2) September 7 2025
Diary Entry #2
The spiritual world of the “African” (if one may use the term despite its gross simplification) is rich and complex, and his inner life is permeated by a profound religiosity. He believes in the coexistence of three different yet related worlds.
The first is the one that surrounds us, the palpable and visible reality composed of living people, animals, and plants, as well as inanimate objects: stones, water, air.
The second is the world of the ancestors, those who died before us, but who died, as it were, not completely, not finally, not absolutely. Indeed, in a metaphysical sense they continue to exist, and are even capable of participating in our life, of influencing it, shaping it. That is why maintaining good relations with one’s ancestors is a precondition of a successful life, and sometimes even of life itself.
The third world is the rich kingdom of the spirits—spirits that exist independently, yet at the same time are present in every being, in every object, in everything and everywhere.
At the head of these three worlds stands the Supreme Being, God. Many of the bus inscriptions speak of omnipresence and his unknown omnipotence: “God is everywhere,” “God knows what he does,” “God is mystery.” There are also some more down-to-earth human injunctions: “Smile,” “Tell me that I’m beautiful,” “Those who bicker like each other,” etc.
— The Shadow of the Sun (1998), Ryszard Kapuściński
I’m sitting here typing away at the kitchen table. Saïda the cook is making bread. Chadia, the lady who looks after the chickens, is telling a story. Mon Amour is eating something and about to smoke a cigarette. She said she was going to stop and give it up completely back in Canada a couple of days ago. But we’ve had quite the couple of days, to put it lightly. Understatement of the year.
Haven’t been able to properly diary each day. So much for writing a daily diary. Maybe this is part of the process though, to stay consistent and commit. Well here I am tapping away. To be frank: we are lucky to be alive, or at least not severely injured. Might as well go chronologically. Helps with the narrative.
Sep 7. What day was that? Sunday. We woke up late in the Airbnb after a good sleep. 10am I think. We had black out curtains and it was quiet due to the double glazed glass sliding doors and the metal blind shutters – an apartment building feature that the Moroccans get from Spain I believe. Oh and that’s right, I had woken up at 3am to write the previous entry and then passed out at 5am. Still felt that I had enough sleep though.
We packed up, headed out to see Dris, Ema, & Anya - Mon Amour’s sister’s husband and her kids but her sister Miriam wasn’t there. Stopped for a coffee and a pain au chocolat beforehand. Had a nice family time, cracking jokes and playing silly childish games with the little one Anya. She’s only about a year old, a bundle of fun, joy, energy. Finally left after a couple of visitors happened to stop by while we were there. This appears to be a common Moroccan experience. Family or friends just pop over uninvited. Or at least they might have vaguely scheduled it but timing isn’t as important as simply arriving at some point during the day.
We hit the road after our goodbyes and headed for Kenitra from Casablanca. About a two hour drive. We were planning on going there for a business meeting. The road was somewhat familiar, having done it before four months ago. It was more dusty and barren and hot though, less greenery. The summer scorched all of it away. Upon arriving, I was dumped in a cafe at the train station for a couple of hours whilst Mon Amour was attending the meeting. The Starbucks had apparently closed so it was Tendy’s – the Moroccan version of Starbucks. It had reliable half decent WiFi and the coffee wasn’t too bad either. Managed to make a couple of catch up calls back home to my parents and a friend. I didn’t mind waiting honestly. Also cancelled some Amazon subscriptions that would have been automatically ordered to my apartment back in Canada in October if I didn’t cancel them. Checked some emails, texts, the markets, and making a shit trade. Lost a grand or so. You win some, you lose some. Safi (“It’s okay” as they say here).
The meeting went on a lot longer than initially planned. Classic Africa time. Not a problem. Mon Amour finally showed up a few hours later than originally scheduled. The meeting went alright but one of the other principal men didn’t show up. So we will have to meet him tomorrow. C’est la vie.
It was late now though, not enough time to drive back to The Farm. Zwayed it’s called. Would be at least a three hour drive, if not four driving in the dark. Which I was insistent that we shouldn’t do. Got to figure out an alternative plan for the night. We brainstormed and she suggested we go to her aunts house. Tati Ninsa. After a brief call and an open invitation, we headed 45 mins or so to Rabat to Tati Ninsa’s to spend the night.
Upon arrival it was apparent that Tati Ninsa is a principled and proper lady. An old style Moroccan ‘Fezi woman’. A woman raised in Fez, the cultural and religious capital of Morocco. She was very inviting and welcoming. Her villa was grandiose but dated. Paintings adorned her walls, some were her own son’s who is a painter and a skilled one at that. The high ceilings and the mini garden and pond bang smack in the middle of the villa was intriguing indeed.
Interruption. I’m writing in short chopped up sentences because a vibrant elated conversation is swirling on around me. All in Arabic of course. Darija to be specific. I understand very little of it, only the contextual clues and facial expressions and the occasional French word tossed in there gives me a minimal hint of what’s being discussed.
A meeting has sprung out of nowhere. Some men have arrived to come talk about the purchase of some wheat. Everyone has left the kitchen now apart from Saïda and I. She is making some homemade bread and a tajine for us to all eat tonight.
Where was I? Tati Ninsa’s villa. Oh yes, I spilt some tea on the couch when getting a tad excited about explaining the difference between various islands in British Columbia. I was obviously embarrassed but luckily it was only some chamomile style tea with nothing else in it. No stains. Not a big deal.
Tati Ninsa doesn’t speak a lot of English but we managed to exchange a couple of sentences and sentiments with one another. I can tell her and Mon Amour have a pleasant and intimate relationship. She is the only aunt left from the older generation.
After going out for a steak dinner and making ourselves comfortable in one of her guest rooms, we immediately fell asleep exhausted from the day. The bed frame was old and the duvet was a winter one, way too thick for September in Morocco. I managed to sleep ok though but woke up sweating profusely a couple of times throughout the night. Better get used to that.
All in all: Day 2 in Morocco was eventful and tiring. Changing plans and sleeping in different beds is exhausting. I just wanted to be at The Farm, where I am now typing away on the painted green kitchen table to the smell of baking bread and bubbling tajine. If only I knew what tomorrow would bring… but I’m glad I didn't.
Two articles in and I sense a lot of unspoken distress here; there are quite a few warning signs I’ve seen how easy it is to convince yourself that everything is fine. From a psychologist’s perspective and as someone who went through something similar 15 years ago I’d gently encourage you to pause and see things clearly. It may spare you a lot of pain in the future, thank me later.
I have been to that exact Tendy's specifically for their Wi-Fi. Small world, mon ami.