Volunteering In Morocco: The Trip That Proved Me Wrong

Marco, 34 years old. Italy

When I think back to the doubts I had before leaving, I can only smile. “Are there crocodiles along the river? Can you swim in the sea, or is it shark country?”: these were the questions I kept asking a friend of Italian and Moroccan roots, until my wish to explore finally overcame my fear of going. So, when summer came, I left the muggy heat of the Po Valley behind and dived straight in.

Stepping off the plane was enough to show me how wrong my picture of Morocco had been. I expected scorching heat, and from the Atlas mountains came a light breeze smelling of rain; I expected bare, desert ground, and I found green valleys and tidy meadows; I feared I would struggle to communicate, and I met people so kind that I felt at home at once

A Home Steps from the Ocean

I feel at home, too, when I met the family that will host me for two weeks. The eldest son waited for me at the central station, and within minutes we reached a lovely flat a short walk from the ocean, where the smell of sea salt drifts through the windows and mixes with the scent of hazelnuts roasting in the little shop downstairs. I set down my suitcase, grab a bite, and I am ready for the capital.

The medina is a tangle of little lanes chasing one another through the souks: bags, leather slippers, jewellery, spices, fruit, teapots, fountains and courtyards form a bright mosaic. I found some peace at Chellah, the old walled necropolis just outside the city, where the Roman ruins have become a wild garden. Storks have nested here, and it is a joy to watch their clumsy moves, or the funny way they clap the two halves of their bills to call one another.

Sunday Evening, Bag Packed

The weekend goes by fast. At home I switch between refreshing naps and long talks with my hosts, and the unexpected calm of a different kind of holiday rests both mind and spirit. On Sunday evening we go over the plan, I check places and times, pack my bag and set the alarm: in a few hours, after years, I am going back to school.

A shared taxi takes us up a hill in the city of Salé, into a district of small houses and apartment blocks where no tourists pass. Yet it has its own market, and this morning again it is the mint and the voices of the women haggling that lead us toward the school: it is the perfect walk to get to know the group, where, incredibly, four of the six volunteers are Italian. Getting organised is easy; in no time we are ready to begin. Except the children, that day, had other plans.

The Tea That Brought Us Together

It takes only one student’s sharp eye to sense that we are out of our depth, and in an instant it is chaos. And who can blame them? These children already handle three languages, the darija they speak at home, standard Arabic and the French they learn at school, and here we are trying to add a fourth (English), with a grammar worlds apart, with no experience and no basic vocabulary of our own. Disaster is served. A local girl saves us, translating the instructions and suggesting a few simple activities. We head back empty handed and agree to meet at the Kasbah of the Oudayas, over a mint tea and the view that opens onto the ocean. Maybe it was the morning’s defeat, maybe that harbour against the light, but the setback had brought us close: from scattered volunteers, we were starting to become a group.

When Teaching Becomes Play

Step by step, with songs, games, simple activities and short breaks, we began to have great fun teaching. The children would wait for us at the end of the street, walk us back to the taxi, want to invite us home or tell us about themselves, their dreams, their passions. It is moving to see the hunger for life and the hope in the future that children carry: it makes us ask where our own inner child has gone, and whether the adult lives we now lead still honour the purity and unconditional love that children remind us of again and again.

Beyond the Classroom, the Group

The rest of the time was ours, and we spent it well. One day we went up to Casablanca; another we let the waves knock us over in a surf lesson, laughing at every fall. We lost ourselves in the alleys of the Salé medina, across the river, where Morocco is quieter and less on show. And in the evening we would all gather around the same table, sharing a dish and telling the story of our day: we had set out strangers, and we were becoming family.

Two weeks fly by in a breath. I had left anxious about crocodiles and sharks; I come back with the thrill of surfing the waves, full of the affection of a classroom and richer by a few new friendships. But anyone who thinks an experience like this lasts only two weeks is quite wrong.

A Journey That Gets Under Your Skin

Three years on, I smile at the thought that, thanks to Rabat, I have a friend who lives thirty kilometres from me, whom I hear from often and whose birthday I will soon celebrate. Morocco made me fall in love with its language, so much so that I am now, quite unexpectedly, trying to train my own tongue to pronounce letters as elegant as they are hard. And it made me fall in love with the country itself: I went back a second time to explore it, a third to see the children again, and, God willing, I will return a fourth with friends in a few months, and a fifth to teach once more.

Yes, it is a trip that proved me wrong, it’s a journey that stays with you: so if, once you have tried it, you find yourself longing to return, don’t say I didn’t warn you.