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I started the trip of my dreams. I boarded a bus at midnight to reach the Strait of Gibraltar and move from European land to African soil. I embarked on the ferry and arrived at the most beautiful country I have ever seen, with an Arabian culture that few of us could understand, but that all of us would like to know. The country of noise, of people say to you that buys you for 3 camels (a joke to tourists who are afraid of being kidnapped by an Arab), a country of children who stretch their hands to receive alms. I am Colombian, I know social misery because of corruption, I know what it means to be in a country rich by nature, but poor by the simplicity of a paper stamped with numbers ... There I was, in the country of iconic landscapes, of mountains, of green, of peasants, of stones, of water, the country of the desert, of starry moon nights, the country of music, of dances ... I was there, in the country that assures you to change your perspective: Morocco Start with the city known as: The blue pearl. How much reason to take such a poetic name, chefchaouen. Its magical streets bathed in a blue flash, adorned with flowers and white doors. A city that you travel uphill and plunge you into narrow alleys of a stone path. Modern vision is concerned with focusing the perfect photo for instagram ... But the truth is that it is the most wonderful reflection of joy, of happiness, of the color hope that makes the essence the Moroccans. We go deeper, we cross fez and we cross its medina. Artisanal beauty sprouted like art springs, lamps with sparkles of a thousand colors, rustic rugs, like flying carpets, tea tableware, which invited you to close your eyes and travel through time, maybe fantasize about children's disney literature and awaken the genie of Aladdin's lamp. But magic became an adventure with every step you took, the dubious origin of street foods, made you feel that you were living the strongest adrenaline of your life. From fear, I ran into a bathroom: What a surprise when I saw that it was a latrine! Scared of my cultural ignorance, I was forced to lower my pants, afraid to step on the remains of the previous visitor and to stain my clothes, I discovered my deepest balancing and contortionist skills. In each Mesquita, I felt the uncontrollable desire to enter, take off my shoes and join my prayers to their god. How disrespectful we are when we pass over the most sensitive traditions in order to satisfy our traveling curiosity. I decided not to enter, I admit that it was not out of respect, it was for fear of being kicked out as I saw what happened with some daring people who entered on tiptoes to see what it was that was behind the door. We sleep in the desert, we cross it in the most spoiled camel that may exist. Tired the animal of carrying people who do the impossible with their selfiestick at their expense in order to highlight their self-centered figure above the incredible landscape. The superficiality of our new ephemeral times hurts, as a child I listened to stories of camels and deserts and my soul was filled with glory. How much would I give to go back to that moment, without selfiestick, without cell phone and social networks, close my eyes and smell the smell of sun, feel the sand pink my skin caress the mythical camel that takes me to its slope and breathe the present moment. In my traveling ignorance, neglect the most spiritual details and let only my physical senses be filled. Finally, that is Morocco, smells, colors and flavors, but there is something else, my mind craves it, spirit, energy, magic and love. Morocco, my cultural muse.