The World Began Grinding to a Halt: The Approaching Pandemic

   In the span of just two days after posting my video in Chefchaouen—asking locals what they’d heard about COVID (the Coronavirus)—I would experience the first of many, many events set in motion by an approaching chaos. One that would reach every corner of the world and permanently change how it functioned.

   At the time, I was staying in a place that was, in truth, too small to be considered a riad, yet far too personal and home-like to be called a hostel. My room measured roughly three meters by two and a half. Neither the doorway nor the single, large window had any real framework to speak of—just openings cut directly into the concrete walls, sized only to serve their purpose. The door itself was solid and surprisingly effective, clearly handmade and wonderfully rudimentary. The window offered little more than a glimpse into the lives of neighboring homes and terraces, but it felt novel all the same. Colorful curtains in traditional Amazigh design provided privacy and did their part to keep the chilly night air at bay.

   This raw, almost primitive design philosophy carried through the entire room. The concrete floor and walls were one continuous surface—no clear separation—just an upsweep from floor to wall on all four sides.

And when I say “primitive,” I mean it with the utmost respect. It was beautifully executed, doing exactly what it was meant to do: charm its visitors and gift them an experience that felt honest and unforgettable.

Blue.

   If it hadn’t been so beautiful, it might have felt overwhelming—like being submerged at the bottom of a massive swimming pool. But instead of panic, there was calm. You felt held, not drowned.

   Two tones of blue coated the room from top to bottom. The darker shade wrapped the lower half, including the floor, grounding the space. The lighter blue climbed the walls and spilled across the ceiling, opening the room up and giving it air.

   Traditional Moroccan tapestries adorned the walls, and a small table at the foot of the double bed held a matching tablecloth and a handful of Moroccan trinkets. Together, they completed the aesthetic of this charming little abode. Heavy blankets—consistent with the ancestral décor—were draped across the bed. The frame itself was crude yet stylish, as if the posts had been cut straight from a tree and fashioned into something both utilitarian and beautiful. It was sturdy and one could tell just by looking. 

Back to the current situation.

   Earlier in these sequential travel tales, I mentioned that slow travel wasn’t even in my vocabulary. After about three weeks in Morocco, I was ready to move on. The plan was simple: return to the U.S., swap out what I didn’t need for what I did, then continue on. My flight into Austin, Texas, was about a week away.

   I was reclined comfortably on the bed, scrolling through comments on that now-infamous video. Many of them hadn’t aged well—no one truly understood what was unfolding then, at least not the way we do now. That’s when I heard it.

Ding. Phone lights up.

An email notification that would mark the beginning of the end of travel as I knew it.

Iberia Airlines informed me that my flight had been canceled.

   It didn’t take long to grasp the reality of what was coming. The severity was undeniable. Panic crept in as I began a frantic search for another way home. After two hours of dead ends—no flights available to anywhere—I finally found one. Crisis averted, but I needed to get to Marrakesh as my flight was departing in a matter of days. The only bus leaving Chefchaouen at the time was bound for Rabat. I booked a hostel there and caught the next available bus. Within the hour, I was leaving the Blue Pearl of Morocco.

Farewell, beautiful.

   The six-hour ride gave me plenty of time to reflect. My journey through Morocco had been everything I’d hoped for and more. My first real immersion into a culture so vastly different from my own left me feeling—if I’m honest—a bit more worldly than my friends back in Texas. Oh, the stories I would tell them. Another chance to feel special.

   Outside the window, rural Morocco rolled by in a slow blur. Mountains softened into foothills. Villages appeared more frequently. Donkey-drawn wagons hugged the roadside, signaling that another stop—another small community—was near.

   Eventually, my attention turned inward, then outward again—to the passengers around me. I studied them quietly, one at a time, probably more conspicuously than I realized. What were they thinking about all of this? Where were they going? What was their story?

   After reading some of the video comments, a nagging paranoia crept in. I wondered if they saw me as dirty—as the reason this virus had reached their country—simply because I was a foreigner. I half-convinced myself they might collectively decide to toss me off the bus in the middle of nowhere.

Time proved otherwise.

   They didn’t care about me at all. Some slept. Others doom-scrolled through social media. Parents tended to their children—soothing crying babies, correcting mischievous behavior. Two rows behind me, the bus attendant sat on the back row rolling joints while keeping a watchful eye over the carriage. When he caught me looking, he nodded upward and flashed a grin, as if to say, Yeah—you get it.

   It was remarkable to see diligence and irresponsibility coexist so seamlessly in one person. But that was Morocco. And to his credit, he never failed on the diligence part throughout the journey.

Six hours.

   That was the length of the trip—but only four hours had passed since I’d booked a bed in a trendy little hostel tucked inside Rabat’s old medina and boarded the bus to the capital.

Ding.

Same message. Different airline.

Another flight canceled.

If there had been any lingering doubt before, it vanished in full Technicolor clarity. Big changes were happening—fast. Though just how big, we wouldn’t fully understand for a few more days.

   After a long—beautiful, then increasingly stressful—bus ride and a short taxi trip, I entered the medina in search of my hostel. Despite everything unfolding globally, life there moved as if untouched. Every square foot was alive with motion. From above, I imagined it must have looked like a river of human heads flowing in opposite directions at once.

   The sun cast long shadows as afternoon gave way to evening. Vendors stood atop chairs and crates, calling out daily specials on everything from shoes, undergarments, jlabas, to ceremonial attire, and sports jerseys. The overlapping hum of conversation was both chaotic and soothing. Nothing suggested that humanity was on the verge of grinding to a halt.

I finally reached the hostel and rang the doorbell.

   It was a classic Moroccan-style hostel—warm and inviting. Zakaria - owner of the hostel and one of the kindest, most generous people I’ve ever met enforced a strict shoes-off policy, providing disinfected slip-ons instead.  There was a place next to the television for shoes. The front room featured an L-shaped sofa and loveseat forming a loose U around the television. The lighting was dim yet sufficient, creating an unmistakably cozy atmosphere.

   Opposite the front door, a spiral staircase led to two upper floors and a rooftop terrace. I stayed on the top floor, arranged dorm-style with seven or eight beds—no bunks. Plenty of outlets (a luxury in hostels anywhere) and simple, understated décor. Nothing flashy. Just clean, immaculate, really.

   Over the next two days, talk of the virus dominated every conversation. We sat glued to the television in disbelief as flight cancellations, rising death tolls, and widespread shutdowns filled the news. Each morning, guests left before sunrise, hoping to catch one of the few remaining flights out of Morocco through Casablanca—the last airport still operating. Most returned late at night, defeated. For many, it would take a full week before they finally made it home.

On the third day, a voice echoed through the medina over a loudspeaker. I stepped outside to investigate—and froze.

Everything was closed.

What had once been hundreds of people had dwindled to a handful. The silence was unreal. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not like this. Not in real life.

   It was the auxiliary force, urging residents to stay indoors and take precautions. The message repeated over and over, in French and Arabic. I couldn’t understand the words at first, which somehow amplified the drama of it all. But I knew one thing with certainty:

A story was unfolding right in front of me.

So, once again, I reached for my trusty GoPro—ready to show the world exactly how this was all going down in Morocco.  

   And just as the shops and restaurants were under mandatory closings, so were the hostels and hotels. This hostel would only be open a few more days, then I would be out on the streets…in a foreign country…during a world-wide pandemic.

If you’d like to see what I captured that day—or simply want a 2020 throwback—click the video below.