

In larger city restaurants, appetizers often included shrimp and salads, while main dishes typically featured Moroccan specialties like lamb with couscous or pasta. In smaller towns, options were limited to tagine, mashed potatoes, and fried meatballs. Throughout my journey to the Sahara Desert, I had tagine at every meal, to the point where just the sight of it made me feel nauseous.

Traditional Moroccan tagine is a dish cooked in a tagine pot, combining chicken, onions, tomatoes, raisins, cilantro, and Moroccan saffron with spices like pepper, turmeric, paprika, and cinnamon, similar to a hot pot, and generally a healthier way to eat. After returning home, I avoided hot pot for quite some time, possibly due to my overexposure to tagine.

Traveling in Morocco is best done by self-driving or independently, avoiding group tours. The slow pace of life, the historical layers of old towns, handmade crafts, and diverse characters all require time to appreciate. Without knowledge of French or Arabic, it’s advisable to download translation apps to communicate with locals, which makes the journey much more enjoyable. I prefer staying in guesthouses, particularly local Riad-style accommodations, but it’s essential to take the time to find clean places where the staff can speak English, ideally those with strong design and artistic ambiance.

Interacting with locals during my travels always leaves a profound impression on me; happy and unhappy moments occur daily, and I record these events as material for my work, allowing me to reflect on and better understand society.

Published in Hong Kong’s “Chaoyou” magazine in 2018.