I Will Always Carry Fes

The scent was that of culinary spices and the acrid aroma of decaying flesh and warm day-old urine. As I sat anxiously, anticipating the next adventure I was about to experience, I could hear the second hand on my watch ticking by and found myself thinking, “how odd time was as a construct.” A second could feel like an eternity, and an entire day could pass you by in a fleeting moment. Time is a tricky fucker, weaving in and out of our consciousness, only truly showing itself when life unveils its darkness and we are within the grasp of a life we can’t imagine living, where days become weeks and weeks become years.

As Fes, Morocco got closer, that unsettling and pungent odor wrapped around me like the devil’s hug, weaving its way into my nostrils and seemingly threatening my very own oxygen supply. What is this place? The beads of sweat running down my temples and other body parts I will spare you from mentioning insinuated that the “air-conditioning” offered on my chosen mode of transportation was a poor excuse for a fan, serving no purpose other than as a soundtrack of white noise added to the cacophony of sensory inputs that were assaulting my very existence. My head was pounding like a metronome, my clothes were damp as the humidity hung in the air, married to the stench I was beginning to believe you would never be able to escape. My anxiety can only be described as my body betraying me. Was this fear or excitement? How could I be so disoriented yet feel so fucking alive?

I could feel the inertia signaling that we had reached our final destination. I peeled my damp body off the vinyl bench that had been my home for the last four hours and hoisted the bag of belongings I’d held onto for comfort onto my back. My feet marched towards the front of the vehicle, and I heard the familiar hiss of the air releasing and the panel doors crashing into themselves, signaling it was time to depart the bus. As I made my way to freedom, the Saharan heat hit me like a prize fighter. It was difficult to breathe; the air was physically heavy, but what was waiting for me out in the world was an experience I still struggle to find the words for and one I have never forgotten.

I felt their desperation; there was only one more step remaining to get off this bus, but the ambush made disembarking impossible. Countless hands were groping at me, yet I oddly noticed their rapid and aggressive onslaught never appeared to hit the mark. I felt like I was being assaulted, yet what were they hunting for? I fearfully attempted to meet their gaze, trying in my ignorance to understand the situation, and in that moment, I saw faces I had never seen before and haven’t since. Their skin was deeply weathered by the sun, their hands worn in ways that made me wonder about the lives they had lived. And then I realized that not a single one of them could see. I didn't know their stories. I didn't know what had happened to them, how they lived, or whether the story rapidly forming in my own head bore any resemblance to reality... but something in me stopped.

I froze. A wave of emotion washed over me. How can life be this cruel? I didn't understand what I was witnessing, and perhaps that was part of what affected me so deeply. I had walked off a bus expecting another adventure and instead found myself face-to-face with lives I knew absolutely nothing about.

Morocco was different. Morocco was raw—it was exhilarating yet entirely foreign, carrying a tantalizing vibe. I had this odd sense inside of me, a subtle twinge in my gut that reminded me that I was alive. The heat, the smells, the noise, the anxiety, the unfamiliarity—my entire nervous system seemed to be screaming at once, and somehow, beneath all of it, was this extraordinary feeling of aliveness. It's a place I look forward to returning to, as it was beyond mesmerizing, but I still think about those men. I don't know their stories. I don't know what brought them to that bus station or what their lives looked like after I walked away. At the time, my mind desperately wanted to make sense of what I was seeing. Years later, I'm not sure I ever did.

Maybe that's one of the things travel has taught me. Sometimes you encounter something you can't neatly explain, turn into a lesson, or fit inside the world as you've understood it. Sometimes you simply carry it with you. Fes has stayed with me.