Morocco, an encounter...
FR

Translated into English.

Original post
KA
Hello everyone,

I’ve been to Morocco about fifteen times, but I’ve never posted a travel journal here on Voyage Forum. Why? I have no idea… Maybe because this section was so active, with lots of stories and photos. I thought sharing my adventures in *al Maghrib* wouldn’t be very original. Today, this space feels quieter, so what if I tried to give it a little life back, modestly? With some help…

This trip will be different. From the start of my relationship with Richard, I was determined to introduce him to *my* Morocco. But he was a bit reluctant… He’ll tell you about our 2022 meeting, and I’ll illustrate it with my photos, just like we did with our India travel journal.

RI RichardXI Regular ·
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...







MO Montagnard74 Globetrotter ·
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? 🤪
RI RichardXI Regular ·
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.







RI RichardXI Regular ·
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.



RI RichardXI Regular ·
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."





MA Mamsissi Regular ·
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.
RI RichardXI Regular ·
Hi Mamsissi, Thanks for the little message. Imodium works too, but you can find Ricard even in Essaouira. 😉
RI RichardXI Regular ·
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.





KA Kate Globetrotter ·
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.

RI RichardXI Regular ·
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.





LA Lacalo Globetrotter ·
Hey there, it's me again! 😛

Thanks for this beautifully written and illustrated travel journal—I really enjoyed reading it. It’s the Morocco I love! !
KA Kate Globetrotter ·
Hey, I'm back...😛

Oh great! So glad you're back 😉
AO Aoreora1 Regular ·
Me too! I'm here! When was the little meet-up in Ijoukak? Thanks for the story and the photos.
KA Kate Globetrotter ·
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
LA Lacalo Globetrotter ·
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…
MI Milorde Regular ·
Lovely story and gorgeous photos. It’s great to see all these stunning landscapes again. Thanks!
AO Aoreora1 Regular ·
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.
RI RichardXI Regular ·
Thanks to everyone for your messages—it encourages me to keep going. Soon Skoura, Errachidia... and the south.
KA Kate Globetrotter ·
At the end of the travel journal, I’ll post the group photo 😉

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