To my absolute delight, the universe gave me an RV Family not long after I had begun standing on the side of the road.

It was a big day. I was somewhere along the coast of Morocco, and airport bound. Marrakech was 264 kilometers inland. My wallet was down to a couple 20-dirham notes.

Day 356

27 January 2019

Tamraght → Agadir → Marrakech

Hitchhiked: 393 km | Trip total: 11,797 km

The cheeriest German woman opened the sliding door and helped me in. She didn’t look like she had a baby three months ago, but said baby was peacefully snoozing amongst the shoes and supplies and stuff that just naturally accumulates as you overland.

Sophia and Michael, the parents, welcomed me to sit on their bed. They were in the front with their four-year-old daughter. We chatted, yelling from end to end of the rumbling vehicle, while I sat cross-legged on the spacious mattress.

I was in a good state of mind. Despite the distance that lay ahead of me, I had chosen to meditate before setting out.

I watched the Atlantic coastline through the kitchen window to my right, and admired the garlic and oranges hanging to my left.

The young parents let me off just outside Agadir.

Stumbling along the speedway with my thumb out and a bag of jalabas hanging off of my right arm like I’d just come out of a shopping mall, I met the Moroccan version of Delfi, one of my closest friendsI’ve made on my trip.

Sana instantly reminded me of Delfina because she wanted so badly to help me to the best of her ability.

She too was doing her PhD, and complained that she can’t just sit still at home. She always finds to chill with friends and grab a beer or do something, anything.

Sana had just gotten back from taking her friend’s long-distance boyfriend from the airport to another town. She explained how she loves being the fairy for others.

As she went way past her exit to get me to the best hitchhiking spot, told me she was actually going to apply to a program in Florida—her friend had just linked her.

“A Summer Institute at the University of Florida.”

You know, just that school in the town that I lived for 22 years next to. The school that’s employed my mother since before my school, on the same street as the hospital I was born in. The school I graduated from not long ago, and awarded me the scholarships that I saved up and use to travel the world with.

Just a coincidence?

I left Sana with my larger orange and devoured the other.

I was at last at the junction with a straight shot highway to Marrakech. There were plenty of other hitchhikers dotted along the dusty road.

I found a decent spot, blatantly next to a “no stopping” road sign, and patiently smiled at the traffic.

A kind man and his little boy stopped for me. I asked for Marrakech using Arabic pronunciation. He said he wasn’t going far, with the apologetic look I’d gotten so many times before. I thanked him and went back to smiling and choking on fuel exhaust.

A car slowed down until it was right by me. I was bent over with relief when they said they were going all the way.

Fluent English, check. At least one Mohammed in the vehicle, check.

****

I just remember trying to take it all in. How everything happens for a reason and how today was already so much.

On my way out of a country, I get rather…emotional. Morocco had shown me so much love. Armed with the few Arabic phrases I had, I felt comfortable enough to be hitchhiking all alone, with all my belongings.

I often consider much crying there is to be done about all that I have been through to be here, now. How there’s just no time and no privacy to cry it all out in this life I live.

I know I’m being dramatic. Everyone has been through life to get where they are. But hey, this is my diary I’m letting the internet read.

****

I finally ran out of things to say.

“So do you guys work?”

“Um yeah, this trip we just took was for work.”

“What do you guys do?”

“We’re doctors.”

Suddenly wide awake, I explained to Bounnit and Mohammed my personal desire to one day continue my education and work as a physician for Médecins Sans Frontières, or Doctors Without Borders.

They told me to help myself to the book next to me. I flipped through some graphic images of genital lacerations and How To’s for stitching bladders back together.

Bounnit was a urological surgeon. Mohammed was a biologist physician.

Of course what ensued was a discussion of medicine in Morocco. How classes are taught in French, and all the specialties make the same salary in a public hospital. Our conversation touched on cesarean sections, maternity leave, and the importance of suctioning out a baby by the head and not like, by the face.

Mohammed handed me a Ferrero Rocher. A childhood favorite. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had one.

The highway cut through the largest reserve of gnarly Argan trees in the world. 21 million trees, with some goats that climb them and eat their nuts and poop out the insides which are then perfect for making into oil.

It looked so arid out there, yet the nuts are so powerful. Whether you care about cosmetics, hair, breakfast dips, liver disease prevention, high cholesterol management, or anti-inflammatory properties, it seems like the Argan nut can cater to you.

After all, growing up, I only knew two things about Morocco: couscous, and that the nice shampoos were “made with Moroccan Argan oil.”

Pure Argan oil should be $20 per liter in Morocco.

Aside: Later, when I had landed in Athens, Greece, I walked into a small shop and checked the price of a 50-ish milliliter bottle of “pure” Argan oil. €17. The same price of a Ryan Air flight from Marrakech to Athens.

Several music genres later, I glanced at my GPS. We had missed the exit by a good 60 kilometers.

Was it the dancing, Drizzy Dross, or blasting Aicha too loud?

As we pulled into the city, my plan to spend the night in the airport was vetoed. The notion was deemed “not appropriate” despite my protests about me having lounge access.

Quite familiar with Moroccan hospitality by now, I knew they meant it. I was promised a proper bed and shower if I wanted. We got to the home of three friends of theirs. I rushed to the balcony to admire the sunset.

I met to another urologist, a gastroenterologist, and a nuclear medicine specialist. More physicians arrived. The introductions made my head spin.

We shared bread, dipped in the fresh amlou, or almond butter blended with honey and Argan oil, that Bounnit and Mohammed had brought back from the coast, where it’s locally produced. They all got busy playing fantasy football (soccer).

I was busy in my own thoughts. I didn’t want to forget any detail of this day.

Dinner was delivery shawarma and fries. Ultimate Arab comfort food.

Bounnit and I went halfsies on both a shawarma and a French-style taco, just so I could try everything. Tacos in Morocco were not to be confused with the Mexican tacos I grew up with in the United States. These tacos were massive, meaty wraps of shawarma, fries, and greasy sauce, all shoved in a panini press. I’d never had such a thing, and I’d been eyeing them all month.

I also suffered from an intense craving of one last avocado juice. One final, thick concoction of avo, milk, and sugar—the way half the world consumes avocado. The doctors made sure to help me order this too.

I was overjoyed.

Day 357

28 January 2019

Marrakech, Morocco → Athens, Greece

Hitchhiked: 8km | Trip total: 11,805 km

The master bedroom was offered to me for a few hours of shut-eye, before Bounnit and Mohammed graciously chauffeured me to the airport at 5:40am. Their hospital shifts started at 8.

As I went through the motions at check-in and security scans, I felt deeply humbled, but a little too sleep-deprived to process the recent events.

Three rides, each more inspiring than the last. Foreigners, a Berber, Arabs. A family, an independent woman, two guy friends.

Brushing against medicine in an international, non-professional setting—one of my favorite past times as a traveler.

A sunset and a hot meal that I didn’t expect to have.

I feel a deep connection with the African continent. It was my pick for beginning my solo travels when I was 19 years old. My decision to pursue medicine began on the other side of Africa, many countries away from Morocco. Years will go by before I will see my next African sunset, but giving time to experience the African nations remains one of the highest priorities of my trip.

Hitchhiking makes me feel like I’m a part of something bigger. What does it all mean? All the feelings, all the adventure?

My generosity is directly influenced by the generosity of my drivers—it grows. Perhaps with every ride one hitches, the world becomes a more pleasant place by a microscopic increment.

One month later after parting with Morocco, I was still eating with my hands out of instinct. Three months later, my Moroccan memories are vivid and continue to move me.

Hitchhiking Hope

Hitchhiking Hope is a concept that began during my hitchhiking adventures through the Caucasus countries with a fellow budget traveler. People helping people out of love, without expecting anything in return, moved us.

Hitchhiking is humbling. Hitchhiking is humiliating. Hitchhiking is deep and extraordinarily spontaneous.

Hitchhiking connects me with construction workers, truck drivers, housewives, grandmothers, physicians, and law students. Discoveries of new music, dances, and foods are made on a daily basis.

The conversations and home-stays we shared with our drivers broke past the invisible boundaries of culture, language, and money.

Because anyone can hitchhike anywhere, we wish to share stories and inspire others to practice one of our favorite modes of world travel.

Some relevant reads…

Morocco archives.

Hitchhiking guides and stories.

Medical travel adventures.