Well let’s cut to the chase right from the start.

Christoph joined me for the second half of my trip to Morocco. I didn’t want to make such a big thing out of it and I didn’t bring it up with most people til I made it back to Berlin.

As much as I loved what I had experience as a solo traveler up to that point, I can’t deny the days to come would prove to be as exciting and incredible. There are quite a few perks when it comes to have a travel buddy: you feel safer, you allow yourself to let the guard down every now and then, you share your impressions with a trusted person, you can afford things that otherwise you’d miss out on, like fancier accommodations or rental cars… This last one thing being one of those I love the most: a road trip adventure! Because what’s better than driving along in a foreign land with sunglasses on, your favourite playlist playing, a supply of snacks and your camera at your side and the most astounding scenery out of your car windows?

But let’s go back to Marrakech, where Christoph landed as I sat on the bus leaving the Atlantic coast.

It’s funny sometimes how a couple of days in a city makes you feel like you own the place, or at least, as if there are not so many mysteries and you can avoid get scammed so easily.  And you end up mastering situations that a week prior to that moment would have easily freaked you out: like pacifying a whole crowd of testosterone-driven taxi drivers fighting to be the chosen one, or not compromising with any price higher than the real value, or not letting a gang of street kids take advantage of you. Felt very badass as I met Christoph on the narrow alley behind riad Hna Ben Saleh, the family-run adorable riad we booked for that night in the west part of the Medina.

I started the evening annoying Christoph with all the things I had learned about Morocco til that moment, to then realise that the city was overwhelming enough without my overdose of information. We dined at one of the food stalls in Jeema El Fna where he also got called “skinny” and quickly learned how to navigate through the traps of the main square. In an attempt to show him “my old hood”, baffled by a deserted Medina with not a single bazaar being open, I got us lost and, as MapsMe saved my ass for the umpteenth time, we called it a day.

The following morning started with a pastry based breakfast on the Riad’s rooftop, as dozens of caged birds welcomed another sunny day. After a failed online car rental research,  we gave in to our host’s not so advantageous offer (around 50 euro a day and the chance to drop the car in Tangier) which actually saved us having to drive back to the airport to compare different agencies’ offers. Time is one of the most valuable things, and it took me several years of travels and afternoons spent comparing almost identical offers with the aim to save a couple of euro to finally learn the lesson.

Christoph, who joined me with the big wish to see the Sahara, was not particularly intrigued by the idea of spending too much time in big cities, which was definitely lucky for me since I had already checked most of my Marrakech to-do list. So we planned to spend a couple of hours strolling around in order for him to get an impression of the city in the daylight. Didn’t take long before we held mint in from of our nose to cover the strong stench of ammonia/animal grease of the tanneries, where we were showed some of the, honestly speaking, fairly repulsive stages of Berber and Arabic leather preparation. From that day on I can’t look at leather products in the same way… We went back to see Jemaa during the day with its snake charmers and monkey in doll dresses. Animal protection has a long way to go here… Didn’t take long for Christoph to learn how to avoid getting involved with greedy street sellers and performers. At that point he made it clear he had seen enough. On our way back to the riad, we grabbed a local hamburger (mixed of different meat, veggies and cheese) for about one euro. Once again, I had to notice how food in general in Morocco is not salty at all, which on one hand allows you to taste herbs and spices more, but, on the other, somehow never really quite makes you fall for it.

After getting lost in translation with the car rental agent, and signing the French-written contract, we left the Medina behind our backs and thanked God when he offered to drive us to the outskirts of the city in order to have an easy start away from the traffic.

IMLIL (16-17.11.23)

The road to Imlil, a small village in the heart of the high Atlas Mountains and our first destination, was fairly scenic: first barren and flat countryside then, the more we ventured into the mountain range and the more uphill we went  the more fairytale-like the landscape became. Rocky terracotta-coloured mountains with lush green valleys where a river ran surrounded by woods of yellowing deciduous trees. Quite new to witness autumn in such a context.

We got there on a winding road which forced us to take a few breaks due to maintenance work, as the eastern peaks were painted in bright orange by the golden hour and the bigger portion of the valley was already in the shades of the western ridges. Turned out that our accommodation, Amazigh Family Riad (an unsophisticated yet welcoming family run-guest house which had absolutely nothing to do with the definition of riad per se nor with the appearance of the riads I saw up to that point) was a 25 min steep hike up on a narrow mule track on the southernwest side of the valley. Which I found out way too late and accomplished carrying my heavy backpack, in Birkenstock and as a foot blister just burst… The village, dangerously located on the mountain side, looked extremely rustic and simple. Plenty of unfinished houses gave away how poor its dwellers were likely to be. We had a cute encounter with a little girl waving at us in a princess gown, several men coming back from work riding on their mules and greeting us with big smiles and a quite surprised look on their faces and a toothless cowboy-legged elderly lady who stared at us a fly rested on her mouth.

As the golden hour left room to the blue hour, and the temperature dropped drastically, we finally checked in at the  guesthouse, where Hassan, our young host upgraded us to a mountain view room with colourful and fluffy Berber carpets all over the floor. As per custom we were offered a mint tea, which we savoured as we chilled on the rooftop and took in the impressive view on the valley. I found myself trying to picture it in my head as the sun shone and wondering if the mountain range would gift me with that chance. Alice and Matteo, an Italian couple from Emilia Romagna at the end of their holiday and the only other guests at that time, joined us for a homely cooked dinner and entertained us with some anecdotes from their journey.

With nothing really to do around and Christoph struggling with a cold, we made it to bed very early. The following day was still a question mark.

In a very optimistic trend of mine, I set the alarm before eight to explore the village at dawn. Only to observe a very  dark grey light out of my window casting a miserable shade all over the surroundings.

Few hours, a breakfast and a long hot shower later the sun finally popped from behind the mountain peaks and immediately changed the whole vibe. As Christoph, who was at this point feverish, took a chance to get some extra rest, I went exploring the hillsides villages of Imlil while listening to TS’ “Evermore”.  I can’t really say that the villages blew me away but the view on the valley with its autumn colours kept on stealing my attention and became the main focus of my camera. As I walked down and uphill I bumped into a few locals. In a manner that had already become a constant since the begging of the trip, women always appeared to be very elusive: they never looked at me in the eyes and tried their very best not to engage. I made it back around noon dripping in sweat. As soon as the sun is high in the sky the temperature raises like crazy. Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem to affect the locals who still opt to wear their winter attires without shedding any layers. We checked out, walk back down to the main town at the base of the valley (in converse this time), said goodbye to Hassan and the Italians and grabbed a quick lunch by the river with a lamb tagine covered in big slices of vegetables, and sips of a mountain herbs infused tea.

Christoph was slowly getting back into shape so, as not to make our stay in Imlil in vain, we went for a short stroll around town, where we had to dodge some pushy sellers, and towards the woods. Everything was so petite, laid back and peaceful. To me it kinda looked like a village in the Italian Alps in Autumn, yet with a very different kind of backdrop.

Looking back I don’t think I would include Imlil as part of my itinerary. But if you do have a lot of time, trekking gear and you’re in good health and physically fit, then it might be worth the trip: apparently there are some jaw dropping excursions. With no direct connections to our next destination on the other side of the high Atlas, since we were forced to drive half the way back towards Marrakech and then cross the whole mountain range, we agreed on avoid lingering there any longer and hit the road.

And just like that that en route feeling kicked in. Which I very much enjoyed for the first couple of hours, as we drove through stunning lunar landscapes painted in red and we ascended towards the first peaks of the Atlas mountain on harsh turns carved through majestic rocks. Overtaking big trucks became my mantra. Everything around us dimmed in a moonless darkness by 7.30 PM. And, at that point the journey became a major pain in the ass and started to feel never-ending. I had honestly no clue about what was going on around me and the only remarkable things that happened was risking to go off street once for being almost run over by a truck driving wildly against us and another time because of a stray dog that force me to steer the wheel as he ran right in the middle of the street. My heart skipped a beat twice in just one evening.

AIT BENHADDOU + OUARZAZATE (17-18.11.23)

As if karma knew I needed something good and soothing at that point, our accommodation in Ait Ben Haddou, Tigmi Hamid, turned out to be the best of the whole journey. Our guest, a very queer man in our opinion, who seemed to have chosen kindness and softness instead of a brutal machist approach with his guests, greeted us with a huge smile and, in a broken English, showed us our dream-like room in a stunning and well-decorated riad. Such beauty and attention to details can’t come from a straight man, I’m sorry! As we dined in the cozy and stylish lounge room with a delicious dinner consisting of kefta and egg tagine and sefa (vermicelli noodles with spices and peanuts in a  sauce honey based sauce), we finally took the chance to unwind. We ate until we had to unzip our jeans and made it to bed, after another long shower, feeling particularly blissed.

I woke up after another nightmare, this time it had to do with my stuff being stolen. I genuinely hoped it wasn’t some kind of premonition.

I left the bed yawning and dragged myself out to finally get to see the surroundings: a landscape consisting of impressive rock formations and arid plains that stretched on the horizon, dotted here and there with palm trees.

We made plans for the day as we had breakfast and eventually said goodbye to our lovely host, after hearing about how he was forced to rebuild the riad after it was stroked by the earthquake in September.

The riad was just a 10 minutes drive to Ait Benhaddou, the UNESCO world heritage ksar (fortified village) on the former caravan route that connected the Sahara with Marrakech. We had the perfect timing and  arrived there exactly at the same time of all the touristic buses from Marrakech… What pissed me off at the start turned out to be not much of an issue. The overall view of the ksar from the outside of the city walls was simply stunning and made it immediately clear why it has become such a Hollywood favourite. I’ll drop a few names: Lawrence of Arabia, the Jewel of the Nile, Game of Thrones, the Mummy, the Gladiator, Alexander… No surprise if you happen to have a deja-vu effect. We crossed the stream, saw some clumsy tourists slipping into it and held myself from laughing til the moment I made it to the other side. At the city gates we dodged a scam attempt from some locals that tried to charge us for the entrance. I overheard a guide explaining that many city parts had been rebuilt or added in function of the movies. We roamed around the alleys where a few shops for tourists competed to get people’s attention and eventually made it to the top where the towering building had been ripped in two by the earthquake and nobody had been bothered just yet to put it back together. The summit offered an incredible 360 degree view on the landscape all around.

All in all I think Ait Benhaddou was definitely worth the couple of hours we spent there. It is touristic and there’s not much authenticity to be found, but it still effortlessly takes your breath away.

On our way to Ouarzazate, we stopped to ask for help at a garage in the middle of the road as, according to the warning light on the dashboard, the wheels of the rental car needed to be inflated. A group of half a dozen workers promptly helped us in a way that was both efficient and chaotic while Christoph and I showed off our straighter side. As much as we tried not to think about it too much, being two queer men in a context where homosexuality is a crime could lead to problems. But thank goodness, they didn’t seem to mind at all, which reassured us for the days ahead.

Ouarzazate is a weird place: the contrast between its glossy cinema/Hollywood reputation and the striking poverty of its old town was somehow unexpected. Since we had no interest in the museum of cinema, one of the most advertised attractions of the city, we decided to focus on the Kasbah Taourirt, which unfortunately was closed due to earthquake damages. We explored the medina of the ksar instead, and left unimpressed and a bit annoyed because of how forward and intrusive a tour guide was and the attempts of a child to grab money from Christoph’s backpack.

We both felt as if we didn’t get the vibes of this city, as if its personality was still to be determined. Hungered and confused we grabbed a quick and cheap snack at a local’s grill place and decided to head towards Agdz, the getaway to the Draa Valley, aiming at making it there before sunset.

THE DRAA VALLEY (18-19.11.23)

The route that lead us to our destination was quintessential scenic, imposing peaks mixed with the immensity of desertic flatlands, where we and our car seemed to be the only variant in an otherwise static picture.

We parked in the very unspectacular but somehow real Agdz and went for a short walk as the sun set and, before it turned completely dark, we got back to the car ready to find our accommodation, “maison d’hôte, J”.

It wasn’t on MapsMe nor on Google Maps, as many other locations in Morocco. I would normally find something close to my destination, restaurant or hotel, and from there I’d ask for information or simply somehow bump into the right address. However, this time, things didn’t go that way. First we parked at a public garden, whose name was the same of our accommodation. The janitor made us understood in a harsh way that we were in the wrong place (and we made things worse as he almost caught us peeing in the property). The night fell faster than we expected, as we slowly drove along the street of a pitch dark and dodgy small village, where dozens of men motionless sat at the side of the road. The accommodation seemed not to be reachable through the main street but I refused to let Christoph wandering out after a wrinkly one-eyed elderly, whom I mistook for somebody asking for information, scared the shit out of us by throwing his hands in my face through my lowered window begging for money. My blood literally froze. Eventually, as we almost gave up on our mission and I started to think of a plan B, Ismael, the guy in charge of the check-ins, who was randomly waiting for us at the side of the road, found us, made us park the car and guided us to the room. We really couldn’t see anything of the path he lead us on but we could tell it was a bit of an outdoor silent and uninhabited maze, and it definitely wasn’t around the corner. The room, which occupied the whole ground floor of a small traditional clay house, had some hipster-ish details, a clear attempt to be captivating, however, with its sealed windows and heavy prison-worthy door felt more of a bunker. If we hadn’t felt safe in a while now, these extreme safety measures and the fact that Ismael would never leave us alone and clearly told us we were not allowed to wander around unsupervised, made us feel like we were indeed entitled to worry. Eventually he took us back to the car park and lead us to a restaurant, Chez Jacob, in a clay palace of some historical importance (apparently it was used a set for the English Patient). On its rooftop, we tried our best to calm our nerves down, as a small gang of wealthy French ladies and gents, the only other guests, loudly drank some smuggled wine. For a while I felt like being in a Ruben Östlund’s dark comedy, ready for something bizarre to happen. Confused and still scared, we had an omelette and chicken and lemon tagine based dinner (which felt more imposed than chosen, and turned out to be pricier than any meals we’ve had up to that moment). Ismael was kind and accommodating but something about him didn’t quite inspire our trust. We really couldn’t tell why we felt so bad about the whole evening, as if we really couldn’t let our guard down.

We got escorted back to “the bunker”. Since the windows were locked and the door was meant to stay shut there wasn’t many chances to get some fresh air, if not from a freezing air conditioning system. We went to bed still shaken, and uncertain about the plans for the following day.

During the night I had another nightmare. This time around my dad savagely killed my brother. I woke up covered in sweat, gasping for air, and literally freaked out.

Everything will feel so silly in the daylight. That’s what I kept on repeating to myself to keep away the worse case scenarios that were clouding up my mind.

And it did feel much better in the daylight. Still it didn’t make me feel as if I had worried for nothing.

Ismael made us breakfast on the little terrace, right on top of our bunker/room. It had an incredible view on the palmeraie, luxuriant palm groves, characteristic of the Draa Valley) and on the crumbling clay houses of the ksar next door.

Ismael was still with us the whole time, and this time,  instead of being suspicious we gave him the benefit of doubt and took his piece of advice about a desert tour from a less famous entry point. That’s how we agreed to approach the Sahara from Mhamid, a small village in the south rather than Merzouga, the main touristic access to the legendary dunes on the eastern part of the country.

As he was busy chatting with Christoph, I took the chance to sneak around and, making my way through debris, dog poo and leftovers of night fires, I explored the maze of the crumbling old clay town even if I’d been discouraged to do so. There were only a few other accommodations like ours, otherwise it was all completely abandoned. Kinda crazy to think that such a historical site could be left in such a sad state of disrepair.

On our way back to the car, we stopped quickly at chez Jakob, which looked indeed quite impressive in the sunlight and had a quick talk with my mum on the phone where I nonchalantly told her to check on me on the following day to make sure I was safe and sound.

Ismael recommended us to buy some turbans for our camel ride in the desert, and took us to his cousin’s bazaar, which was, according to him, the best in town. A pattern that I had witnessed dozens of times in India. It didn’t surprise me when the merchant’s interest towards us disappeared as soon as he realised we were not interested in buying anything of a bigger worth. We got offered a delicious saffron tea though, can’t complain.

We gave a ride back to Ismael and as we said goodbye that weird taste in our mouths still hadn’t disappeared. With a somehow relieved heart we were ready to carry on with our journey: that same night we would have slept in the Sahara!

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Miranda Sensomat RE, Lomochrome Purple and Turquoise 100/400 (35)

Canon EOS 300, Kodak Gold 200 (35)