MHAMID and the SAHARA (19-20.11.23)

With relief and a bittersweet taste in our mouth, we left Agdz and drove along the old caravan road: a 5 hours drive through the palm groves and clay houses of the fortified ksars of the Draa Valley first, through Zagora and few other terracotta hued dusty towns and eventually through immense arid flatlands where a straight black asphalt road went on for miles in a never changing landscape and whose mountains on the horizon seemed to be painted on a ever-far backdrop. The vastness of the Sahara was clearly getting closer.

We reached Mhmmid, the town at the end of the caravan route and the access to the desert, around 3pm. It immediately felt like an anachronistic world, where its inhabitants, mostly of Tuareg ethnicity, seemed to have enabled their traditions to melt into the perks of smaller scale tourism.

The easiest, safest and least time consuming way to approach the Sahara is actually through tours that organise a dromedary ride that takes you to a fairly fancy desert camp right next to the dunes where you can spend one or a  few nights and basically be treated like a king, entertained with traditional and quite tacky performances and spoiled with never ending buffets. Some people love that, ask those that take time off to pay for all-inclusive holidays… I had my fair share in the Khuri desert in India and no thanks. Not my cup of tea really but unfortunately, if this is the only way to experience something deemed unmissable, then I’d rather pick a place where at least there’s still some kind of authenticity and I’m not surrounded by hordes of Insta-wives. That was mostly the reason why we picked Mhamid over the tourists and tours-favourite Merzouga. And we weren’t going to be disappointed.

Before I knew it, I did play the part.

First hopped on a smelly lady dromedary who showed me how little she enjoyed the walk through dunes by stumbling right behind each slope. I have to admit that I immediately acknowledged the point of wearing the turban against a certain sunburn and to protect us from an annoying amount of flies and from the sand blown into our mouth from the wind, and mentally thanked Ismael for pushing for us to get one.

After about ninety minutes we made it to the desert camp and realised our plan worked since there were only three other tourists. We checked in in a very cute cabin, drank a mint tea and splashed in the pool. Yes, you heard that well, as if hot water, wi-fi and other comforts were not enough, why not building a pool in the middle of the most arid and widest desert in the world… Traveling off the beaten track like I did with my dad in Kyrgyzstan for example might be uncomfortable at times (can’t deny sleeping in a yurt on top of an icy mountain was not particularly great), however we lived exactly like the locals did and it felt priceless. Can’t really say the same here but I also didn’t want to spoil Christoph’s excitement since being in the Sahara was one of the biggest wishes in his bucket list.

Suddenly, as the sun started to go down, we rushed to the dunes aiming at one of the tallest, and gave in to the beauty of the desert. That moment was incredible in so many ways: feeling the hot ultra thin sand under your feet, sinking in it as if it was neither solid nor liquid, admiring the patterns crafted by the wind on the dunes, their perfect repetitions and shapes, watching the colour of the sky turning from orange to pink and feeling so in the moment and grateful that nothing else seemed to matter.

We took pictures, we goofed around, we chased each other, rolled down the dunes and ran on the dune ridges and wondered how they make it look so easy in movies.

It was magical but everything went by so quickly. Before we could fully comprehend what we had just witnessed the sky turned purple, the night fell and we had no choice but to make it back to the camp.

The buffet was as majestic as I had imagined, and, somehow, we managed to devour everything that was offered (mountains of chicken skewers, tagine with kafta, rice and veggies). The place was run by a small gang of Tuareg kids that, apparently, were in charge of every aspect of the business, from cleaning to cooking, to the entertainment. They all looked somehow older than their real age (I still assume none of them was older than 18), the so-called desert effect consisting of a relentless exposure to sun, wind, and an incredible amount of hashish (the brown spots on their teeth gave it easily away). The kids put on a drum show first, chanting in unison and improvising at the same time. It escalated in a dance show mostly run by a kid wearing a way too big traditional cape and moving as if he was miming a huge bird. Christoph found it extremely fascinating, I was too cold at that point to enjoy much of what was going on. It was the opposite of the polished and immaculate show in costumes I saw in Rajasthan. The kids seemed to actually be doing it more for themselves than for us which is something that I really appreciated.

Midnight came, the Tuareg kids got tired of perfoming, comets glowed in the sky at a pace that was too fast for me to keep count of my wishes. We made it to bed after a quick stroll under the famous Sahara night sky, it was indeed a marvel and, once more, I promised myself to learn to recognise the constellations (maybe one day it will really happen).

My FOMO gets the best of me. Each single time, which is quite incredible at almost 37. Setting the alarm at 6.30AM was a decision dictated by that dreamy/romantic side of mine that couldn’t help but picturing myself admiring dawn from one of the dunes we didn’t have time to reach on the previous evening. Too bad that Cancer side of mine rarely considers the reality of facts. 6.30 AM meant that outside was dark and freezing and that, by the time the sun rose, my body was so frozen that I could barely enjoy the show. Which was anyway fairly underwhelming if I have to be very honest.

We moved the breakfast table in the light of the sun to allow our bodies to get back to a temperature more appropriate to hot blooded beings and started the day with a big variety of jams in the company of a large group of cats.

My attempt at making it back to the dunes to snap a few more shots was cut short by the arrival of a jeep, drove by two kids (choosing “of age” would sound too far fetched intros case) whose task was to bring us back to Mhamid.

Our desert adventure was already over and, even if there wasn’t really much more to do in the camp, we both felt like it could have potentially gone on a bit longer, especially since we had the feeling that we eventually paid more than we should have.

ON THE ROAD (20-21.11.23)

MHAMID -> TINGHIR -> IMILCHIL -> FEZ

Making it to Mhamid came with some quite hardcore consequences for our journey. Our following destination was Fez, almost 750 km up north on the opposite side of the Atlas Mountain range. At that point I already had to admit to myself that I really undetimated the distances between one place and the other. 750 km might not sound like a lot on German motorway, but it counts to a more than 12 hours drive here. Of course we had to cut the trip in two parts.

So off we went, partially driving back on the same road we came from to then pick a secondary road, a shortcut, through dream-like high plateaus and arid pastures. I know I’m getting repetitive at this point but those 4 and a half hours drive that took us to Tinghir had to be some of the best of our road trip: barely anyone else on the street, jaw dropping dramatic landscapes, Wes Anderson worthy pastel coloured villages on the way. When we made it to our destination, a picture perfect, Draa Valley clichè of bright emerald green oasis surrounded by clay houses at the rocky red feet of the southern High Atlas and the northern Little Atlas, our hearts could have not been fuller.

We thought that, before visiting the Todra gorge, a deep cliff-sided canyon at the bottom of the zig zag road leading up the Atlas, we could quickly drop our stuff at Dar Relax hostel, our accommodation for the night, but nope, nobody let us in.

We opted to take advantage of the last hour of light and made it straight to the brutally imposing gorge. Sadly I found myself incapable of framing it in a way that could make justice to its majesty and gave up after a few mediocre attempts. Truth to be told first I had to deal with a Belgian lady with a very slow pace and the unrequited need to overshare that made me miss the last traces of sunlight, then with a couple of Russian tourists that seemed to pose on purpose right in front of me each time I got my camera out. Sometimes it’s just not meant to be.

After chasing for a short time a family of nomads and their donkey up the mountain and realising many locals here live in natural caves, tired from the trip we made our way back to the hostel, hoping that, this time around, someone would have let us in.

Well, it happened. Thank God two German tourists heard us banging at the door and opened.  I tried my very best to give the benefit of doubt to our host, clearly a next level stoner. He made it harder for me as he introduced himself as “a very disorganised person”…   Our room was doubtlessly the shabbiest we had booked in the whole trip (fair enough for the 18 euros we paid) and we managed to unawarely flood it completely as we showered. As you do.  We apologised profusely, dealt with the mess and got told it never happened before… Sure.

Let’s say that that evening didn’t get better. Instead of resting as I had planned to do, I spent hours searching for a good accommodation in Fez in an ice cold room and with a gurgling stomach. That night I slept horribly for how cold it was and woke up super cranky. My mood got even worse when after we waited and delayed our departure for more than one hour, our host failed at meeting us for breakfast (which was included in the price we paid) since he overslept. Well, sometimes first impressions matter.

We made it to Tinghir downtown to withdraw some money, get supplies for the long journey ahead of us and to finally get breakfast. This time around we picked one of those outdoors cafes mostly attended by middle aged men sipping their cafe noir and people watching. We ordered a cheesy omelette with bread, cream cheese and olives and ate as some regulars, obviously quite surprised to see two tourists there, engaged with us in a few chats.

Full tummies, caffeine at work, sun shining bright, time to carry on with the adventure: an 8 hours crazy drive through the Atlas mountain range. Our plan was to make a small break in Imilchil, a traditional Berber village at more than 2000 metres above sea level, right in the middle of the mountains. The road was bumpy and full of hairpin bends, but the majestic dramatic landscapes and the occasional Berber villages with their local farmer markets, traditionally dressed women riding donkeys, shepherds with their flocks and kids heading home from school, made sure to keep us distracted. Small green valleys at a higher altitude made a huge contrast with the grey-brown peaks of the surrounding mountains. In two and a half hour we made it to Imilchil, which is mostly famous for its September Berber festival where women and men show off in their best traditional attires to potentially get married. Kind of a speed dating situation. Sadly the village in November was very unremarkable, if not for its skinned goats hanging at the entrance of each butcher in town. Which seemed to be the favoured occupation. We left shortly after a failed attempt at  a stroll and moved on to its bordering lake, which quickly made us realise how strong the wind blew at that altitude and how slightly underdressed we were.

The five hours trip to Fez from there turned out to be way heavier than I expected, especially after the sun set since I couldn’t find comfort in the stunning views that we had previously come across. On that day trip, the landscape had changed dramatically at least a dozen of times: from absurdly shaped grey dramatic peaks, to red hills covered in small dry woods, and, as we started driving more downhill, immense yellow fields and flatlands, followed by an Andalusian reminiscent, stray dogs inhabited red rock canyon…  We took a short pee break in a wealthier looking unattractive city, got overwhelmed by the amount of people and the sudden reappearance of capitalism, and decided to have dinner in Fez and don’t further time there. The sun set with a dreamy blue hour on another flatland.  As darkness dropped, we picked a “shortcut” after being stopped by the police and being told off in French for overtaking with a continuous line and not letting pedestrian cross. Oooops. I pretended not to understand and answered back in German, which had the desired effect since, after sighing and rolling their eyes, the police simply let us go. But we couldn’t celebrate for long since the shortcut soon turned out to be the opposite of a shortcut. After getting lost once in the middle of nowhere on a pitch dark road, I sped up trying to make up for the time I lost, just to quickly realise we were still too far away from Fez to allow my nerves to get the best of me. At that point I was really exhausted, in pain for all the hours spent driving, hungry and worried for our huge delay on our planned arrival in Fez. Christoph, a saint, agreed on me playing Taylor’s “Folklore” and “Evermore”, which managed to calm me down and made the following two hours drive far more bearable.

Finally, utterly devastated, we made it to Fez and parked for two nights right outside of the city walls. In a few minutes walk we reached our accommodation for the night, Riad Noha, and had a series of quick first impressions of the Medina which, somehow, looked more developed and organised than Marrakech’s (with way fewer chances of getting run over). Some of the buildings were built so close to one another, that my shoulders could barely make it through its narrow alleys. At the Riad, after sipping a couple of over-sugared  mint tea, we could finally drop our baggage and immediately made our way to the next door Restaurant Boujloud where I ordered a nice tagine with beef, plums and almond. At that point we were barely talking with each other for how tired we were. That night I had the sweetest dreams of the whole journey.

Canon EOS 300, Kodak Gold 200 (35)

Miranda Sensomat RE, Lomochrome Purple (100-400)