Day 8: Imlil Valley – The Day We Lost the Guide
Looking back, we lost the guide that day, but I gained a travel journal—one person’s misfortune became my readers’ gain.
Imlil and its valley might have felt a bit repetitive for the first group, but we’d really loved the Ourika Valley, so we were pumped for this new excursion. We were supposed to leave at 9:30 AM, breakfast included, but it wasn’t until 10:15 that the Dacias finally got moving. By now, I was used to the delays—I’d planned a stop at the "Argan Oil Cooperative," but it got skipped to make up time. The road was beautiful, though the turns got sharper past Asni. We had to climb up to 1,700 meters! I’d allow a quick stop along the way at a parking lot in the middle of nowhere just to avoid falling even further behind schedule...
When we arrived in Imlil, it was chilly, and the village was lively, but the huge, nearly empty parking lot at the bottom hinted at a quiet day. Our goal was the waterfall again, starting from the top of the village. And when you’re walking through a village with eleven people, trust me—you get noticed!
It was Brahim, the friendly owner of a well-rated (and slightly out-of-the-way) guesthouse on TripAdvisor, who won us over after some tough negotiating. With eleven of us, we had leverage: a full lunch on the terrace, his son to guide the group to the waterfall, and a mule to carry A up and down since, due to health issues, they couldn’t handle any uphill climbs.
If that’s not an efficient and thoughtful guide, I don’t know what is!
So off we went to tackle the Toubkal, at 4,170 meters—almost rivaling my Mont Blanc. Well, at least the first 200 meters of elevation gain, taking about half an hour to reach the guesthouse and another half hour to the waterfall for those who wanted to see it.
And that’s where I got left behind... The nervous tension, the heat, the fatigue, and a poorly placed rock on the path—*crack*—I felt my calf tear like an old rag being ripped in two. The pain was immediate and intense, and I couldn’t put any weight on my foot. I gritted my teeth, but it was no use. Only the supportive shoulder of my co-pilot and friend M got me hobbling back to the guesthouse. Brahim didn’t know what to do to help my progress, but once we reached his terrace, he rushed to break up the ice in his freezer to ease the injury.
Game over—we’d lost the guide!
Of course, the waterfall visit was canceled, but no one felt like tempting fate. Instead, we enjoyed the incredible chicken couscous prepared by Brahim’s wife, all while the muezzins’ calls echoed through the valley. She did everything she could to make our stop at her home a pleasant moment (and it was).
But we had to think about heading back, and there was no way I could handle the walk down. The mule meant for A was repurposed as a Moroccan ambulance and carried me down to the vehicles (for a hefty tip, of course).
I knew from the moment I got hurt that we’d have to return to Marrakech. I also knew that in our group, only M and I were capable (and insured) to drive in Morocco, so I gritted my teeth and got the Dacia back to the villa. It was my right calf, and the pain had eased slightly thanks to immobilization, a tightly wrapped Velpro bandage, and some Doliprane.
The planned stop at the cooperative on the way back was, of course, canceled. It was 5:30 PM by the time I (sweating profusely) parked the Logan in the villa’s lot. There, I gathered all the creams and ointments from everyone’s suitcases, plus a knee brace a friend had packed—just what I needed to compress my calf. My savior for the rest of the trip.
Because I knew the day wasn’t over yet. The next day, A was leaving for family reasons we’d known about from the start, and I’d booked a table at Dar Essalam for a dinner show. It was well-reviewed for its value for money and was supposed to wrap up (already!) our group of 11’s trip. Fortunately, we had to be there early, traffic was light, and I could park just a 3-minute walk from the restaurant, near the Place des Ferblantiers.
This restaurant can serve up to 800 people, but cleverly, it’s designed with multiple rooms of about a hundred seats each, where shows rotate to keep the atmosphere lively. Wine is served (starting at 20 € a bottle), as are cocktails, and we didn’t hold back—especially since we were celebrating N’s 60th birthday that night, a surprise for her. The restaurant, in on the secret, made sure her birthday was an unforgettable moment. The full menu is 30 €, very affordable, quickly served between performances, and good quality despite the crowd. It’s kitschy, but high-end kitsch, and we loved it... We left the restaurant after 11 PM, and no one felt like wandering around (especially not me). We headed back to our lodgings without much trouble, going against the tourist flow.
I really love this photo 👍
.
.
