Morocco, an encounter... (page 2 of 3)

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

Yes, yes, more, more!! 😛

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 😛

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

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