For a long time I have longed for words like “insha’allah”; if God wishes it. In my native tongues we have sayings like this but they are not part of the vernaculars; deemed too religious by the mainstream.

In Morocco the expression “insha’allah” slips into almost every sentence indicating the future and it underlines one of the main ideas that I intentionally ask to guide me through my un-planned travel: the idea that in the end, what happens is not up to me and that even if I work hard for a goal or an idea, I should be equally prepared to let it go alltogether. ”Insha’allah” casually opens the trap door to the awareness of the unknown, even when speaking about the most mundane. Humbly placing the wills of the world above my own illusions of control.
“I will see you tomorrow, insha’allah.”

…

I have not written in my diary or left any voice notes for a while. Gone silent to my self.

I am in a tent in Safi. I arrived today with the bus.

Leaving was not very emotional. It all feels familiar and I am not scared. Or, I don’t know. I’m wondering if I am disassociating. But I also take into account feeling somehwhat distant during change of pace. The more I learn to slow down, the more I notice how sensitive I am to life. How disruption to the little routine I have is enough to jumble my thoughts and invite confusion and insecurity.

Dogs are barking all around. It’s them that I fear the most through my thin, plastic walls.

I am at a camping. I arrived well after dark, walked all the way from the center of town in the rain, had a handful of hot, salty chickpeas on a square. The man working here received me with such kindness and worry and he offered me to stay in the staff room. I said no thank you. I wanted to camp, and so I am in the tent. And I am not cold and I hope I will not be cold during the night.

Casablanca was practically storming when I left her this morning.
“You don’t have to leave today, you know,” my friend told me. The wind was shaking the windows, slamming everything that was not fastened. The rain was pouring sideways.
“I know,” I said. “If it sucks I’ll be back.”

This morning when I left the school I had no idea that the town Safi existed. I didn’t buy any tickets in advance and I didn’t know where the bus station was until I talked to my friend about ten minutes before I walked out the door. No plans. Only intention and trust that if I am meant to leave, I will.

Time, which passed so quickly in the easy routine of Casablanca, is now weighted down by the struggle to carry the backpack and the sores on my feet.
Struggle makes the minutes slow.

I think again how you never know when you will meet someone for the last time. Like the man in the spice shop, Ishmail, he who made me the peanut butter from the peanuts I bought from his shop. I might not ever see him again, or any of all the people working on the market downstairs. All the hoojas who have laughed at me, the old women full of gentle love. Do they know that this might be the first and only ever time that they see me, when they meet me? Am I the only one struggling to be in the moment, imagining there is a tomorrow?

The rain is softly hitting the tent. I am sleeping in the same wool sweater and sleeping bag as I have for a month in the dorm, but here in the tent I am not as cold. I feel tired, but not sleepy.

My mind feels murky and stirred into motion. I am swinging; I feel at home in my strength and resourcefulness, no longer doubting my ability to find a place to sleep in an unfamiliar town. No longer doubting if I am strong enough to carry my bag or ask strangers for help. The moment I set off it was as if I fell into my self, another self, the road-self.
I remembered other times; not being able to sleep out of exitement and fear for the unknown on my last night in Padova in Italy, then the next day feeling inspired, strong and full of love. I remember carrying my backpack through the rainy and foggy Villach in Austria, sleeping in the cold and waking up stiff and afraid. I remember hitching a ride with four Brazilian women over the border from Italy to France, them dropping me off in Antibes as the sun was setting and me consulting a map for the nearest green area to sleep in. Thanks to these past selves, my current self has no doubts that there is nothing to fear.

At the same time I feel stressed about my lack of conception of the time ahead; I have about ten days to reach the border and I don’t know if that is enough time for me to not hurry. I have googled: there is about 1700km between Agadir and Dakhla and somewhere I have read that there should be a bus. Tomorrow I want to make my way to Essaouira, stay there for some days, then Agadir. Is ten days enough to move slow? Is it enough to return and cross a different border before my visa ends, should it be that I can not cross to Mauritania for some reason? Could I get back in time without flying and without having to pay for overextending my visa?

I circle familiar doubts: what am I doing with my life? Why can’t I just have a normal life? Live near to my parents and go to a normal work and be happy with that? And if people want to burn fossil fuels, why can’t I just let them? Why does my heart twist into a monster of grief and anger at the thought? Why can I not travel like all the normal people, if travel is my dream and wish? Book a cheap flight, stay for a week, taste the food and look at the colors, then go back to my box of routine?
My little life is so short in the grand scheme of things. Do I have to riddle my life with all of these I don’t know:s?

I sigh and swing back into my strength, breathing and reassuring my self that this is normal. I know that I can stop whenever I want. I recognize these doubts and even if it’s hard, it’s not quite time for me to go home. Not yet. I snuggle deeper into the sleeping bag, remember to breathe and listen to the rain. It’s difficult at times, but I believe in this road.

As always when I feel stirred, my self resists sleep. Worried about the cease of existence that sleep brings, even more tense than before when facing the unknown. I remind my self that it’s not in my hands, that everything will be allright, one way or another. I challenge my self to trust, to relax and submit to the flow of life. I will do what I can to reach what I think I want, and the rest is not in my hands.

Insha’allah, I think to myself as I try to let my worries go and drift into sleep. My new spell, my new companion-word, inspiration. If god so wills.

…

(This story told in pictures.)