Day 1: Barcelona

On my way to Morocco, I had an 8 hour layover in Barcelona. I decided to take advantage of the perpetually beautiful Mediterranean climate by grabbing a bus into the city instead of pacing around the airport. I left my luggage in storage, hopped on the metro and proceeded to take an epic hike through El Cementerio Monjuic and the surrounding park. The sun was bright and I was energised with exciting thoughts of Morocco as I embarked on my urban trek. “I’m so smart, leaving the airport!” I thought to myself. “What a brilliant idea…I can’t believe anyone would wait in the airport for a long layover, staring at their phone. I’m such an intrepid traveler and sporty dude, hiking everywhere like a madman!” The walk continued for several hours and being the organized person that I am, I had created events in my google calendar for when I needed to head back to the airport to have plenty of time to catch the next flight for Marrakech. I formulated a plan on the fly to walk in the direction of the airport bus and I had plenty of time to spare. I checked to make sure I had the ticket and saw the time of the flight:

15:30 – Barcelona a Marrakech.

Wait. The flight is at 5:30pm, right?!?! The ticket says 15:30….that’s not 5:30 (or 17:30 in military time). I came to the horrifying realization that I miscalculated my flight out of Barcelona; it was 2 hours earlier than I thought. After living in Spain for nearly 3 years (where military time is commonly used), I still had a mental short-circuit and confused the time. UNBELIEVABLE! I let out a string of expletives, cursing myself for being so stupid and overconfident. Here I was, feeling so smug in my decision to leave the airport, and now I was screwed!

I made some quick calculations and came to the conclusion that there was a small possibility that I could catch the plane if there was at least a 30-minute delay of the departure. I proceeded to power-walk to the nearest busy street and promptly hailed a taxi. After anxiously explaining the situation to the driver, he sped to the airport at high speeds. I sprinted to grab the luggage from storage, hustled through security and to my horror, found out that there was another line to go through immigration and get the passport stamped out of Spain. At this point, it was a foregone conclusion that I would miss my plane, but I decided to wait it out. When I finally got through immigration and arrived at my gate, it was about 20 minutes after it closed. There was no delay. I missed my flight to Marrakesh.

In the end, although it was a pain in the ass, everything worked out. I had to get escorted back through immigration to get my passport re-stamped, talk to the lost luggage office to see if my checked bags were in Marrakech (they were) and then talk to Vueling to see what my options were for another flight. Part of the reason for my mental confusion with the time of the plane was that it actually changed between the time of booking to the date of the trip. Vueling moved the flight earlier and never properly notified me. Yes, it was my fault for not reading the ticket properly, but also their fault for not communicating the change. They ended up putting me on a flight for the next day and giving me a hotel room for the night; all free of charge. Thanks, Vueling! Another positive note about the experience is that all the communication with Vueling, luggage handlers and immigration was done in Spanish – 3 years ago I wouldn’t have been able to do it. I even got a compliment on my Spanish from the immigration lady when I dropped the phrase “se me ha ido la olla”, describing how I just had a mental lapse and confused the time. Sometimes it’s hard to see improvements in my Spanish and I feel like I’m plateauing, but experiences like this remind me that I’m still making slow and steady progress.

The trip started off bumpy and things did not go as planned. A bit of a omen for things to come. It would be an unpredictable adventure, with lots of twists and turns; never a dull moment.

Day 2-3: Marrakech

I finally arrived in Marrakech, about 24 hours later than planned. I paid for the hostel’s taxi service – 15 euros, which is an inflated price but at least I didn’t have to deal with the stress of bartering for a taxi and worrying about being ripped off. It had been awhile since I’ve been to a developing country where one has to worry about those things. I’ve been spoiled by living and traveling in Europe!

Marrakech is an overwhelming city. I stayed in the Medina, or the old town, which has the most historical sites of interest for tourists. The streets are narrow, windy and certain areas are bustling with markets selling every type of product imaginable, many of them high-quality artesian creations. It’s a dizzying experience to wander around; the vendors aggressively hawk their wares and try to engage you to enter their shop, the tourists are plentiful, the colors are bright, the smells are foreign and there’s not much space. It can be terrifying at times – you feel like there is no escape, the walls are closing in on you and you can’t hide from the chaos. The challenge of the Medina is that it’s completely confusing; it’s very easy to get lost and have no frame of reference. There are myriad alleyways, dead ends and winding streets. It’s not a grid. It can be intense, but once you become accustomed to it, you appreciate the insanity.

The culture is also completely different. The call to prayer is broadcast throughout the city 5 times a day. Many people where traditional clothes (the men wear the jellaba robe and the women the hijab, covering the face or entire head). Things are a bit more wild; motos scream through the streets, donkeys are everywhere, street commerce is unregulated, food vendors are plentiful.

• 

The first night, I was terrified to engage in conversation with anyone or even make a minor transaction. I had been warned that you need to barter for everything and was not in the mood for playing that game. I went directly to the main square, found an ATM and ate at an overpriced tourist restaurant where I didn’t need to worry about negotiating the price. I was exhausted from a day of traveling and just wanted to eat.

After the mediocre tourist meal, I wandered around a bit but quickly became overwhelmed. The main square is jam-packed with tourists, food vendors, snake charmers, street performers, hustlers; all plotting to extract money from the tourists. That first night, I was thinking that I needed to leave ASAP and head to the mountains; but after 24 hours, the city started to grow on me and I began to feel more comfortable. I found some quiet nooks and crannies; a side street to grab a delicious Morrocon crepe in the morning, for example. I made my first transaction – purchasing a street cup of coffee for 10 Dirham. I even bartered him down from 15 (although I should have paid 6). It was delicious. My confidence was growing! I started the process of peeling back the layers of the city and embracing the chaos. I began to engage the vendors and realized that they’re just regular people trying to earn a living; and it’s ok to politely tell them you’re not interested. Some were genuienly curious to talk to me and I was able to have some friendly chats.

By the end of the second day, I began to find my rhythm and enjoy the madness. I wandered through the markets, chatted with vendors, took pictures when possible, sampled delicious food, met other friendly travelers.

A highlight of Marrakech was a cooking class. We met early in the morning and we were promptly given an ingredient list and homework to go to the markets and buy everything we needed to cook. It was a fun group of Americans, Germans and Dutch. We spent a few hours wandering the markets, buying ingredients (with the help of our teacher of course). It was a great experience to learn more about how the markets work and the different types of food available. We then went to a beautiful Riad, cooked a delicious Morrocan feast and enjoyed it in the sun together. I returned to Bilbao armed with several recipes and a strong desire to start cooking Morrocan dishes! Luckily, in Bilbao, there are plenty of Morrocan supermarkets, so I have access to all the ingredients I need.

On the last day, as the sun was setting, I finally caught glimpse of the Atlas mountains, looming in the distance. It was a majestic site. After 3 nights of immersion in the psychedelic insanity of Marrakech, I was ready for the splendor and tranquility of the mountains. I was 100% content with the current plan of heading to the village of Imlil the next day. I finally found a group that was making a trek up Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa. It would be a true adventure; a 3-day and 2-night trek to summit the highest peak I’ve ever done.

Day 4: Marrakech to Imlil (The Mountains)

By the time I found my groove in Marrakech, it was time to leave for the mountains. On my final morning, I woke up before sunrise, put on all my warm clothes (it’s freezing when the sun is not up) and ventured off into the dark labyrinth of the Medina that is a completely different world in the morning. During the day it is a frenetic hive of activity; people, food, colors, products, sounds, warmth. Before sunrise, everything is still, the markets are closed, it’s ice cold; it’s the complete opposite.

I continued my morning journey, searching for the elusive cup of coffee. I finally found a local coffee shop which was just opening up. There was an Islamic prayer on TV and the volume was turned up extremely high. Side Note: the coffee shops in Morroco are interesting, all the chairs face outward to the street and by 10 AM they are usually filled with men (I never saw women in the coffee shop) sipping on espresso, smoking cigarettes, chatting and/or people watching. The owner seemed genuinely surprised yet delighted to see me; the location was a bit outside the main tourist area so it’s probably not frequented by westerners. I enjoyed my coffee, taking in the unique experience of the early morning prayer in an empty coffee shop.

At about noon, I packed up my things and walked to the taxi depot. Travelers often move around Morroco in package tours; 3 days in the mountains, 2 days in the desert and back to the city; you are shuttled around in a van and everything is taken care of. I understand the appeal of these tours, all the logistics are taken care of and you don’t need to worry about “doing it yourself” and dealing with the negotiation game, the fear of getting ripped off or miscommunications due to lack of foreign language skills. Desiring a bit of an adventure, I turned my nose up at the tourist vans and decided to take the local shared taxi to get to my next destination, the backpacking village of Imlil, at the base of Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa.

I loaded myself up with my two backpacks (big pack on my back, small – but still heavy pack – on my front) and slowly but surely meandered across town to the taxi depot. I was nervous, this would be my first “test” as an intrepid traveler. As I learned from my days backpacking through South America, the most stressful moments were days of ‘transit’ – moving from one location to the next. Bus stations, taxi depots, train stations and the like are all hubs for con men, confusing options and opportunities to be overcharged. I mentally prepared myself for battle; the goal was to find the shared taxi to Imlil. I knew the price I should pay and a rough system of how it worked – but I lacked any French or Arabic skills, so communication might be a problem. As I arrived at the taxi station, I was quickly accosted by drivers offering to drive me directly to Imlil for an inflated price. I politely declined them and blurted out “IMLIL! IMLIL! COLECTIVO!” in my best French accent. The guy with a clipboard who appeared to be running things seemed to understand me and directed me to a dusty corner of the station where I assumed I would wait for some taxi (no clue which one) to fill up other people also going to Imlil. I settled in and decided to wait for more people to arrive; there was bound to be more brave tourists or simply people from Imlil that had to go to the big city for one reason or another. After about 45 minutes of waiting, I didn’t see anyone coming and started to get a bit nervous. Maybe I should just pay the inflated price for my private taxi? I had all day and no time schedule, so I tried my best to be patient. A few more drivers came by and tried to convince me that I would have to wait a very long time and that it would be better to take a private taxi. I held firm and committed to the plan of the shared taxi. Eventually, another driver came up to me and directed me to follow him – I was hesitant at first, and tried to say no, but it became clear he was the collective driver. He walked me across the parking lot to his taxi that’s already filled with 5 people ready to go to Imlil. Very clever, these taxi drivers! Isolate the tourist and try to convince him that the collective taxi would never fill up! I understood their strategy immediately. It was a dishonest tactic, but I understand – they’re trying to make a living and it’s an easy trick to do. In the end, I got what I wanted and was proud of myself for sticking to the plan. The driver seemed like a friendly and jolly guy; I felt comfortable with him. I blamed the isolation more on the clipboard guy who was probably trying to make a few extra bucks by giving his buddy a tourist sucker. Anyway, I hopped into the packed taxi and settled in for the 90 minute drive to the mountains. It wasn’t exactly a social ride (no one spoke) – so I eventually put in my headphones and enjoyed the changing scenery.

• 

As we approached the edge of the town, we had to pass through a police checkpoint. A few weeks before I arrived in Morroco, two European backpackers were murdered in the mountains near Toubkal. It was a complete shock to the country (and world) and the assailants were promptly captured. They were deranged youths from the city who decided to go to the mountains to target tourists. The government reacted swiftly and installed multiple police checkpoints throughout the area of Imlil and the refuge near Toubkal. I would later have to pass three 3 passport checkpoints on the way to the refuge! While I understand the governments reaction, it seemed to me (and the locals that I talked to) excessive. However, the main point that people seem to miss is that the terrorist attack was not committed by people from that region; the Berber people I met were some of the nicest and most peaceful people I’ve encountered. I never felt unsafe or threatened on my trip.

Anyway, back to the story at hand. I arrived in Imlil expecting to see a town crawling with tourists, akin to the crowded village at the base of Machu Pichu. What I found was completely different. It was a tiny village with a single main road and a smattering of mountain supply shops, a handful of small markets and a few guesthouses. It was tiny, tranquil, peaceful and surrounded by beautiful mountains. I was dropped off at the base of the village and slowly walked to my gite (guesthouse) – a few vendors politely offered their wares and asked me if I needed anything, but it was 100 times calmer than the madness of Marrakech. It was a completely different world; the complete oppositie of the mania of the city.

I arrived at my guesthouse (a mini hike through a hillside was required to get there) and I was warmly greeted with some tea and cookies. After the tiny shared room of my hostel in Marrakech, I splurged a bit on a private room and was pleasantly surprised to see a giant bed, private balcony and plenty of space to organize my things. The best part, though, was the rooftop terrace. From the Gite’s elevated position, the views were incredible: 360 views of the surrounded mountains. The mountains were epic; looming beasts, capped with snow, majestically watching over the town. Like a madman, I quickly set up my cameras and started recording a time lapse and taking pictures. The sun was setting and the light was incredible. I instantly knew that this is where I needed to be, that it was absolutely the correct decision to come here.

The Toubkal Trek: Day 1

The following day, I woke up early to prepare for the Toubkal trek. I was unsure of what to bring; we were instructed to carry a day pack and a bigger pack which would be transported by donkeys and porters. I didn’t know if it was ok to bring a bunch of camera gear (including a tripod); I felt bad that someone else would have to lug it up. I didn’t want to be one of those lazy tourists who doesn’t lift a finger and pays someone else to do all the hard work. In the end, I decided that I should embrace being a tourist, that I’m paying for the trek and that taking photos is one of the things I love most in this world, I couldn’t go without my camera. The donkeys are strong animals anyway!

I excitedly arrived at the meeting point, anxious to see who my travel companions would be. I knew it was a group of 7-8 but had no idea who they would be. Turns out, it was a group of ladies from England who were all around my age. They had just flown in the previous night and were all very excited to get started. Some seemed super prepared with gear, while others seemed a bit more on the novice side. It took awhile to get everyone set up and the initial pace was rather slow. I told myself to be patient and suppressed judgemental thoughts; everyone has their own speed an level of ability – it’s not a race! It was a bit of a test; as people who know me are well aware, I like to go at my own pace and I can be fiercely independent – organized group travel and waiting for other people are not my strengths. I harnessed all of the zen power I could and tried to embrace the experience. The slower pace allowed me to take lots of cool pictures along the way and really enjoy the scenery.

The group was fun, friendly, and with positive vibes the whole time. The guides were incredible; Brahim and Abdul were class acts; explaining the plan, patiently answering questions, managing the difference in hiking abilities and making sure everyone was comfortable. It was a sunny day and the scenery was beautiful. We spend about 5-6 hours slowly making our way up the mountain to the Refugio, a giant structure with basic sleeping accommodations at the base of the mountain.

As the day wore on and the sun began to set, the freezing temperatures became noticeable. Also, the elevation increased and it was more difficult to breath. We were in the mountains! In the final 30 minutes of the ascent the light of the sun was epic; illuminating the mountain behind us and the clear sky and lights of Marrakech in the distance.

We finally arrived in the Refugio and it was packed with other trekkers doing the Toubkal summit. We stored our things in the dorm and went to the dining room to eat. We had to wait for a table to open up and in the meantime, we ate popcorn and drank tea while playing card games. The girls probably thought I was a crazy person because I couldn’t sit still, I was constantly going outside to take pictures of the epic mountain scenery from just outside the refugio. Even though it was early in the night, I could already see stars and was experimenting with different angles for doing a time-lapse of the stars. It was absolutely freezing outside, but I didn’t notice it because I was so excited.

After a delicious dinner, I went outside again to take pictures. One of the workers in the hostel saw me doing long exposures and I showed him the picture. He was amazed! He excitedly asked me if I could take a picture of him (mostly using hand signals as he only spoke French) and my immediate thought was that he didn’t understand anything about photography – this was a long exposure of the stars, I couldn’t take a picture of a person AND the stars. After considering it for a moment (I really wanted to take a picture of him, he seemed so excited about it) I realized that of course I could. I could do a long exposure of the stars and have him stand in the frame for a few seconds so that the image gets recorded in the photo; it’s a technique that I haven’t used for a long time but it can create a cool “ghosting” effect. After a few tries, I was blown away by the result; essentially a ghost-like, semi-transparent person floating in the stars with the mountains surrounding them! Like a giddy school-boy on Christmas day, I experimented with a bunch of photos of this style and loved the results. It never would have occcured to me to try it if this guy hadn’t asked me. And to think, I initially thought his idea was so naive!

Toubkal Trek: The Summit

We woke up at about 5AM and I barely slept. Partly from the excitement, partly from staying outside doing photography like a possessed maniac until the management closed the doors at around midnight.

We ate a hearty breakfast and my adrenaline was flowing after chugging down a diesel cup of instant-coffee.

Day bags packed. Crampons securely fastened to boots. Fully loaded with cold weather gear. Today would be the summit, the moment of truth.

We embarked on the journey at about 6AM and it was still ice-cold; absolutely freezing. My hands quickly became numb but the rest of my body felt warm and cozy. The pace was slow; we went single file, following the track and sticking together. It wasn’t technically challenging; simply one foot in front of the other, walking up a giant mountain in a zig-zag fashion. It felt like I was on a ski slope in Squaw Valley, walking up an icy run. It was a unique yet thrilling feeling.

Eventually, the group started to seperate, and the various guides split up to accompany the groups of different speed. A few girls dropped out because they didn’t feel well and in the end, I walked with a small group of 2 girls and our guide.

The sun came out and the light was indescribable. Majestic reds, bouncing off the tips of snowcapped mountains. Simply stunning. I had flashbacks to the epic sunrises of Burning Man, in the majestic Black Rock Desert surrounded by mountains.

We continued our trek into the morning and afternoon hours and eventually reached the pre-summit; a beautiful lookout over the crest of the mountains where you could see for what seemed like 100’s of miles. The view was stunning and indescribable. We were about 45 minutes from the summit and had to wait for the other group to arrive so that we could all go up together. I didn’t mind at all; by this time, the sun was bright and warmed our bones. The views were incredible. We had about 90 minutes to meditate on the scenery and be truly present for the experience. I much preferred this to taking a few hurried pictures and moving like a bat out of hell to conquer the mountain.

During this meditative hour, I reflected on the course of events in my life that led me to be there in that exact moment, in a snowy peak in AFRICA. There have been ups and downs, especially in relation to my physical health and mobility. Three years prior, I was recovering from a hip surgery that never left me the same. Since then, I’ve struggled with pain and inability to do certain activities. But with time, experience, trial and error, being more conscious of my body and learning how to manage it, things had drastically improved and I was now climbing a 4,000+ meter mountain with zero pain and a desire to keep climbing! I felt energised, strong, healthy and ALIVE!

The other theme of reflection was being present. On the trip, I decided to not drink alcohol as a way to be more present and fully immserse myself in the experience – the good and the bad. On vacations, it’s easy to fall into the “fuck it, I’m on vacation” mindset when it comes to boozing and overdo it. The resolution to abstain turned out to be super easy since Morroco is a predominantly Muslim country and alcohol is not readily available. After nearly a week in the country, I realized that Morroco itself is a highly potent drug and there’s no need to take anything else to elevate the experience! Being sober and 100% aware only amplifies the high of Morroco – the madness and chaos of the cities vs. the tranquility and sheer beauty of the mountains.

Eventually, the other group arrived and we slowly made our way to the top. Near the summit, we traversed the most dangerous portion of the trek. We had to carry our ice axes, which could possibly save our lives if we fell and slipped down the mountain (the idea is to pierce the ice with the axe as you’re falling in order to not continue to slide off the mountain to your imminent death – easier said than done). The dangerous section was essentially a narrow track with steep mountain on one side and a very steep drop on the other. Our brilliant and experienced guide, Brahim, sternely warned us “If you fall, you die.” He dug his axe and crampons in, near the ledge (as a safety procaution) and we carefully walked past the section. In reality, the probability of falling was low – you simply had to walk on a narrow trail (that was flat) and not trip and fall like a clumsy person. I won’t lie though, my heart was beating at an accelerated rate and my adrenaline was through the roof. We made it through without any problems and climbed the final stretch to reach the summit. It was a bit anti-climatic; the views were incredible and we took the obligatory summit selfies, but for me, it was more about the journey than anything else. We had about 15 minutes on the summit before we needed to embark on the return trip.

The walk down was less rewarding. At this point, I felt like I was snowboarding in Northstar but didn’t have my damn board! It took about 3 hours (half the time) to descend but I could have done it in about 15 minutes with my board. Oh well! I found out that people actually do trekking up snowy mountains, holding their snowboard and then board down the mountain. Me apunto! I want to do this. Sounds like an epic activity.

El Camino de los pueblos Bereberes: Day 1

We ended the Toubkal adventure in the trekking shop where we started; taking pictures together and thanking our lovely guides.  The girls were heading back to Marrakech and I hitched a ride in their tourist bus because I needed to go to the next town, 30 minutes away, to get some cash.  I was completely out and Imlil doesn’t have an ATM.

30 minutes later, I said the final goodbyes and hopped off the bus into the dusty transport hub down of Asni.  Brandishing my dirty mountain gear, I made my way to the ATM and reality smacked me in the face when I discovered that there was no money left in the machine.  It was the only one in town and the bank was closed (it was a Sunday). I was out of money, covered in filth from a 3-day spirtual journy into the mountains and starting to get hungry.  The glow of the mountains had officially evaporated and I was entering into the hangover phase of the trip.

As I stood there, despondent over the unfortunate turn of events, 3 tourists hopped out of a tourist van and came towards the ATM, presumably to pull out cash.  I told them the cash machine was completely empty and we started chatting. They could tell I had been in the mountains and excitedly asked about my adventures. I raved about how great the experience was and mentioned my current situation.  One of the guys promptly produced a 50 dollar bill and demanded that I take it. I explained that I have money in the bank but simply can’t access it (trying to communicate that I’m not a lazy hippie backpacker asking for a handout) but he didn’t take no for an answer and insisted that I take it.  I thanked him profusely and told him I’d pay it forward to the next stranded traveler in need. The guardian angels disappeared before I knew it, their tourist vehicle speeding off into the distance.

After eating some delicious street food, I grabbed a taxi all the way back to Imil and returned to my original guesthouse. I took one of the most satisfying showers of the trip, had a brief moment of relaxation/reflection and then started planning the next stage in the adventure.

I had been mentally formulating the post-Toubkal plan for several days. After the highly structured 3 days trekking up Toubkal, I was craving a bit of freeeflowing lone-wolf wandering.

The rough plan was to trek through the valley in the general area of Toubkal and Imilil.  There are dozens of small villages that are connected by footpaths. The possibilities for trekking are endless.  One can design their out route: trekking during the day and spending each night in a different village. Most villages have ‘gites’ or guest houses, and dinner/breakfast is included with the room.  I met a Greek backpacker who had done several day hikes and he gifted me a photocopied map from a German guidebook. Armed with my wrinkled map and a few routes downloaded from wikiloc (hiking application to follow routes) I was ready for an adventure!  

It was difficult to make the exact plan; the possibilities were infinite and it was challenging to plan all the details; there isn’t much information on the available gites in each village; they are often very rustic and not advertised..

I ran the rough plan by the hotel owner and Brahim, our trusted guide, and they all gave me the thumbs up.  The area is safe and the villages are relatively near each other. A guide isn’t required (although people usually do this with a guide, and I would later understand why). I still had doubts about the trip, but that was the thrill of the adventure!

Despite my enthusiasm and desire for adventure, I still had a bit of apprehension. Which villages would I visit? I had 50 USD but I needed to convert it to the local currency, how would I do that? The hotel bill was also looming… would they accept credit card? (I definitely didn’t have enough cash to cover the costs).

In the end (like it always has on this trip) – the worrying evaporated and the problems were resolved.  The Hotel agreed to take a credit card. With the help of the Toubkal guides, I found a local guy who agreed to exchange my USD to Dirhams. The morning of departure, I made a final decision on the first village, choosing Tacheddirt because it is one of the highest elevation villages and the views were sure to be incredible (closer to the stars, more open and sweeping views). The morning of the departure, I ate a big breakfast and took some snacks for the road.  I packed up my 65-liter backpacking bag with the essentials; sleeping bag, plenty of warm weather clothes, water and what seemed like 25 pounds of camera gear (tripod, lens, one body).  Only the essentials!

I ventured off at around 9AM and it was still freezing. The days were always sunny and the rays would promptly heat your body; but the nights and mornings were freezing (especially in the shade). On the way out of town, I ran into the chef from Toubkal trek!  He yelled at me from afar, and I initially thought he was an overzealous gite owner desperately trying to win the business of the wandering tourist.  Nope, just the friendly cook excitedly saying hello. I also ran into Abdul, the gentle second in command guide from the Toubkal Trek. I felt like I was part of a community; “I know people in this town!” I thought to myself.

[Note: The following entries in italics are from the a handwritten journal that I kept on the trip.]

The trail was easy to follow, especially with wikiloc and my crumpled, photo-copied map. I Passed through a riverside village and then started climbing through sun-blasted red rock terrain, speckled with Juniper trees.

Climbing, Climbing, Climbing.  

Activating glutes.  Power through. A machine. I crush hills.  Beast mode. My massive backpack with camera gear felt light as a feather; energized by spirit of adventure, sunlight and wild terrain.  

I decided to bring camera gear, making the conscious decision that I may be sacrificing some physical comfort and pushing the bounds of what my body could handle – for the sake of creating beautiful pictures of course.

I Reach the pass.  Epic view of river valley below.  

I meet a friendly Scottish-German family traveling through the valley with a guide.  Ego-points of self-satisfaction when the father reacts with both surprise and jealously when he finds out I’m doing the trek alone.

I continue the journey, descending into the valley below. Starting to get hungry, irritable and exhausted by sun.

Passed cute little girls asking for a dirham in French.  Feigned that I didn’t understand. A small preview for what was about to come …

After a much-needed snack, my batteries felt recharged and I ventured on, eventually arriving at the first village.  Very basic conditions. A bit shocking.  Litter scattered in street, chickens and livestock seemingly roaming free of boundaries within living quarters; people and animals flowing everywhere.  Ramshackle structures. Reminiscent of Quechua people in Peru. Rurual. Surviving off the land.

A friendly old lady directs me uphill to Tacheddirt.

I entered the heart of the village which consists of stone structures and a narrow passageway. I feel like I’m invading their space; the distinction between public and private space doesn’t seem to exist; everything is smashed together in tight living quarters. A pack of aggressive kids suddenly appear and they start following me.  At first, they’re endearing and cute, but they become mean and very persistent; asking for money and candy, trying to show me a gite or simply yelling “MONSIEUR!! MONSIEUR!!”. It quickly becomes an overwhelming experience. There was at least a dozen of them; ignoring any sense of privacy, manners or personal space. It was a bit shocking and disturbing.  The kids were rather dirty and desperate looking. One kid has some sort of voice disability and can only make grunts; he showed me his foot which had an open wound and appears to be infected. I wish I had more sympathy for them, but in that moment, I just wanted to get away from them so I could collect my thoughts and figure out what to do. The idea of staying in this village was not appealing. The vibes were strange; the crazed kids were the only people I saw and I there were no Gites or adults in site.

I continued on, with the intention of reaching the upper limits of the village.  Tenía muy buena pinta. It looked to be much more relaxed, perched above everything, away from the dirty kids, stray chickens and riff-raff of the dilapidated hamlet below.

I kept walking and as I reached the limits of the village, the kids reached a fever pitch, screaming at me to stay, that I was going the wrong way. I kept walking and as I passed what seemed like the border of the village, they all vanished. I suppose there is an unwritten rule that they aren’t allowed to pester tourists outside the limits of their village.

I reached a high-mountain road and circled back, finally encountering a Gite and coming across a van, an Argentinian hippie-looking dude and a group of kids scattered about.  These kids were more relaxed, happy and smiling.  I met Santiago and his compañera, Kat, who were traveling in a van all over the world. Everyone was in the midst of a jam session, complete with a Peruvian flute, banjo and improvised box drums. I stayed and took it all in for a while. Played some soccer with the kids, joined in on the music making, took in the sun, snapped some pics, felt the good vibes.  

I instantly know that I’ve found my gite for the night. After some super relaxing time in the sun, I inquired about the gite and negotiated the price down to 160 Dirham (higher than what I expected to pay, but I was ok with it). The gite is an absolute dream; incredible views into the valley, right next to a snow-capped mountain and a massive terrace, perfect for photography and time-lapse. Picturesque.

After leaving my things in the room, I relaxed on the couch in the light-filled living room, positioning myself for maximum sun absorption. So serene, relaxing and satisfying. Mint tea and journal by my side.  Resting after a long hike. Content.

The rest of the day was spent relaxing on the couch, taking photos/time-lapsing the incredible surroundings from the perfectly perched terrace and chatting with the handful of other travelers. There were 2 sisters from Casablanca, a mother/daughter from Qatar and a family from Oman. People were very friendly and most of them spoke very good English.

We all ate dinner together in the cozy dining room, a roaring fire was blazing to provide us with warmth and refuge from the freezing exterior. The typical dinner is made with a Tajine, a special plate with a cone-shaped top that is used for cooking. It usually has couscous, vegetables, meat (beef or chicken), sauce and spices. The tajine from this gite was one of the best I’ve had; perfectly seasoned food, juicy chicken, generous helpings. The traditional way to eat it is without a fork and knife, simply by breaking bread and scooping it into your mouth. So good.

It’s New Year’s Eve. The group ends up playing card games and chatting in Arabic and I’m splitting my time between the outside (to check on my time-lapse) and inside, trying to plot my route for the next day using my crumpled map and a much larger version that the gite has.

The clock strikes 11:30 and everyone heads to bed. No one really cares about New Years Eve! I mean, come on, at least wait until midnight and do the countdown! Oh well, this one will be a solo celebration for me.

DIY Trek: Day 2

The next day, I still have no clue what I will do.  There are various options: Stay one more night in the same gite and do some light day hikes…..venture off to next village in the valley….trek over the mountain pass to a more distant village. I was torn.

As with most decisions on this trip, it was en plan sobre la marcha.  I made it up as I went along. My body felt off, back unbalanced and painful. After a good night of sleep, however, combined with plenty of coffee and a hearty breakfast, I felt damn good and ready to continue the adventure.  The rough idea was to work my way back through the valley and stay at a village about 2 hours walking from my current location. A lighter day.

I told my plan to Abrahim, the gite owner, and he suggested that I cross the pass to Glitz, which was supposedly a very beautiful area and one of the highest altitude villages in the area. He said my original plan was too short and the views weren’t great. I checked my map to make sure I understood his proposal and it made sense to me; I was sold and decided to do it!

I descended into the valley, meandering through villages, feeling energetic and excited.  Despite the big breakfast, hunger quickly set in and my food rations were running low. The low blood sugar affected my navigational skills and I became slightly confused as to my exact location.  There were a string of 3 villages, but I couldn’t figure out where one began and the other ended. Were they all 1 village? Different ‘barrios’ perhaps? Signage was non-existent. A “Welcome to Glitz, population 46” sign would have come in handy.  

I attempted to consult my various tools to help with my navigational confusion.  That only made things worse; Google maps and my crumpled photocopied map didn’t even agree; nothing made sense.

I wasn’t lost, I just didn’t know which village I was in.  This information was important because I needed to take a hard right at a certain village (Amsakru) in order to transverse the mountain pass and arrive in my destination village of Glitz.  

I continued along the path, hoping to find some friendly villagers to solve my navigational crisis.  On the outskirts of the next hamlet, I encountered a particularly rough looking group of young boys, probably around 6-10 years old.  They were dirty, mean and aggressive. They hounded me from the moment they saw me; “monsieur, monsieur! Dirham! Where you going!  Give me money! CANDY! MONEY!” It was the worst possible moment to have to deal with them, I was hot, hungry, frustrated from being lost and not in the mood for their aggressive tactics.  I tried to ignore them and to continue walking but they were persistent. I put my head down, lifted up my buff to cover my mouth, lowered my cap and cranked up the gear to MARCH the hell out of there.  They continued to follow and pester me, ignoring them only seemed to empower them as I noticed devilish grins on their faces as they made jokes with each other. They were on my heels, surrounding me on all sides.   I tried a few times to stop, look at them and clearly and firmly communicate that they need to stop harassing me. That tactic also failed. Eventually, I made it past the town and they started to let up; giving me a bit of breathing room.  

I took this moment of respite to check my phone and according to Google I had already passed the village where I needed to make the right turn. “DAMMIT!” I cursed to myself. I was hungry, running low on food, mildly lost and now I needed to return back towards the pack of rabid, crazed children.  I recall how one of them kept looking at me with a menacing look and making the throat-slitting motion with his finger.  Jesus. I get it that you’re poor, but where are the adults to possibly tell you that tourists bring in money and you shouldn’t treat them like that?  This particular village really needed to work on their PR; defintely not helping their image (especially after 2 girls were murdered nearby).

I decided that I needed to enter the village, find some food and adult so I that I could properly prepare myself to get to my destination.  In my exasperated, low-blood-sugar, stressed state, I descended into the village and the kids were in a fever pitch, a frenzy; desperately screaming at me trying to direct me where to go.  They had won, captured the forlorn tourist and were attempting to direct me somewhere. I bowed my head, defeated as I walked through the village, trying not to let them see my face of despair.  I wandered through the village, trying to find an adult and attempting to ignore the children – I eventually find an old man in what appears to be a basic gite. I realize later on that I didn’t find the old man, the children led me to him, but I wasn’t aware of it at the time….

I tried to communicating with the old man that I want food.  He only speaks french (which I don’t speak). After some hand motions and communication attempts, we reach an understanding that I want to eat and he directed me inside, leaving the pack of children to circle the premises, snarling at me and yelling the occasional “monsieur!”.

I´m on edge.  I´m suspicious.  I don´t entirely trust this old man.  I´m starving. He leads me to a nice garden and has me sit down.  I sit and patiently wait for him to produce something edible. I have no idea what is going to happen or how much it will cost.  I try to reassure myself that this is an experience, that the people here are poor but humble and honest. The garden is quite peaceful and serves to lower my anxiety, but only slightly.  I watch the old man calmly set up a table, pull out herbs from his garden to make the tea and retreat into his house. He appears 10 minutes later with tea and a giant circular loaf of freshly baked bread- it has the form of a pizza, with no toppings, of course.  He sets up the table with the tea, the bread and a plate of olive oil. Everything is incredible – the tea is perfectly refreshing, the freshly baked bread combined with the best damn olive oil I have ever tasted causes my taste buds to jump for joy. I slowly return to being a human as I hungrily consume this simple yet incredible meal.  The man sits with me and has some tea as I gobble up the bread. Few words are spoken. I´m enjoying the experience and thrilled for the basic yet delicious fare. Eventually, it´s time for me to continue the journey and we reach the dreaded moment of trying to figure out how much he´s going to charge me. Conventional wisdom for travelers states that you should always figure out how much it costs before agreeing to something- whether it is a taxi ride, a meal or a scarf.  In my exasperated state, I didn´t bother to do this, but would later regret it. I try to give him 20 dirhams (which should be more than enough – it´s nearly 20% of the cost of a room for one night). He shakes his head and says something I don´t understand. I have him write down the price and I´m shocked to see 100. This fucking guy. Bread and olive oil- it was damn good, but that´s definitely a ridiculously inflated price. I paid 60 in Marrakech for a full meal at a touristy restaurant.  At this point, I´m not sure what to do. Do I barter with him? Pay him half and get the hell out of there? Does he think I´m stupid?!? How dare he take advantage of me!! What nerve! He is relaxed but the image of the demon child making the ´throat-slitting´gesture is seared in my mind.

In the end, I decided not to protest the price or even negotiate. I throw him a crumpled 10 euro note, pack up my gear and walk out of there. He and his wife seemed super happy. I smiled and went on my way. On the bright side, the food was incredible and I did feel recharged.  Also, in the grand scheme of things, the money is meaningless. However, the fact that he took advantage of a trusting tourist, a lost foreigner, really bothered me.  The dude has probably had a rough life, growing up in poverty. I left with a very negative feeling gnawing at my insides.  Oh well, I told myself, this is part of the adventure! The highs are higher and the lows are lower. This is why people sign up for tours- they don´t have to deal with this – but it´s also less thrilling and less rewarding.

I continue on my way, batteries recharged but trying to shake off the unsettling experience.  I did, however, complete my objectives- I resupplied with food and I verified that the following village is the one where I need to turn right..  I walk 200 meters and arrive at said village. Crap. A huge group of kids playing soccer. I´m jaded at this point and I plan on doing my best to ignore them and find a responsible adult.  As it turns out, those kids were much calmer – they gathered around me but lost interest when I didn’t engage them. The vibes at this village were better- people seemed relaxed and didn’t take too much interest in me.  No one harassed or pestered me about finding a gite for the night. I walked around the village and eventually found someone to ask for help in verifying the turn I needed to take. The friendly man described where I needed to go and when he saw that I was still a bit unsure, he accompanied me all the way to the trail and didn’t even demand any money.  My faith in humanity was restored!

I begin the climb over the 2,200 meter pass.  I´m energized. It´s an adventure. I´ve overcome challenges and moving on to the next battle.  

At this point, all I have is my crumpled map and the advice of a local man that didn´t even speak my language.  My phone is completely dead. The pass is gnarly, damn steep and rocky in certain parts. However, the trail is very clear and even marked with a pink dot every 20 meters to indicate the correct path.  Climbing, climbing, climbing. Legs are burning, I´m sucking in air, but I couldn´t be happier. Feeling alive! This is what it´s about. This is what I signed up for.

I continue the walk, meditatively focusing on every step.  I´m deliberate and careful – fully aware that I´m alone, I’m a bit tired and any error could result in a very dire situation.  The mountain is steep and the trail is very thin in parts.

I push onward.  I leave some rambling, slightly crazed audio messages to my friends and brothers, needing to vent about my recent village experiences.  The adrenaline is flowing. I´m living on the edge! Adventure! It´s a real life RPG, I´m experiencing my own Final Fantasy VII.

I eventually summit.  My legs are on fire. Low on food rations (again) and water. Phone is dead. I need to make a left at some point but signs are non-existent.  A real map would have come in handy at that moment.

It´s at this point where a bit of anxiety starts to creep in and I start to have paranoid thoughts.   Two tourists were murdered in the high mountains surrounding Toubkal a few weeks before I arrived – What if there actually is a ISIS cell in this area?  Everything that I’ve seen and heard up until that point indicated that it is an extremely safe area and the people who live in the area are very peaceful; that the terrorist perpetrators were indoctrinated in the city, they were deranged individuals that could have come from any big city.  Regardless, here I was, a foreign tourist, bumbling around the valley, slightly disoriented and lost. Yes, there were lots of police checkpoints around Imlil but the bad guys could trek in through any area in the surrounding mountains. What if there were ISIS sleeper cells in these villages!?!  I had visions of hijab-wearing terrorists popping up suddenly on the horizon, a fleet of horse-back riding warriors excitedly approaching their target.

Mild fear and anxiety swept through my body which was only intensified when I got lost the second time.  

I see villages in the valley beyond the pass.  I hear the call to prayer blasting; Glitz must be one of those villages…but which one?  And how the heck do I get down to it? There’s not much time, the sun is setting and my shadow length is lengthening.  Isis is close, I can feel it.

I spot what looks like a trail to my left but I’m not convinced.  I follow it for a bit but get cold feet and circle back to the main trail.  I see a lone shepard and yell the name of the village in the form of a question.  I don’t even know how to pronounce it and I hope he understands.

He points in the direction that confirmed my original instinct about where to go.  I follow the ‘trail’ – which is not much more than a vague inkling of a directional clearing.  The trail guides you. It goes to where people are. Go down. Follow it. The village is below, so going down is good.  You’re going the right way. Descend, Descend.

Glitz is a tiny village, perched on an extremely steep hillside – it takes on the appearance of a column as seen from afar.  I continue to descend, my body exhausted from the long day of trekking and mental adventures navigating throughout the journey.  Cross the river, enter the village at the base of the river. Points steeply upward. The gite must be at the top. Best place for views.  I arrive, exhausted. After a quick tour and price negotiation, I throw my bag down and rush to the terrace to enjoy the final rays of sunlight.  More bread, olive oil, crackers and tea. Incredible. Stunning views of the valley below (different valley) and the massive peaks in the distance.  I settle in and enjoy the views, reflecting on the adventurous day. I couldn’t believe it was only a day – I felt like I lived 5 lives in the 10 hours I was trekking.  

As I’m taking in the views, enjoying the simple yet delicious fare, I hear faint sounds of what sound like English being spoken!  Other tourists have arrived!

I meet Richard and Stef, 2 friends from England and Germany, respectively who were traveling through the valley with a guide.  It was refreshing to meet other English speaking tourists and we excitedly shared travel plans for Morroco and talked about other fun trips we had done.  They are both intrepid travelers and we all share a love for adventurous and active trips. It was positive vibes all around and I wish we were able to spend more time together.

That evening, we enjoyed one of the most spectacular sunsets I’ve ever seen.  The reds were unbelievably vibrant and the setting was indescribable.

The next day, we parted ways – I needed to get back to Imilil to continue my journey and they headed in the opposite direction, continuing their journey.

Along the walk, I reflected on all the adventures I’d had on the trip.  So many highs and lows!

As I walked, the positivity, endorphins and ideas were percolating.  Beautiful views, friendly villages, serene views, peaceful vibes. Red-rocky hills, lush terraced rice paddies, river flowing valleys.  After several hours of trekking and positive energy, melancholy and sadness started to creep in. I was sad to leave Richard and Stef and also realized that my adventure was coming to an end.  The loneliness of being on my own and the uncertainty of the Fez plan was setting in. Do I stay 2 more nights in Imilil and squeeze the final drops of enjoyment out of the magical mountains? Do I say goodbye early tomorrow and make the all-day trek to Fez (7 hour train ride)?  

When a hike comes to an end, depression often sets in.  Where do I go from here? I often think to myself. The hangover.  That’s why I love the idea of through hikes. You never leave, the hike is continuous.  No going back to the default world.

Fast forward to the next day.  The rest of the hike was uneventful – I made my way back to Imlil, said goodbye to the mountains, cleaned myself up and prepared for an early morning departure back to Marrakech in order to grab a train to Fez.  The first leg of the journey from Imlil to Ansi (bigger village and hub to get to Marrakech) was interesting – there were no taxis but there was a truck/van with about 15 people crammed in the back on a small bench.  They pulled over and I said “Ansi?” and they motioned me to hop in. I felt a bit strange being the only traveler, but they seemed like regular people, just going to town – I quickly felt at ease. The train from Marrakech to Fez was nice and relaxing. I did a lot of frenetic scribbling in my journal, recounting my thoughts, experiences and emotions of the trip up until that point. I love taking trains when I travel, it’s a great way to watch the countryside pass by, slow down a bit and reflect on the journey. Here is a particularly enthusiastic journal entry, recounting my experience in the mountain:

“Missing my flight in Barna, the face-slapping insanity of Marakech, the uncertainty of the mountain/desert plan, the mind-bending, jaw-dropping, indescribable acid trip of Toubkal!  The nutty English girls, crazy slow pace, class act guides Brahim and Abdul. The giddiness of shooting the stars in Toubkal, the fucking hangover of ending the hike and entering the darkness of night, the rip-offs, the nasty children, the depraved villages, the best fucking tajine I’ve had in my life, the crack cocaine that is Amlul, the Patrick by himself reading ‘how to not give a fuck’ while listening to morrocan’s play cards in Arabic on NYE, the nagging back pain, the calendar reminders of classes popping up on my phone giving me a vague but fleeing memory of my former life as an english teacher, the lucid realizations, epiphanies, resolutions, ideas, sparkles, plans , excitement, fueling surge of adrenaline propelling me through the heat in the form of this acid trip of a country….fractaling my thoughts into a frenetic explosion of a billion particles as my soul intertwines with millions of years of pressure, matter and force when I created the most perfect, psychadelic, emblamatic, long exposure, into the fucking wild, berber style, mountain man….the beard is thick, I don’t want to leave, I already want to come back….My hand hurts, my back hurts, my knuckles are bleeding, my pants are stained, my eyes are watering, my nose is stuffed, my backpack is dirt filled, bank account low, but I’m fucking LIVING Goddammit!  I’m not a zombie, I’m not on autopilot, I’ve lived 1,000 lives, 1,000 experiences, growing, melding, evolving, expanding, I’m fucking possessed, need to transcribe this, did I mention my hand hurts, the train is great, I’m ok, I’ve had so much coffee.”

Returning to the civilised world in Fez

After the largely solitary adventure through the mountain pueblos, I was exciting about returning to society and possibly meeting some other travlers in Fez. As it turned out, I did exactly that! On the first day, I woke up early and met a friendly German brother/sister who were planning to visit the famous tannery in Fez – I ended up joining them for that excursion and we explored the city all day. It was fun to have some travel companions and share the experience of being tourists. We got along well, sharing the same travel style of wanting to experience things through the eyes of a local and get a bit off the beaten path. We did a lot of wandering, went to some unknown, more local neighborhoods, met some friendly locals at a coffee shop and enjoyed a delicious mint tea in the sun, ate an amazing afternoon meal of tajine with an epic view of the city and ended the evening watching some live music on a rooftop restuarant enjoying an beautiful sunset.

The next day, I ended up repeating the experience of meeting new people early in the morning, becoming fast travel friends and exploring together. It was Germans again, 2 girls and a guy, and we started the day off with a fun walking tour – exploring some typical sites in Fez such as the famous mosques and seeing some typical markets. It was fun to get a bit of context and history about the city, and have someone else lead for a change. I’m typically not a fan of organized tours, but sometimes they’re fun and can be a nice change of pace. It’s less stressful and can provide a nice break from constantly having to be on high alert, trying not to get lost and deciding where to go / what to do next.

After the tour, we had some more delicious food and continued exploring on our own, enjoying the fabulous sunny weather and absorbing as much sunlight as possible (I don’t think I saw one cloud during the entire trip). We went to the local park and did a bit of sunbathing (although, curiously, it was prohibited to lay in the grass – there was a somewhat comical security guard that kept circling and blowing the whistle at tourists who were laying down). We then wandered through the Jewish quarter which has a unique architecture and a fun, bustling vibe. The next morning, we woke up early to see the sunrise over the city from a fantastic vantage point of ancient ruins on a hill overlooking the city. It was a perfect last day to the trip.

I really enjoyed the Fez experience; the city is stunning – very historical, amazing ancient architecture, authentic markets and wonderful food. Yes, there are many tourists, but it doesn’t feel over-the-top like Marakech. Marakech is at times a manufactured disneyland tourist votext. Fez felt much more authentic and REAL. There was more magic in the air. I enjoyed finding local coffee ships around the old town to enjoy a strong espresso and a delicious baked good. The sun was bright and powerful. The vendors were agressive and chatty but seemed to be a bit more good-natured and less sales-oriented than in Marakech. Overall, I was pleasantly surprised with Fez and would prefer to use it as a base for future Morroco travels.