A Day in Marrakech

 

Day 16 -  We are in Marrakech, Morocco today and history surrounds us.

Between the years 1200 and 1600, your average European king was shivering in a damp stone castle and trying to pay his royal debts with wet grain. Meanwhile, Marrakesh was running the intercontinental economy. You have to remember the Americas were entirely off the ledger back then. Nobody was trading with the New World because Columbus had not even bumped into the Caribbean yet. 

The entire global market was a closed loop, and THIS dusty city held the keys to the vault. This is exactly why Jay and I drag ourselves across the globe. I stood in the middle of the medina today and realized that my history lessons completely missed an important center of the medieval world.

Back then, the Marrakesh skyline was a permanent, choking cloud of red dust kicked up by ten thousand irritable camels finishing a two-month slog across the Sahara. The air in Jemaa el-Fnaa was a heavy, gag-inducing cocktail of livestock sweat, unwashed traders, curing leather, and woodsmoke. It was a loud and viciously efficient boomtown baked under the Moroccan sun. Brokers used complex letters of credit to move vast fortunes. They traded massive slabs of desert salt for West African gold, alongside ivory, European brass, and tragically, thousands of enslaved humans auctioned right there in the dirt.

Every gold coin that financed a European war or built a fancy Italian cathedral during those four centuries passed through this exact gauntlet. Europe was never the master of the global economy. They were just the eager, broke customers waiting at the very end of the supply chain, inhaling none of the dust but paying whatever outrageous price the desert demanded.

Ouarzazate to Marrakech

Day 15 - ​We left Ouarzazate this morning and headed straight for Aït Benhaddou. We took an official guide to walk us through the ancient mud-brick kasbah. The tour took about an hour and a half. It is obvious why it frequently doubles as a movie set. We hiked through the narrow clay pathways all the way to the oldest section at the very top. Maintaining a multi-story fortress built entirely from river mud and straw takes serious engineering. The summit provided a clear, expansive view of the river valley below.​       

From the kasbah, the bus began the ascent into the High Atlas Mountains toward the Tizi n'Tichka pass. The road is a relentless series of twisting hairpin turns reaching an altitude of over twenty-two hundred meters. We had solid views of isolated Berber villages built directly into the red mountainsides. While still climbing, we stopped for lunch near the highest elevations. Snow was clearly visible on the nearby mountain peaks. We visited a women's cooperative network to learn about Argan oil production and ate our meal on site. The bus was predominantly filled with Italians, save for a Norwegian doctor and a Russian couple. The Italians naturally turned the lunch into a prolonged, lively social affair.

   

Once the meal concluded, we crossed the peak and began the drive down. The descent along the northern slopes brought the heat back as the mountains flattened into the plains. At exactly 4:30 pm, the entire bus exited near the entrance to Jemaa el-Fnaa square. We said goodbye to the driver with a selfie and a combined gift of tips. He then turned the vehicle around to start a grueling seven-hour drive all the way back to Fes. We continued on foot into the medina to find the Hotel Riad Marraplace.

Merzouga to Ouarzazate

Day 14 - Leaving the desert camp turned out to be a lesson in typical Saharan logistical theater. The morning began predictably enough with breakfast, but the actual departure to the main road required a bit of patience. The entire place seemed to be moving at once, with luggage vans stacked high with bags—complete with a few adventurous souls riding casually on the roof—and various supply trucks maneuvering through the dust. Once back at the staging area, a waiting game began. A massive contingent of the tour group was catching vehicles heading north back toward Fes, creating the usual flurry of sorting, swapping, and tracking down drivers. It took some time for our specific bus to sort through the crowd, but eventually, the chaos cleared and the wheels finally turned toward the west.  Before we got out of the valley, we looked inside one of the many 'fossil shops' along the highway.

​The first major stop of the drive came upon reaching Tinghir, where the route paused to overlook a massive palm grove. Standing at the viewpoint, the contrast is stark. A thick ribbon of thousands of green date palms snakes along the valley floor, cutting sharply through the otherwise barren, sun-baked rock of the high plateau. It is a striking visual reminder of how water completely dictates life in this environment.

​While taking in the view, a local vendor hawking souvenirs struck up a casual conversation. It turned out we shared a bit of common ground regarding Dubai. He pulled out his phone to show off photos of his old Sri Lankan buddies from his days working at Carrefour. He looked back on that time as a fun chapter, but explained that he had returned to the oasis because the pace of life here is deeply relaxing, and he needed to take care of his elderly father. It was a pleasant, unexpected encounter that proved once again how small the world can be.

​Just beyond the palms, the road led directly into Gorges du Todgha. The bus parked, allowing for a proper walk along the canyon floor where a shallow, icy river cuts through the landscape. The scale here is solid, with limestone cliff faces rising up over three hundred meters on either side, narrowing down to a tight pass that blocks out most of the midday sun. Walking between these giant rock walls provided a cool, breezy break from the afternoon heat. After exploring the canyon, the bus pushed onward into Ouarzazate. 

The city is well-known as a desert film capital, but it proved slightly less accomplished in the realm of modern technology. The hotel for the night offered a comfortable bed but suffered from a severe case of temperamental Wi-Fi, proving that a stable internet connection can be the hardest illusion to find in Morocco.

A Relaxing Day in Merzouga

 

Day 13 - Merzouga is one of those places that feels completely impossible until witnessing it firsthand. We are tucked way down in the deep southeast of Morocco. The Algerian border is only about fifty kilometers away. Here, the flat rocky desert suddenly slams right into the Erg Chebbi sand dunes. These massive golden waves of sand can tower up to one hundred and fifty meters high. They constantly shift and look like they could just swallow this little village of fifteen hundred people at any second. Yet, people stick around. The locals brave the blistering summer heat and the fierce winter winds. They know that to survive out here in the Sahara, one needs to plant their feet and hold their ground.

 

This spot has a wild backstory. Ten thousand years ago, this whole region was actually a lush green savanna full of lakes. As the climate dried out and the Sahara took over, the underground water here turned Merzouga into a lifesaving oasis. Imagine exhausted merchants pulling up with their camel caravans. They desperately needed this water before pushing further south toward Timbuktu. Later on, nomadic Ait Atta tribes would bring their herds here to drink and graze. By the early twentieth century, the French Foreign Legion realized how isolated and strategic this water source was. They built a military outpost here following some brutal regional battles in Taflalet. The legionnaires and the ancient caravans are long gone now. Today, it is just travelers showing up to marvel at the exact same terrifying and beautiful sand.

We opted for a bit of strategic luxury by spending the first night in the climate-controlled comfort of a proper hotel rather than attempting to rough it in the dunes for forty-eight straight hours. It proved to be a stroke of absolute genius. June is well past peak tourist season out here, and the thermometer is threatening to top out at a blistering forty-one degrees Celsius today. A sudden sandstorm already whipped through the area earlier. Taking a cue from the sensible locals, the only logical response was to retreat indoors. The afternoon agenda involves a proper nap in a delightfully air-conditioned room, with perhaps a brave foray out to the swimming pool once the sun loses its absolute malice later in the day.

The real adventure begins around six in the evening when a driver arrives to ferry us toward our appointed dromedary transport. We will board the single-humped beasts to trek out to the desert camp. Thankfully, the heavy luggage is taking the civilized route via a four-wheel-drive vehicle and will likely beat us to the site. What actually awaits out in the dunes remains a bit of a mystery. While these modern camps are often surprisingly well-appointed, the fine orange dust of the Sahara is notoriously insidious and will undoubtedly try to colonize every conceivable crevice and cranny. The plan is to survive the camel ride, eat dinner under the stars, and sleep in a traditional tent. Tomorrow morning brings breakfast at the camp before the tour packs up and hits the long road toward Ouarzazate. The ultimate goal is to depart Merzouga without a permanent layer of Saharan grit embedded in one's teeth and hair.

From Fes to Merzouga

 

Day 12 - Punctuality is its own punishment. Jay and I were at the Fes rendezvous point promptly at 7:10 AM, only to sit around until 7:40 AM while the rest of our 14-passenger manifest leisurely wrestled with different pick up instructions and concepts of time.

Our southward haul to Merzouga began with some jarring geographical whiplash. Shortly after escaping Fes, we found ourselves driving through Ifrane, a town bizarrely dubbed Morocco's Little Switzerland complete with pristine alpine roofs. (It does receive measurable snow every winter.) This alpine illusion was quickly followed by a jaunt through the cedar forests near Azrou, universally known as the monkey forest, where the local Barbary macaques loiter by the roadside with absolute entitlement.

All of this was merely the prelude to the actual geographic commitment of crossing both the Middle and High Atlas Mountains. Roughly four and a half hours in, our vehicle decided to snap a driveshaft joint. By sheer luck, we were a mere two kilometers from a dusty speck of a town. A local mechanic executed a minor miracle, getting us repaired and rolling in under half an hour. Miraculously, it did not even dent our final arrival time.

We made a few stops, including a late lunch that required digging into our own pockets, as only breakfast and dinner are included in this particular bargain. We finally reached a road pull-off where a fleet of trucks was waiting to disperse the herd to various desert camps. We did mingle with the other twelve passengers, but thankfully, our itineraries immediately fractured from there. Most of them are doomed to backtrack to Fes eventually, while Jay and I are making the superior tactical choice to push westward to Marrakesh on Wednesday.

Today, we travelled 460 km.  For tonight, we have an actual hotel room before tomorrow’s inevitable sunset ride on camels and a sand-filled camp experience. We just took a dip in the hotel swimming pool. Splashing around in chlorinated luxury on the very edge of the Sahara feels like a delightful, absurd indulgence. Now, just waiting on the 8:30 dinner.

Another Day in Fes

 

Day 11 - Jay and I took a walk. We were this city in 2010 but, given our age, we're pretty confident we may never return. For our second and final day in Fes, we started with a highly ambitious, completely exhausting 110-meter stroll from our riad to the Bou Inania Medersa. Built in the 1350s by a Marinid sultan who clearly wanted to show off, it is a theological college masquerading as a full congregational mosque. Because the central courtyard is open to heathens like us, we were actually allowed inside to inspect the 14th-century wealth. We spent a good amount of time craning our necks at massive cedar doors dragged down from the Middle Atlas, dizzying geometric zellige tiles, and walls covered in carved stucco that effectively resembles petrified lace.

 

Down we went. Feeling sufficiently cultured, we surrendered entirely to the medina's gravity well and plunged straight down Talaa Kebira, shuffling past the donkeys and navigating a retail gauntlet that absolutely defies all modern zoning concepts. You transition seamlessly from dodging stacks of artisan soaps and being deafened by the rhythmic hammering of brass and copper vendors, right into dark little plumbing supply stalls. This naturally gives way to overflowing vegetable carts and, eventually, the chaotic squawk of a live chicken exchange. We marched through this entire sensory overload all the way to the bottom of the hill to peek through the massive doors of the Al-Qarawiyyin mosque.

 

We cheated. Having successfully reached the absolute floor of the ancient city, Jay and I had a startling realization that hiking back up a medieval slip-and-slide in the Moroccan heat, where the maximum temperature today hit a dry 35°C, was a terrible idea. We promptly flagged down a red petit taxi, completely bypassing the internal gauntlet, and enjoyed the perimeter scenery as internal combustion hauled us comfortably back up to the Bab Boujloud gate.

 

Jay and I miscalculated. Safely back at the top, we confidently returned to the exact same joint that served us a gloriously cheap meal yesterday. Having flagged us as returning patrons, they immediately upgraded us to royal status. The hospitality was aggressive, the spread was vast, and when the bill arrived, we had somehow dropped nearly as much on a medina lunch as we would back home in Canada. It felt fundamentally wrong, but I suppose that is the tax for becoming VIPs in Fes.

 

We must pack. Now, we must enforce strict backpack discipline and get our gear sorted. Tomorrow at the entirely uncivilized hour of 7:10 AM, we are scheduled to be standing out in front of the Bab for our departure. We are officially leaving the labyrinth to begin our push into the Atlas Mountains and down to the edge of the desert, culminating in a Thursday drop off at a Riad in Marrakech.

A Day in Fes

Breakfast at Courtyard of Raid Jaouhara in Fes.

Day 10 - Rather than subjecting ourselves to the indignity of another exhausting day trip only to retreat to the exact same hotel room, Jay and I plotted a far grander exit strategy for our Monday departure. We decided by then, it will be high time to pack up the circus completely and commit to a much larger expedition southward.

We have officially parted with perfectly good Canadian dollars for the distinct privilege of a three night / four day desert expedition. We start the gauntlet by heading into lush forests of the Middle Atlas Mountains visiting traditional Berber villages before migrating to Sahara's sand for an obligatory camel ride. Frankly, these ill tempered, spitting ungulates were a dime a dozen during our Middle East years, but one must play the tourist. 

As we extract ourselves from the desert, we will wander the cinematic ruins of Ouarzazate, squinting at the exact spot where Hollywood shoots every single gladiator epic. Assuming the treacherous mountain ranges do not claim us on the final leg, Jay and I will finally collapse into a heavily air conditioned, three night stationary interlude in Marrakech.

I have included a few photographic highlights below to document our stroll through Jnan Sbil Gardens, situated just on the other side of the upper plaza. Today's little excursion naturally required navigating our way down the hill, which inevitably meant a punishing slog right back up again. Fortunately, Jay and I survived the incline and immediately rewarded ourselves with a highly satisfying lunch. The entire meal for the two of us set us back a mere 100 dirhams, which translates to a highly agreeable total of less than US $11.

 

Chefchaouen to Fes

Day 09 - We reunited with Nasir, the exact same driver who successfully hauled us from Tangier to Chefchaouen. He had the foresight to hand over his phone number earlier in the trip, so yesterday we simply used WhatsApp to arrange a 10:00 AM pickup right at our hotel for the onward journey to Fes. We banked on a four-hour transit, and the actual drive only tipped slightly past that estimate.

​We watched the entire topographical surrender unfold right outside the windows. Leaving the Rif Mountains, the rugged, scrub-covered limestone peaks and tight valleys gradually softened into rolling foothills. The roadside provided a steady, fascinating stream of rural Moroccan life. We passed flocks of wandering goats and plenty of working donkeys hauling their daily burdens. As we continued south, the terrain completely flattened out and spilled onto the Saïss Plain. We also spotted massive White Stork nests perched precariously high above the ground. These avian squatters have constructed their giant, messy homes on top of nearly every available utility pole and minaret. The final stretch approaching Fes delivered a tranquil, strictly horizontal patchwork of endless olive groves and wheat fields. It was quite a striking contrast to the dramatic elevation we had just left behind. 

It was a genuine privilege to witness rural Morocco rolling past the glass. Jay and I firmly believe that observing the daily rhythms of how others actually live is a fundamentally important part of why we travel.

So here we are, securely barricaded at the upper lip of Fes el-Bali. This ancient place is a twelve-hundred-year-old urban bowl where wedging a modern car between the alley walls is an absolute physical impossibility. Jay and I have claimed our refuge at Riad Jaouhara, comfortably positioned near the Bab Boujloud gate and the rather grand nineteenth-century royal summer palace of Dar Batha. For all intents and purposes, we are occupying the tactical high ground of the entire medina.

Whenever we dare venture outside our heavy wooden doors, we must surrender entirely to gravity. Two main arteries plunge directly into the heart of the labyrinth. Talaa Kebira, the Great Slope, and Talaa Seghira, the Little Slope, act as grueling one-and-a-half-kilometer chutes dropping straight into the core. These streets are relentless commercial gauntlets. One constantly squeezes past butcher stalls, brass merchants, and fragrant street food vendors. The surrounding architecture is a beautifully chaotic collision of crumbling medieval stonework and hastily poured concrete from the 1920s.

Our brief foray into the neighborhood for a late lunch this afternoon demanded a highly specific, borderline athletic skill set. Jay and I spent half the walk violently flattening ourselves against dusty walls to dodge heavily burdened donkeys. The rest of the excursion involved absorbing the sheer sensory overload of a functioning medieval market while hunting down sustenance. We just have to remember our golden rule of local navigation. Every downward step dragged us deeper into the madness, and a sweat-inducing uphill hike was the only guaranteed ticket back to sanctuary.