When a deadly earthquake hits, you don’t get to choose where you are but if I’d had a say, I wouldn’t have been on the rooftop of a six-storey building in Morocco.
Yet, that’s exactly where our group was when the 6.8 earthquake rippled from the Atlas Mountains and through Marrakech.
One moment, the five of us were enjoying a drink at 11pm, celebrating the end of a fantastic seven-day trip around Morocco. The next, the world began to rock violently around me.
Hours later, people would ask whether, as a Kiwi, I was used to earthquakes. As an Aucklander, I’d tell them that the only quakes I’d felt were the kind where you said “Wait…was that an earthquake?” This time, there was absolutely no doubt, although some said they’d feared it was a bomb.
“Get down! Hold onto the tables!” one of the girls yelled and we dropped to the floor; a tactic that felt pathetic against the shudders that sloshed the rooftop pool water across the floor and pushed glasses across tables.
Glancing up, we saw the open-air roof of the bar vibrate and someone yelled to get out from under it. We ran to the side of the building, huddling together.
It was less than a minute but long enough to play out the worst-case scenario in sickening detail.
“I think I might actually die and there’s nothing I can do.” The revelation sat like a brick in my stomach.
Beside me, a woman from our group whispered a panicked string “ohmygod”. I rub her arm, repeating: “It’s going to be okay, we are going to be just fine.”
The words are as much for myself as her.
I always assumed, in a moment like this, I’d think of my family but they don’t cross my mind until later. Instead, I think of God and wonder what the hell I should pray.
Then, the ground stills and people funnel towards the tight marble staircase that winds in circles down to the ground floor. We follow suit and I try to balance patience with those in front with the gut instinct to get out of this building as fast as possible.
Organised tours have many advantages but all pale in comparison to the relief of having support in the time of crisis. In this instance, it was Intrepid Travel, an Australian company that had dozens of staff in Marrakech. But it was Brahim Hanaoui, our tour guide-turned guardian angel who got us through.
“Guys, step away from the building,” he says, barefoot (he’d given his sandals to a tour member) and beckoning us to the other side of the street. While most guests stand by the lobby, he explains how it’s one of the most dangerous places to be; if an aftershock hits and the building goes down, you want to be far away.
It’s 11.45pm, almost half an hour after the shaking and our whole group of nine sticks together, sharing phones and hotspots to message family.
Information comes through in spontaneous fragments that are corrected and then recorrected as time goes on. It was a 5.7 on the Richter scale. Wait no, a 6.8. The hotel we stayed in last night was reduced to rubble, wait, actually just a few rooms but one a group member had stayed in.
The epicentre was the Atlas Mountains, 75km away and where we’d spent the majority of the trip. Remote villages on mountaintops and terraced riads perched on hillsides had seemed quaint and charming just hours ago. Now they felt like a disaster no longer waiting to happen.
By 1am, most guests have hailed cars or wandered back into the hotel to sleep and we finally nip in to grab passports and some belongings.
“During the Turkey earthquakes, many people returned to their hotels right after to grab items,” Brahim said, “but then an aftershock demolished buildings”.
However, after this long, it’s safe enough to make a brief dash.
Running up to my room, I stand in the doorway, ceiling plaster scattering the floor and feel a sharp stab of panic in my chest. I grab, toss, grab toss, check the safe, check it again then run back out with bags in hand.
At that point, the death toll was 300. As of writing, it’s more than 1000 and climbing. Just kilometres away, in Marrakesh’s old town, the historic buildings we had explored that morning were reportedly a mess of terracotta rubble.
That we are all safe and uninjured is a kind of miracle that will never make sense.
More hours pass by, and after a few calls, Brahim organises our tour bus to return so we can get some sleep at ground level. By 4.30am, we’re jostled awake and told it was safe to return to the hotel. The sheer exhaustion is a paperweight on my fear and I fall asleep fast.
Unlike the rest of the group, I won’t be leaving at 7am. Instead, I’d booked another four days with the plan to enjoy Marrakech. Waking up this morning, I’m greeted by an eerie normalcy. Just like yesterday, the sunrise has set the sky pink, the air is warm and still. Downstairs, an Arabian remix of an Ed Sheeran plays over people tucking into the buffet breakfast.
I call my father, my fiancé, and my sister and try to do impossible math: How likely is another major quake? If the aftershocks have been small, are we in the clear? Given the group’s morning flights have been cancelled or delayed, what’s the chance I can even get an earlier flight? Stay. or go? Risk it or play it safe?
To have decisions to make is a privilege, no matter how dire, expensive or limited they are. But now, my thoughts are with the people of Morocco, who will endure emotional aftershocks that last far longer than any geological disaster.
Sarah Pollok is an Auckland-based journalist at the Herald, specialising in covering stories about travel. She has adventured as close as Waiheke and as far as Ecuador for work.
A similar incident occurred with an Air New Zealand flight last month.