Morocco, an encounter...

Text: Richard / Photos: Kate 20 days in October 2022

When I thought of Morocco, I pictured a green and red country, but my first encounter was in blue and white in Essaouira. So I didn’t start my trip with a straightforward introduction to the land of Morocco, but rather to its sea.

Essaouira

Essaouira, the former Portuguese Mogador, is a fairly touristy coastal town with quite a few foreign residents drawn here by affordable prices, a pleasant climate, and a certain laid-back lifestyle. My first taste of Moroccan atmosphere came with a visit to the port and its fish market. Everywhere, small stalls set up haphazardly along the docks against the ramparts. I wandered around with Kate and Martine, stepping over rubble and dodging mud puddles—leftovers from the light rain two days earlier. The mix of diesel and fish smells, the screeching gulls on the lookout, and the vendors calling out to us with insistence and good humor all felt familiar. It reminded me of the atmosphere at the port of my childhood, Sète, though of course we don’t have such an... informal open-air market back home anymore. I enjoyed watching the little azure-blue fishing boats packed tightly together in the harbor basins. Some had women’s names, like Aicha or Zohra...

I'm setting off, of course—both literally and figuratively—since I've got a flight ticket to Marrakech in May 2025 in my pocket... But I know it won't be "her" Morocco, as Catherine would say, so I'm keeping my eyes wide open for discovery! Back in 1993, my first trip to Morocco was an all-inclusive stay in the Palmeraie; just a baby traveler then!

PS: The first photos look really promising... RePS @richard: Who’s Martine?

RePs @richard: who’s Martine?

Hey [:)]

Martine is a friend of Kate’s she met on VF. She’s an expat living in Essaouira.

I’ll continue our stroll through Essaouira...

That afternoon, after sharing a meal with Martine’s daughter who lives and works in Morocco, we visit the medina. A maze of alleys filled with artisans and vendors of all kinds, set against the blue-and-white backdrop of the houses. We’re constantly called out to, but always with kindness and courtesy. I’m thinking of a gift for my friend Malika, even though I’d decided not to buy anything on the first day—and I *hate* haggling. But the shopkeepers in this medina, like all medinas in Morocco, have an unmatched knack for selling. A man in a blue djellaba approaches me in a tiny uphill alley. He’s noticed the lava-stone bracelet I’m wearing on my left wrist and strikes up a conversation about it. With a colorful, almost poetic way of speaking—and in perfect French—he eventually talks me into stepping into his shop. Game over! Once you set foot in a medina shop, you can’t leave empty-handed... He shows me several bracelets. “For your gazelle?” “No, for a friend.” “300 dirhams!” I get it for 220. I’m not sure if I haggled well, but the bracelet—a “Tuareg” one, according to him—is pretty nice. We chat a bit more, joke around, tease each other. Like him, I’m tactile—I rest my hand on his cheek, he pats my shoulder. A fleeting but pleasant exchange. I feel good. His name’s Rachid, mine’s Richard.

Another visit with Kate to the fish market this morning. "Saïd the Breton"—who we’d chatted with the day before—spotted us from afar. A wave, a hello, and we’re standing at his stall. We buy 6 small soles and 3 dozen oysters for lunch at Martine’s. A quick coffee facing the Ocean. It’s 10 a.m., the weather’s nice but the air is a bit chilly. I lose myself in gazing at the sea while chatting with Kate. Some young Moroccans are playing soccer on the beach. I also watch the passersby—there’s all kinds. Tourists in shorts, a group of women all in black wearing Islamic dress, a man in a djellaba holding his son’s hand. It’s an end-of-season beach just the way I like them.



In the afternoon, we head back to the medina for a walk along the ramparts. Bad surprise—they’re not accessible. Apparently, they’ve been privatized all day for a music video shoot. A woman kindly points us to a bar where we can still get a view of the Ocean and the fortifications. From the terrace above, I let myself be lulled by the sound of waves crashing against the walls and by the strains of Oriental music with an electro twist, played on traditional instruments like the oud and darbouka. I gaze at the rampart turrets, the crenellated curtain wall lined with old bronze cannons. Sipping my orange juice, I start imagining another era, another time. I see bearded Arab sentinels, their heads covered with pointed helmets, scimitars at their waists. They watch the ocean and the fleet of Western ships come to challenge them. I’m a time traveler in the Almohad era. I’m like a kid dreaming up a fantasized past… Total nonsense, of course. The city and its fortifications date back to the 18th century and were built by Sultan Mohamed ben Abdellah in the "Vauban" style—far from the Middle Ages. But Morocco is already a bit of a dreamland for me. So I dream…





Another stop in the medina’s streets—we sit down in a tiny eatery for some mint tea. We take a table facing the street and enjoy this impromptu *paseo*. An endless parade of people from all walks of life, each in their own bubble. Here, the social differences are glaring.

A destitute man pushing a cart with an equally destitute old man inside, a gaunt religious man with an austere demeanor, mopeds weaving through pedestrians, bikes that look like they’ve seen better days, elderly Moroccan women in headscarves chatting animatedly, carefree students strolling by—it’s a real *inventaire à la Prévert*… Yet no one seems truly in a hurry or tense on this dusty, unpaved street. And I feel completely at ease in all this hustle and bustle—just on vacation, really.

IMSOUANE

Waking up was a bit rough. Headed to the bathroom. The traveler’s diarrhea had done its job—we’d been initiated. It didn’t seem too nasty, though Kate had some abdominal pain, and I was feeling feverish.

This morning, we made our way to Imsouane. The road wasn’t unpleasant, but the fever that wouldn’t leave me made everything feel a bit floaty. A curious vibe in this little fishing port, which has also recently become a surf spot. A mix of two cultures—Moroccan fishermen of modest means and surfers with a California look. Two worlds that coexist without really blending but still benefit from each other’s presence.

We bought fish from a stall and settled into a small place that grilled it for us. The atmosphere was relaxed, and the Moroccan servers—friendly and efficient—moved with speed. From the earthen terrace, we had a great view of the small port where the blue boats were neatly arranged, and the bay dotted with surfers tackling the waves. The smoke from the grills surrounded us, giving off a pleasant mix of fish and charcoal. A bit smoky, though!

We’re staying at a hostel run by a really lovely young Moroccan woman. In the afternoon, she came to chat with us for a long time on the terrace. A beautiful, radiant young woman who talked openly about her life and the contradictions of Morocco—without falling into tired clichés like "Morocco, between tradition and modernity" or worse, "Morocco, land of contrasts."

Lovely story. I’m in the planning stages—Essaouira is on the itinerary. For tummy troubles, I’ve got the old colonists’ remedy: straight Ricard potion.

Hi Mamsissi, Thanks for the little message. Imodium works too, but you can find Ricard even in Essaouira. [;)]

TAROUDANT

The journey between Imsouane and Taroudant was a bit tiring—not because of the fairly comfortable road, but thanks to this bout of traveler’s diarrhea or virus that’s still wearing Kate and me down a bit. We arrived in style at Dar Dzarah in Taroudant, a beautiful Moroccan house run by Yves, an eccentric Breton full of color. No time to settle in. Yves overwhelms us with a non-stop flood of personal anecdotes, each one wilder than the last. But the most hilarious moment came when Yves introduced us to "Poutina," a young female wild boar he’d taken in back in February. Poutina burst out of the enclosure like a cannonball, played with the dog "Husky" (though I’m not sure who was playing with whom), circled the pool while letting out a series of high-pitched "grooink" sounds, and then plunged into the basin.



Dinner that evening brought even more surprises. A group of travelers arrived, and while chatting with them, Kate realized that Olivier, nicknamed "Groschat," was a virtual acquaintance from Voyage Forum she’d exchanged messages with many times. A passionate discussion ensued among all these true Morocco lovers. My night was disrupted by the repeated calls to prayer from the muezzin. Half-asleep and with a half-smile, I thought of the memorable scene with Jean Dujardin in the film "The Cairo Conspiracy." I’ll soon get used to these solitary chants piercing the silence of the early mornings.

This morning, we visited the huge Berber Sunday market outside the city walls. In French, *bazar* and *souk* have taken on meanings of disorder, chaos, and mess. But in reality, the market is very well organized. One section is dedicated to clothes, another to trinkets and knick-knacks of all kinds, and another to food. We wander through a veritable ocean of fruits, vegetables, and spices. The stalls vary in size, some set right on the ground. I’m amazed by such abundance and think that a country producing such large quantities and such beautiful varieties must have real agricultural know-how. Later, I learned that Taroudant has a men’s square and a women’s square. This big Berber Sunday market is probably the city’s only truly mixed space. People are dressed simply but not poorly—far from it. The variety of fruits and vegetables mirrors the diversity of clothing, whether traditional or Western. We pass several women in niqabs, but here, it doesn’t seem to shock anyone. They appear as much at home as everyone else. And I feel quite comfortable in this world without tourists, where my presence goes largely unnoticed.





In the afternoon, we took a horse-drawn carriage ride around Taroudant’s ramparts with Rachid and his horse Rocco. Stitch by stitch, we trotted in and out of the city walls. The venerable rammed-earth ramparts are imposing, and the date palms planted like green turrets along the walls give the whole place the look of a North African city as a Westerner might imagine it. No wonder some scenes from the film "Ali Baba" with Fernandel were shot here. The ride ended after an hour and a half. We shook hands with Rachid, who was a very pleasant guide. We lingered a few minutes in Assarag Square, the men’s square, bustling at the end of the day, just to soak up a bit more of the atmosphere of this southern Moroccan city.

A group of travelers arrived, and while chatting with them, Kate realized that the guy Olivier, nicknamed "Groschat," was a virtual acquaintance from Voyage Forum she’d corresponded with many times.

I’ve often amused myself imagining this could happen one day in some random corner of the world... We talked about Claude (Raoulx) in fond memory, and Yves spoke a lot about his wife, whose passing deeply affected him. But, he said, she must be having a good laugh up there with Claude.

MARRAKECH

Here we are at last. The famous Marrakech—fascinating or irritating, the object of all loves or all hatreds. I’m finally going to form my own opinion. Starting from the very beginning. That means stepping right into Djemaa el Fna square, the large public square in the medina. Triangular in shape and surrounded by buildings in various shades of red, it’s what travel guides call the beating heart of Marrakech.

My first impression is mixed, though. I’m a little tired from the car ride, and I also have that feeling—common when discovering a famous place you’ve heard about so many times—of not quite feeling grounded in reality. I need to find new sensory landmarks. It’s a strange disturbance, visual, auditory, even skin-deep. You have to give your eyes time to adjust, your ears time to process the different sounds, and your whole body time to soak in this unusual atmosphere. We head up to have mint tea on one of the many rooftop terraces overlooking the square. It’s the perfect spot to take in the space with a single glance and understand how it’s organized. The mint teas have revived me—I’m ready to dive into the crowd.

A public square for all kinds of people. First, the spectators. Tourists, of course—both Moroccan and foreign. Most, who will only come once, have that dazed, awkward look, that slightly goofy smile on their lips that visitors to exotic places always seem to wear. That’s me right now, but after four days in Marrakech, the square will start to feel familiar. Then there are the performers—the ones who bring this bustling world to life. Snake charmers, monkey trainers, henna artists, beggars, Gnawa musicians, vendors of all kinds. It’s hard to stay just an observer without being approached. It’s all about keeping the right distance or politely refusing, “laa choukran,” with your right hand over your heart. Sometimes crowds gather in a circle around one or two people—these are the halqa, street performances that are often hilarious, but foreign tourists don’t linger because you need to understand Arabic.



Kate suggests we try the famous snails from the square. We sit on tall stools and enjoy these little gastropods, cooked in a very spicy broth. Delicious and invigorating. The call to prayer, struggling to rise above the ambient noise, doesn’t seem to bother or concern anyone. After yet another stroll, we decide to eat at one of the many small eateries on the square. They all look the same except for their clearly visible numbers. Which one to choose? You just have to let yourself be approached by the many touts stationed in front of each place. The funniest, most original, or most convincing one wins customers. The approach is courteous but insistent, the language—often in very good French—is vivid, and the tone is always a bit teasing with a touch of irony. And you have to respond. It’s like a role-playing game you can either accept or not, one that can be annoying or enjoyable. Personally, I love this very Mediterranean way with words that I know well. And I don’t forget that these young men with smiles on their faces are working and generally earn very little.







End of the evening. Time to return to the tranquility of our accommodation in the Ben Saleh district, just ten minutes from the square. We’re staying at “maison Do,” an adorable dar tucked away in a tiny street. From the terrace, you can spot a magnificent Marinid-era minaret. Yolande is the French hostess of the place—she’s a longtime friend of Kate’s. She’s been living in Marrakech for 15 years and bought and renovated two beautiful buildings (the Dar and the Riad next door) with her husband, which she’s been managing with consistency and efficiency. I’m always impressed by these French expats who are in love with Morocco and have embarked on this kind of venture, this kind of adventure. Yolande and Martine are among them. Yolande doesn’t know me, but Kate and she have a long shared history that I’m not part of. Still, she gracefully includes me in her present and in that of this blended family. I appreciate this little woman with her calm, controlled energy.







So, what about those four days in Marrakech? How do you tell a story that’s been told so many times before, how do you describe a city that so many have written about? Maybe by changing the format, to evoke this chaotic city in a jumble. Let’s try off the cuff: In the medina’s streets, the street belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. In the medina’s streets, pedestrians hug the walls, while mopeds and bicycles brush past them. In the medina’s streets, the scents of soaps and spices mix with exhaust fumes. In the medina’s streets, everything smells, but nothing smells bad. In the medina’s streets, there’s no dog poop. In the medina’s streets, there’s noise and smell—but no jackhammers. In the medina’s streets, speech is silver and silence sleeps. In the medina’s streets, if you step into a shop, you leave with empty pockets and full hands. In the medina’s streets, they speak to you in French, and you answer in Arabic. In the medina’s streets, spelling has fun: “polet,” “agence émmobilière,” “oumlette.” In the medina’s streets, smiles are free. In the medina’s streets, poverty is on display, and luxury hides. In the medina’s streets, there are also places of tranquility without worry.

All the guides talk about these peaceful spots—they’re must-sees, even if you prefer to stay off the beaten path, which in Marrakech seems pretty difficult. So I enjoyed visiting the Ben Youssef Medersa, its courtyard, its arabesques, its horseshoe arches. The magnificent Bahia Palace and its vast courtyard, where Lino Ventura and Jean-Paul Belmondo famously brawled in the film *100,000 Dollars in the Sun*. A visit that really inspired me was the Photography Museum, which displays interesting photos of Moroccan cities from the colonial era and beautiful portraits of Arab and Berber men and women. And then there are the Secret Gardens, the Saadian Tombs, and of course the Majorelle Gardens. But I don’t want to turn this into a tourist guide.

Okay, so we’ve experienced Marrakech—but now it’s time to head out into southern Morocco, and… I’m the one driving from now on.

Hey there, it's me again! [:P]

Thanks for this beautifully written and illustrated travel journal—I really enjoyed reading it. It’s the Morocco I love! !

Hey, I'm back...[:P]

Oh great! So glad you're back [;)]

Me too! I'm here! When was the little meet-up in Ijoukak? Thanks for the story and the photos.

Hi Mathilde,

The meet-up in Ijoukak happened in October 2012. I have the group photo of the people who were there (6 VF members), should I post it? [;)] Just so you know, we were 12 years younger back then

Yes, Ijoukak! Such a great memory… Already 12 years? It’s not just our wrinkles that have added up—there was also an earthquake that hit this region and destroyed Tinmel…

Lovely story and gorgeous photos. It’s great to see all these stunning landscapes again. Thanks!

Oh, gladly! And after that, I saw Luc and Françoise again, had dinner at a restaurant in Zazat at their niece’s place, I think, went dune buggying in the area, received a letter from you with a keepsake from one of your previous trips, stayed at Maison d’O in Marrakech at Yolande’s, and exchanged a lot of emails with Claude—whom I almost met up with near Guelmim and in M’Hamid... 12 years already! That explains forgetting the first part of my first name... I’m sure we’ll see each other again. In Morocco, of course.

Thanks to everyone for your messages—it encourages me to keep going. Soon Skoura, Errachidia... and the south.

At the end of the travel journal, I’ll post the group photo [;)]

Thanks to everyone for your replies—it encourages me to keep going. Soon Skoura, Errachidia... and the south.

Yes, yes, more, more!! [:p]

Oh yes, more, more!! :P

;)

SKOURA AND THE VALLEY OF ROSES

I’m feeling a bit stressed this Monday morning before picking up the rental car. Up until now, it’s been Martine who’s been driving us since Essaouira and then dropped us off for these four intense days in Marrakech. Another week ahead with nearly 1,500 kilometers to cover. And Kate, in a perfectly executed Freudian slip, forgot her driver’s license. I’m more of a contemplative person, so I hate driving—especially in Morocco! Fortunately, I’ve been carefully observing Martine’s driving over the past few days.

Driving in Morocco turns out to be a tricky exercise. Like in a video game, the “enemy” can appear from anywhere—right, left, front, back, out of nowhere. It takes all forms: donkey-drawn carts, huge trucks, herds of sheep, women carrying bundles of firewood, mopeds and bikes weaving through the zigs and zags, pedestrians crossing the road on instinct, kids playing soccer in the middle of villages. You also have to constantly adjust your speed according to a logic that escapes me—80, 40, 20, then 90 or 100. The white lines are more of a suggestion, whether dashed or solid; you overtake when you can. While the road network is generally in good condition on major routes, in the mountains, the narrowness of the roads forces you to hug the edges, which are rarely maintained. As for Marrakchis, usually easygoing on foot, they become bold and undisciplined behind the wheel.

Luckily, we leave early, so there’s little traffic at this hour. From Bâb Ghemat gate, we head straight onto the route toward Ouarzazate.



The road leading to Tizi n'Tichka is stunning, but we’re often slowed down by massive widening works. Seeing these huge construction sites along our route, I’m reminded of Spain 50 years ago or more. You can feel the country is in full transformation, driven by real development momentum. Morocco is moving fast and strong.

Following Olivier’s advice, we decide to leave the main road after the pass and take a small route via Telouèt, which should lead us directly to the ksar of Aït Benhaddou. We’re in the heart of the Atlas, deep in Berber country. The red of the earthen villages blends with the ochre of the mountains, and the wadis below stretch out like ribbons of greenery. The area still seems quite poor, judging by the basic state of some buildings—except for the always gleaming mosques. The territory isn’t densely populated, but it’s brought to life by all the children walking home from school along the roads. Morocco is a young country, and that’s both a challenge and an opportunity for its development.



The ksar of Aït Benhaddou, perched on a hill overlooking the wadi, appears like a mirage. It’s absolutely stunning. From a distance, it looks like a giant sandcastle in golden hues. In reality, it’s a terraced fortified village where all the houses are built from rammed earth. Beautifully maintained but a bit museum-like, it’s no longer really inhabited, as far as I know. A UNESCO World Heritage site, it’s served as a filming location for many movies, including *Lawrence of Arabia*, *Gladiator*, and some episodes of *Game of Thrones*...





We arrive in Skoura at the end of the day, more precisely in Ouled Merzouk, a small village on the edge of the Dades. A new atmosphere and new sights after the noisy hustle and colorful chaos of Marrakech.

Here, ochre and red hills dominate, paired with the green of palm groves and small oases. We’re staying at Kasbah Elmehdaoui with Madame Najate. Mohamed, the house employee, welcomes us warmly. A handsome, elegant, and lanky young man. Available and courteous, he punctuates every sentence with polite phrases in Arabic or Berber. And I’m struck by how what some dismissively call salamalecs is actually a way of being—a manifestation of an ancient culture where the guest, the stranger, is placed under the protection of their host.

In this beautiful kasbah perched above the Dades Valley, everything is peaceful. Yesterday, when we arrived, the oued looked like a thin trickle of water, but after last night’s storms, it turned into a wide, roaring river. And it was this unexpected, loud, and continuous flow that woke me up this morning. The magic of the Moroccan climate—or maybe the work of a benevolent djinn.



This morning, we planned to visit the Kasbah of Armidil in the Skoura palm grove, but it was impossible to cross the ford leading to it. Back at Mohamed’s place, he pointed us to another route—a higher, rocky track, but well-maintained enough—that let us take in the entire palm grove at a glance. A quick coffee break on the terrace of « Chez Talout », a stunning lodge well-loved by fans of this region of Morocco.

Visiting Kasbah Amridil helped me grasp the true meaning of this Arabic word I’d been using without fully understanding it. I knew the Kasbah of Algiers, which is actually a medina, and I’d sometimes used the casual (and slightly colonialist-sounding) phrase « on rentre à la kasbah » to mean « heading home. »

In reality, in Morocco, kasbahs were originally vast seigneurial homes built from rammed earth, flanked by square towers with characteristic geometric decorations. The 17th-century Kasbah Amridil supported a family of around forty people. Inside, there was an inner courtyard with a small orchard, summer and winter kitchens, a workshop, countless living spaces, a hammam, a prayer room, and even a small medersa for the children. Everything was designed for self-sufficiency. This elegant and imposing kasbah from the outside is more understated inside, though it’s true that the original furnishings and decorations are long gone. You don’t feel the refinement of urban palaces here—just the austere life of these large rural families.

Chez Talout







Later, in one of the palm grove’s small villages, we met Mohamed Kapor, one of the last potters in the region. No organized tours here, no touts, no pushy sales—just a small family home with an attached workshop. Mohamed was simply happy to show us his technique and craft. He welcomed us with genuine warmth, thanking us for stopping by. In just 20 minutes, using a hand-and-foot-powered wheel, he made a clay container for storing garlic right in front of us. In the dim light of the little workshop, we watched his work closely, peppering him with questions. His wife popped in briefly to offer us tea and pastries. At the end of the visit, I handed him a 100-dirham note as a way to support his work. I felt a little awkward—was it too much, or not enough? I asked him. He smiled and thanked me. I smiled back, and we hugged warmly and spontaneously.





The next morning, we took a beautiful drive along the « Valley of Roses », overlooking the M’Goun oued. The road wasn’t in great shape, especially the unmaintained shoulders. Few tourists in either direction—mostly locals speeding by. The road was narrow, so one of us always had to pull over (a lot) to the right or left. And in that game, I always lost.

Since it was a holiday (the Mouloud festival), the small villages we passed were full of kids playing in the road, shouting for « 1 dirham » with all the bold, cheeky confidence of their age. Kate suddenly yelled, « Stop! » to point out a shady spot that looked perfect for a picnic. We walked a little ways down a gentle slope, which led us to the edge of a cliff overlooking the N’Goum oued, swollen from the previous night’s storms. The valley stretched out beneath us in every shade of green. In this stark landscape, I finally understood the deep meaning of the word *oasis*. Above the oued, the rugged mountains were painted in a palette of colors: ochre, gray, brown, pink, garnet, red. From the valley floor, the steady roar of the oued rose, slightly muffled. A warm wind brushed against our faces. We let ourselves be absorbed by the beauty of the place. We looked, we fell silent. On the opposite slope, in front of a massive renovated kasbah—and as if guarding the house—a magnificent cypress tree gave the whole scene an incongruous Florentine touch.

Hi Kate,

Why, in the very first photo of the travel journal, didn’t you wait until the guy on the left was out of frame? Or crop it a bit more to the right? It would’ve been perfect! !

Why, on the very first photo of the travel journal, didn’t you wait until the guy on the left was out of frame?

It’s funny you mention that—I’ve gotten that critique before. Actually, I waited for someone to walk by to add some movement to the scene! But everything can be fixed...

It's funny you should say that—I’ve gotten that critique before. Actually, I waited for someone to pass by to add movement to the scene! But everything can be fixed...

It’s because some people have a good eye! [;)] Other than that, I’m pretty happy to see well-crafted stories and photos again. I won’t be original by giving you the same compliments over and over...

Here’s one of those travel journals I love following: well-chosen, high-quality photos that perfectly complement some really beautiful writing.

But I think I’ve already told you all that, Kate [:)]. No matter—when you love something...

Hi Dolma

Yeah, we posted it on the other forum [;)] It was something Richard really wanted—he loved that trip. But he didn’t push too hard for me to give in It’s one of the activities that brings us together.

ON THE WAY TO ERRACHIDIA...

Heading to Er-Rachidia, more precisely the Zouala palm grove in the Ziz Valley, where Kate’s Moroccan friends have renovated an old caravanserai. On the way, a quick stop in Tineghir, just long enough to admire the palm grove and the village made of dry earth from a promontory. As soon as we got out of the car, "Tuaregs in traditional costume" approached us to sell their *chèches*. I stepped up and engaged in conversation while Kate wandered peacefully along the belvedere. And while I struggled with my eager and insistent interlocutors, she had all the time to take as many photos as she needed. The roles were well distributed—she’s the eye, I’m the mouth. She’s the gaze, I’m the words. Just like this travel journal I’m writing, which Kate illustrates with her photographs.



While browsing the *Guide du Routard* this morning, I noticed a mention of a Berber ethno-museum, *« Les Sources de Lala Mimouna*, a few kilometers from Tinejdad. Three small backpacks, glowing reviews... we decided to check it out. The museum’s location is marked from the road by a huge sign with the word "GRANDIOSE" in capital letters. This hyperbolic figure of speech made us smile. What were we to expect?

At the end of a long dirt road, a large Berber-style building appeared like a theater set—we could only see the main façade. A brief hesitation: should we knock to enter? The owner, Mr. Zaïd Abbou, opened the beautiful wooden door and welcomed us into his world. The entire complex, all on one level, is organized around an open-air space and a long alley that guides visitors from building to building, room to room, gallery to gallery, on a journey through Berber culture. The place is eclectic despite its architectural unity—part mini Berber village, part Roman domus, part abbey cloister. It’s not a museum, nor a reconstruction—it’s something else entirely. The realization of one man’s dream, the work of a lifetime. Above all, a story told by Zaïd: that of the lost and rediscovered springs of Lala Mimouna. Zaïd the sorcerer, the water diviner. The man who saved the spring and built his entire project not on sand, but on water. And it was in the protective calm of an atrium, nestled in its basin, that we met her and heard her sing with her continuous, rhythmic "blop, blop," her translucent appearance. A musical, sensory, unique experience...

ERRACHIDIA AND THE ZOUALA PALM GROVE

A short stop on the promontory overlooking the Ziz Valley. The vast oasis, surrounded by hills with soft ochre hues, stretches out below—a fertile ribbon in this arid landscape. A chance-met Spaniard tells us the word *oasis* might come from *‘oued el Ziz.’* Interesting etymology, but it needs verifying.



We’ve planned to spend two nights in the palm grove of Zouala with Moha and Hami, who run a guesthouse set up in an old caravanserai. Kate met them on her previous trips and has built a friendship with them and their families. We’re no longer tourists, let alone clients. And I quickly realize we’ll be treated more like guests. Lunch is planned with Moha’s family, then Hami’s. There’s no refusing—our time is spoken for. The plan to visit the desert in a day trip to Merzouga and the Erg Chebbi falls through. But I don’t mind; I know it’s important to Kate, and besides, the *‘desert business’* wears me out a bit. I’d love to go, of course, but under different conditions—not just to see a dune and come back, nor for some ‘authentic’ overnight stay. Maybe that could be the focus of another trip, why not?

A little romantic stroll through the Zouala palm grove before our Moroccan encounters. We have to drop little pebbles to avoid getting lost in the labyrinth of date palms. The place is stunning, peaceful, and so serene—but it’s not an urban park. It’s a palm grove, meaning a whole economy, a landscape shaped by the hard work and sweat of the people of this country.







Couscous, tagine—our hosts bend over backward to please us. And I feel at ease with these middle-class Moroccan families, so similar to us in some ways, yet so different. The morning spent with Hami in Errachidia before lunch was a real pleasure. He takes us to the town market to do some shopping. Hami wanders through the stalls with us, shaking a dozen hands. His calm, laid-back presence puts us at ease. There are no tourists, but I feel almost at home. We shop like we would back home, yet we’re not. It’s a delightful change of scenery. With that lingering impression—maybe skewed, maybe romanticized by the tourist’s gaze—that Moroccans approach daily life with far less tension than we do. Kate and I take the opportunity to buy some dates: finely oblong, brown, and deliciously sweet. Peak season fruit. A treat.

Really interesting story, a pleasure to read and beautifully illustrated. Your photos are stunning.

Julien, thanks for your visit! [:)]

MEETING HASSAN NEAR MIDELT

“I can’t go to Morocco without visiting Hassan!” Things were clear, and Kate had warned me. She had met Hassan by chance about fifteen years ago on the road from Fes to the desert when she asked him where to buy water. They’ve stayed in touch ever since. Hassan lives in Tamayouste, a small village about thirty kilometers from Midelt. We leave Errachidia in the early afternoon, taking the road that overlooks the stunning Ziz Valley, though we regret not having time to explore it further.

A quick stop at a pass above Midelt for a smoke break. The place is shrouded in thick fog, and it’s 11 degrees. The atmosphere is ghostly—we could be in Scotland!





We arrive in Tamayouste at the end of the day. It’s a village with no tourist interest, located on a plateau that’s also not touristy. But we’re here for something else entirely. Thanks to the magic of mobile phones, Hassan is waiting for us by the roadside. I meet a tall, gentle man in his forties, a bit shy.

He invites us into his modest home—three living rooms and a tiny kitchen. The toilet is outside with no running water. This small space is home to the whole family: Hassan’s wife and their little girl, his brother, his sister with a child, and the grandparents. Except for Hassan, no one speaks French; they communicate in Berber and kindly respond in Arabic to the few polite phrases we know. The women prepare the meal, a delicious lamb tagine with prunes, while Hassan chats with us and patiently answers all our questions about his life here in Tamayouste. We don’t share the meal with the family—just the three of us eat. I wonder: is it out of shyness or to give us space to talk freely? Hassan is a dreamer, full of ideas. He’s started renovations to expand the house and wants to sell his delivery truck to buy a small plot of land to grow vegetables and earn more money. We sleep in the main room on comfortable benches. I’m woken again by the call to prayer, but I’m used to it now and drift back to sleep, lulled by the chant rising from the depths of the night.

The next morning, the family seems more at ease with our presence. In the small courtyard in front of the house, I play soccer with the two little kids while Kate photographs everyone. Smiles, laughter—we’re slowly getting to know each other. We have to leave. The encounter was brief, but it meant a lot to Kate and to Hassan too. As I start the car, I realize that these past few days, the trip has taken a different turn. We’re not just “doing Morocco”—we’re living it through all these exchanges, however fleeting they may be.

FROM MIDELT TO EL KSIBA IN THE MIDDLE ATLAS (R 503 + N8)

Two more days on the road before reaching Marrakech to wrap up the trip. Beni Mellal seems like the most logical stopover to break up the journey. But the city doesn’t seem to have much to offer. Thanks to tips from fellow travelers, we opt for El Ksiba, a small village nestled in a pretty valley off the main N8 road.

From Tamayouste, we take the R503, which reveals different landscapes in this part of the Middle Atlas. It’s a side of Morocco that’s lush, fertile, and rich in agriculture. Beyond the cultivated fields and all those holm oaks, the vibe feels very Mediterranean. I almost feel like I’m in the Corbières region of Aude. Coffee break near a gas station. A young man calls out to me, pointing out that the rear right tire is flat. He offers to check all of them. I thank him and hand him a 5-dirham coin. He politely refuses, placing his right hand over his heart. “What’s your name?” I tell him, shake his hand, and he wishes me a safe journey. A good lesson for me—you can help each other out in Morocco without money ever coming into play.





We arrive in El Ksiba in the early afternoon. The road winds between olive trees and holm oaks. After a few wrong turns, we finally find the guesthouse Chez Saadia and Mustapha. A lovely house overlooking the valley, covered in olive trees. Saadia welcomes us warmly in that very Moroccan way that always makes you feel like a guest, not just a customer. From the terrace high above the valley, I watch the minarets of the mosques dotting the landscape like exclamation points.

Kate and I take a stroll through El Ksiba. The air is mild, the light soft and autumnal. In the heart of the village, we discover a small, bright, and colorful primary school. I approach the entrance quietly but don’t dare step inside. I listen. Class has started, and I recognize the musical phrasing of the teacher delivering his lesson in what seems like attentive silence. A sudden outburst! A student gets scolded! I smile. All schools around the world are the same.



A light meal tonight, even though Saadia is known for her amazing couscous. What a shame. Before heading to bed, as night falls, we go out to smoke a cigarette on the terrace. From the depths of the valley, the calls of the muezzins echo back and forth.

as night fell, we’d go out to smoke a cigarette on the terrace.

Just a heads-up—this travel journal mentions smoking a few times ;P

(as of today, the authors have finally quit!)

RETURN TO MARRAKECH AND END OF THE TRIP

Another 200 kilometers to return the car in Marrakech and spend one last night before heading back to France. The stress is back—we’ll have to reach the hotel right in the heart of Gueliz. And face those Marrakchis I love when they’re on foot but can’t stand behind the wheel.

The long, straight road from Beni-Mellal isn’t particularly interesting, but we still take the time to stop in a small roadside village for a coffee. After all these days, I realize that Morocco’s outdoor sociability is very much a man’s world. In the packed bar where we sit down, Kate is the only woman. She feels it, even if the looks aren’t insistent—just curious, maybe, to see tourists in a place without tourists. A big thank you to the Maps.Me app, which lets you find your exact route offline. Kate, who doesn’t exactly have a great sense of direction, guides me like a pro without any trouble all the way to the Hôtel Toulousain in Gueliz.

Our journey is coming to an end. We’ll have to wake up very early tomorrow to catch our flight. Still, we decide to spend one last evening in Djemaa el Fna square. It’s a Friday night, and it’s packed—especially with Moroccan tourists. I’m not the same person I was 20 days ago, and I feel (a little) at home here. “Wherever we go, we’re home,” as the band Zebda used to say.

There you have it—the loop is closed. Every traveler has experienced that unique turning point at the end of a trip, where emotions are mixed. The happiness of having had a great journey when everything went well, the desire to go home, and already the nostalgia for an intimate adventure that’s ending, knowing it will never come back in quite the same way.

Time to wrap it up. “Morocco, an encounter…” was the title I chose for this travel journal. The whole story is in those three little dots… We’ll meet again, I’m sure of it. Insh’Allah…

Here’s a Morocco I’d love to visit. Authenticity, (beautiful) encounters, all wonderfully told and perfectly illustrated. Thanks for this travel journal!

Richard and I want to thank you together for your contributions and your encouraging comments [;)]

I enjoyed it all the more because even though I have a trip planned to Marrakech in May with friends, I already know it won’t be anything like your trip—and that kinda bums me out 😕. Oh well, we’ll have other great experiences And we’ll go back, my way!

The whole travel journal is captured in those three little dots...

How well I understand those little dots! They express so much of what’s inside us that we wouldn’t or couldn’t put into words.

A trip just the way I love it—sharing, chatting, and smiling with the people you meet, whether briefly or not. It’s always a joy.

Thanks for this lovely story [:)]

Once night falls, we’d go smoke a cigarette on the terrace.

Warning: this travel journal contains several encouragements to smoke [:P]

(as of today, the authors have finally quit smoking)

And honestly, going to Morocco and only smoking tobacco—that’s staying pretty tame

Bring some kola nuts, there’s no shortage of them here!!

Beautiful travel journal that perfectly captures everything you can feel when traveling in Morocco. Amazing....

A trip just the way I love it—sharing, chatting, and smiling with the people you meet, whether briefly or not. It’s always a joy.

@Dolma, it’s true that Morocco was a first for me, both with the country and its people—strangers or Kate’s friends, brief but intense encounters. Thanks for your kind message.

And to think, going to Morocco and only smoking tobacco is staying pretty tame

@Jojoone, we *did* stay tame—we just "loved" the country and the people.

Take some koka, there’s plenty of it here!!

@Cube18, kif, koka, tobacco—nothing but the natural stuff!

A beautiful travel journal that perfectly captures everything you can feel when traveling in Morocco. Stunning....

@Jeeaan, thanks for reading and for your kind comment.

Kate, who doesn’t really have a sense of direction,

Was that how she met you, guided by her intuition?

navigates like a pro without any trouble

Hmm! [;)]

I start imagining another era, another time. I see bearded Arab sentinels, their heads covered with pointed helmets, scimitars at their waists.

A throwback to your username? Like the courtly poetry your writing style evokes. (I didn’t picture scimitars *that* curved, even in a dream.)

Next step: you take Kate to a country you know well but she doesn’t, to see how she translates the encounter into images... [:)]

Hi Jean-Luc, Nice to meet you, even virtually. Kate told me a lot about you... in very favorable terms. As you can see, she’s got me hooked on her travel obsession: India, Morocco... I think, therefore I travel ;)

Thanks for this inspired and inspiring share. I’m definitely going to follow in some of your footsteps. We’re heading there this winter for several weeks—our itinerary is still in the works. Your beautiful photos and words are such a great invitation to travel.

Thanks An5 for your kind message. I wrote the texts, but the photos are by Kate, who knows the country even better than I do and can provide information if you'd like. Don’t hesitate to contact her. Richard.