Going to sleep on the night before I woke up sick in my tent I remember thinking that all I really have is my health. To walk, to carry, to constantly strain for understanding, staying attentive; to read social cues in circumstances completely new to me, to make the many choices and priorities concerning my needs, safety, budget, wishes and wants; it all requires a lot of energy. Just to tend to the cornerstones of sleeping and eating well is difficult in routine-less circumstances; a few nights of bad sleep is enough to put me in a state where I am easily overwhelmed and distracted, not able to be present with the travel, only mechanically ploughing through it.

…

The first feeling when I woke was that of dryness. Panting; trapped in the tent as if inside a plastic bag, conserved like a piece of bread. Face swollen, throat hurting, head throbbing with pain and fever. My bones weighing heavy on muscles and skin, mauling from the inside whenever I moved. Even the eyes felt dry when I blinked, swollen, no saliva came when I tried to move my lips and tongue. Just the smallest sip of water remaining in the bottle over in the corner.

I’d pitched the tent a good hour’s walk away from town, away from people who might disturb me and near to a road that would suit me for hitchhiking. It had been a good plan, but now it was a problem. The sun already high and rising, the day getting hotter, meanwhile I was nailed to the ground with all of my body weight, the same strength carrying the weight of me and my stuff and my stories and moods, now a heavy sack of skin-covered pain.

Thought impeded by pain and haze. I knew I had to do something, just not what and in which order. Linked the thoughts together slowly between the throbs in my head. Should I stay in the tent and rest today? Should I try and make my way to Agadir like I had planned? Or try and find a hostel here in Essaouira and rest there?

Staying in the tent not a good option; no water. Moving anywhere; need energy. Pack everything, carry. Could I? What would happen? Pain, yes. Could I pass out? Hospital?

One hour of walking into town, or two hours of sitting in a car and one hour of waiting for a hitch; which costs the most?

Dehydrated. Need to move anyhow.

For better or worse, probably because my stubborn, stupid head is biased and likes to feel like it’s moving forward without questioning much what that means, I decided to try for Agadir. Figuring that if I had to move, moving to the road was the closest option and if I were to rest today, I might as well do so by sitting in a moving car.

Crawling up on weak arms, head falling between the shoulders I managed to open the zipper for some fresh air. Then slowly crawling out of and into clothes to change. Everything has to be folded to fit and it took me a long time, fingers weak and joints aching. Slowly the bag got rolled and the tent came down, painstakingly, forcing the tent and sleeping bag into the backpack. No cover from the sun. While seated I crawled into the shoulder straps, got onto all fours with the backpack strapped on, put the feet underneath me and rose. Swayed a little, nose running. Not dignified. All I could manage.

I don’t know where I found the strength to start walking through the sand dunes and towards the road, up and down hills, minding my steps on the uneven ground. Sweating and dizzy but somehow stable enough. Somehow, walking was easier.

…

The wait for a hitch was long and what I finally caught was a shared taxi. The driver offered me the only seat for 120 dirham but I had already asked the people in the town for the normal price and they had told me it was 70. And so I insisted, told him no thank you and left him to drive away, annoyed that my appearance would be enough to raise the price to almost the double. I set on waiting for a better ride when he backed up and agreed to give me the ride for the 70 dirham. And so my bag was pushed into the back and I got in the only free seat in the midst of old, wrinkly men with warm smiles. Feeling like I got the fair price, all was forgiven. I sank down and rested my aching head, barely noticed the landscapes passing.

We changed taxis for some reason in the next town. While waiting I asked, in gestures, if I could run in to a nearby store and buy water. One of the men did it for me and I drank gratefully, then held the cold bottle against my forehead, temples and the arteries in my neck, relieved. The heat picked up. We left.

The road curled wildly up and down, left and right. I leaned my head against the back of the driver’s seat. Something not quite like a headache made me feel very, very bad. Motion sickness? I closed my eyes and focused on breathing. Passing in and out of consciousness as the road kept swinging back and forth. Not quite sleeping, more like taking side steps from reality. The pain got worse, not a migraine but something like that, heartbeats echoing between my ears, nausea, the fever making me feel twice my size, swollen, heavy. I was nearing my limit and had no way to get out. Nothing to save me. Wishing we would arrive to Agadir soon, could we please just get to Agadir soon, a town I’d only seen as a dot on the map; a fantasy-name, a legend, the word could mean anything, maybe it was just a rock at the end of the road where I would get off alone, pay for the ride and watch as the taxi left. Reality glitching, brought back by an urge to vomit, breathing, lights flickering and train of jumbled thought picking off again. In between breaths and un-sleep I cried, grimaced my scarf-wrapped face against my hands, dry and sound-less.
Like this we drove for ever.

Until finally. Way ahead of us white shapes of houses againt the yellow landscape, set against the sea, bigger than any collection of shapes so far. It had to be it. I braced for the turns and stops bound to shake the car as we entered the city.

I was left to dismount in the center and got help with lifting my bag out and placing it on a bench. I had booked the cheapest room I could find. Now I just had to make my way there.

In my state I didn’t feel like I could muster the strength to be kind and polite, to charm the taxi drivers to not treat me like one of those tourists and charge me the double. Did not feel strong enough to be in-between languages. Did not want to ask anyone for anything in fear of starting …something. I collected myself on the bench, still in pain but grateful for the stillness. The map told me it would take me an hour to walk. I definitely did not have it in me.

Once gathered, I approached the taxi drivers and asked for the way. It was exactly as energy consuming as I had feared, ending in discussions about the area, the men not understanding the map location, asking for area names I had no way to give, waving of hands, no language as a common ground and no smile to ease things. I was so tired. In the end I got into a taxi with a man who was kind at first but lost patience with me when I did not manage to make small talk and instead spent the ride with my head in my hands in the passenger’s seat. He refused to give me my change and did not help me with the bag as he had at first. Didn’t matter. I was there. Bless you, I sighed as he drove away. I meant it.

I was in a complex of apartment buildings, no idea which house to look for or whom to contact. The booking confirmation was all in Arabic. I asked the traffic guard outside the house, grateful that my phone had enough battery and internet connection to show him the email. I had no credit, but the guard called the number for me, confirmed in Darija and told me to wait. I sat down on a rock separating the street from the sidewalk and with everything feeling almost-resolved, I let tears of pain, resignation and exhaustion fall from my eyes. I felt safe enough. I trusted, believed, hoped that at any moment a door would open for me to a place where I could be safe and alone, a place where I could rest. It was so close. A kid on the other side of the street stared at me. He had been taunting the guard and now he flashed a mean smile at me. I didn’t care, met his eyes still crying, then returned to my breaths.

The guy showed up maybe fifteen minutes later. He brought me upstairs to a two-bedroom apartment and kept repeating the question if I would want to stay more nights. I kept repeating my I don’t know, tried to tell him I was sick, asked him what the price would be to stay longer. He told me the double of what I had already paid. I told him I would decide and let him know in the morning.

When he left I locked the door, closed the curtains and undressed. The cool sheets, the darkness, the steadiness. The safety. I would be better tomorrow. I believed it. Now I’d just have to live through today, let all the forces in the body work out, suffer through it, it was OK. I took some painkillers, added some electrolytes to my water, placed the bottle by the bed and then, finally, lay down to rest. Let everything else fall from me and my self into the pain.

…

I woke and it was dark outside. The pain tore, mauled inside and through the skull, pushing my head into shards. It was this that had woken me. It was bad. Painkillers hadn’t helped. In the dark I tried to stand but could not, crawled instead to my bag and fumbled after another pill, crawled back to the water bottle and swallowed. Hours later, crying; nothing helped. On a whim, an instinct, I crawled out again, now to the bathroom. Curled limply on the shower floor I wet my hair. Where the water touched my skin the cold felt like being cut, but around my head it gave the smallest of reliefs.

I grasped at a realization as it arrived slowly: heatstroke. I’d never had it before, maybe this was that. Probably from when I was waiting for the hitch in the sun, from the hot taxi combined with the fever. I had never felt pain like this, not centered in any place in particular in my head but in all of it. Besides that the cold clogged my nose and I couldn’t breathe; my skin, muscles and joints ached just from touching the world. The brief moments when I could focus on my breathing, I did so. Most of the time I moaned, cried and pleaded with the pillow muffling my voice. I hoped no neighbors would hear me through the walls.

I don’t know how morning came, but it did.

The daylight hurt, but even after only patches of sleep I felt better. Grateful, weak. On unsteady feet I went over to my bag and dug around for another painkiller, added more electrolytes to the bottle and filled it with water from the tap.

Thoughts were forming in my mind again. The time for check-out was getting closer. Either I had to find a hostel or scout the map for potential places to camp. In the end I booked a bed in the only hostel in Agadir, located, as if by a miracle, only a fifteen minute walk away from where I was staying. I was still feeling terrible but the pain had subsided to the much more familiar feeling of a regular cold. A bad one, but still a regular. I felt weak, but knew I would heal and regain my strength in the coming days.

…

(This story told in pictures.)