Dearest gentle reader, as Lady Whistledown of Bridgerton would start. You may be wondering where 2.0 is. Don’t despair, it’s in the making. It’s about a trip that took more time to describe and process, and I haven’t made peace with it completely yet. It led me to this one, which by the end was far more fun and rewarding.
This third trip was planned and paid for. It was too late to cancel and get refunds, most of the money would go down the drain if I didn’t go. At the end of April, I found out about the girls Mohamed hadn’t managed to sleep with yet, but around mid-May, the worst of the worst was confirmed. Only four days before departure, I was advising one young woman from Italy not to go there to sleep with him again…
For the first time in my life, I was not looking forward to my travels. That is so unlike me. Everyone who knows me knows how much I truly love to travel, discovering new places, taking photos and silly videos. The joy I had felt making these plans, thinking I would spend my 40th birthday with the man I loved and that we could make up for lost time, together with his two buddies, the pleasure I took in finding accommodation and checking the best routes – all of it gone. The realisation that one year of my life has been a complete lie, that he’s been doing this all the time, the physical and mental strain of an accidental pregnancy and miscarriage before finding out everything, the “what ifs” that followed, the nightmares, the discomfort of potentially bumping into him in Marrakech while he’s grooming new victims, combined with the stressful period at my work that I suddenly felt I was neglecting by going on vacation – it was hell. Everything happened so quickly and it was like trying to process a lifetime in a second. In a way, I wasn’t really ready. Or at least it felt like that. I was reluctant to go, almost paranoid at moments.
In the end you have to make the leap even when you don’t feel 100% sure.
I managed to pull myself together and face my fears. I have amazing people around me who have supported me through all of this and lifted me up, and for what it’s worth, I’ve learned one or two lessons.
I went and truly made the best out of this absurd situation, creating totally amazing new memories for myself, releasing as much as possible of the heavy burden of his betrayal and pouring all the love into myself. The loss is his entirely. So is the shame. I am light as a feather.
And in these two weeks, I did more than I could imagine, I had a total blast, and I was welcomed, upgraded and protected in the most fantastic ways everywhere I went.
I landed in Marrakech late at night, but had a smooth process through airport security and passport control, so I was at my usual home base in the souks pretty soon. The lovely Fatima made me breakfast in the morning, I had my little walk in the area to take out some cash and breathe in the warm air, and around lunchtime I was at the meeting spot for my transfer to Imlil.
Trekking in the High Atlas Mountains
During my last trip, the guide who took me from Marrakech to Merzouga told me that he’d give me contact details to someone for doing a trek in the High Atlas Mountains and also getting to the top of Mount Toubkal. Before I found out everything about Mohamed, I had no reason to doubt this person, who was also an acquaintance of his. I might have misjudged this character too, I wouldn’t be surprised now. First he said he’d give me those contact details before dropping me off in Merzouga; that didn’t happen. I asked again while I was there and I got nothing. I asked one last time when I was back in Stockholm, two months ahead of the coming trip. Still no answer. He totally ghosted me on Whatsapp and had even unfollowed me on Instagram. I found that incredibly strange. He left me on read. I mean, if you want people to recommend your business and keep coming back to your services, why do that? There was the occasional watching a status update on Whatsapp, but no message or reply whatsoever. “Curioser and curioser!”, cried Alice…
As I wasn’t getting any info on anyone reliable for a trek, I looked it up myself and made my own choice. Note to self: always do that. The only mistake in my booking was that I chose to do this in two days, instead of allowing myself more time to acclimate. I was still making the trip to be with my partner, so I wanted more days with him, I thought, why spend so much time on the mountain… Lesson learned. I booked through Viator and got a super responsive operator, who took good care of me throughout the whole experience. I could arrange an earlier transfer to Imlil, as well as making the trek a private one. I’m not an experienced hiker in any way, I’m in better shape now than I was last year in Samos, but I’m still a slow walker and I don’t want to be stressed by sporty groups or ruin their experience either, for that matter. I want to go at my own pace, to stop when I need it and to enjoy more than just trotting on rocky terrain.
Said and done. Mid-day transfer from Marrakech to Imlil, together with a lovely Spanish couple who ended up helping me a lot some days later. The taxi took us through the southern outskirts of the city, past busy streets, and clusters of new development, before joining the road toward the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains.
For the first part of the journey, the landscape mostly consists of olive groves, small farms, and many scattered villages spread across a wide plain. As the drive continues, the peaks of the High Atlas become the dominant feature on the horizon. The road passes through some market towns and roadside cafés where locals gather in the shade, while donkeys and motorbikes share the landscape. Depending on the season, the hillsides may appear dry and ochre-colored or green from winter and spring rains. This year, Morocco has experienced heavy rains and although that has had devastating consequences for some areas, it’s also contributed a lot to agriculture and the growth of things – it was green and lush.
After passing through the town of Asni, the journey begins to feel distinctly mountainous. The road narrows a bit and starts climbing into a valley carved by streams descending from the Atlas. Moroccans also see speed limit signs as more of a suggestion, so a ride in the mountains can raise your pulse a tad.
Terraced fields appear on the slopes, along with walnut trees and traditional Berber houses built from earth-toned stone and clay. The scenery becomes more dramatic, with steep mountainsides above the road and villages in unlikely locations. I always find it fascinating to see some of these more remote places, how people have chosen to continue to live here, how they’ve built their homes and their lives.
The final stretch follows the valley toward Imlil, one of the main gateways to the High Atlas. The atmosphere is different from the bustle of Marrakech. The air is cooler and fresher, and the sounds of traffic give way to flowing water and birds.
Roughly one and a half hour after leaving the city, the taxi dropped me off at Atlas Prestige, the hotel I had booked for one night. I really can’t recommend it enough, it was the perfect choice. It’s set against a backdrop of steep mountain slopes, everyone is very welcoming, the rooms are cozy, the food is delicious and the views are worth every penny. Arriving in the afternoon left me time to settle in, enjoy the panoramic views from the terrace, take a walk down to the village and do some shopping. I still wasn’t feeling one hundred percent good about this trip, there was this heavy load on my shoulder while in Marrakech, but as I got to my room in Imlil and saw the total upgrade that life offered me, it felt lighter, more fun, easier to handle and I could finally start to enjoy my travels again.
Imlil is a mountain village that serves as a hub for the High Atlas trekking region. Although it is best known as that, it’s more than just a trailhead. It’s pretty sweet and cozy. The village consists of a cluster of traditional Berber settlements spread along the valley sides, connected by narrow lanes and footpaths. It retains a rural character, although you will meet lots of people from other countries, either getting ready for a trek or returning from one. Chickens and mule poo are included in the experience, you just have to accept that. This is not really a place for fancy dress, in fact, you can be trekking-ugly here and it’s totally okay. Sweatpants ftw!
In the center of Imlil, there are small cafés, mosques, family-run restaurants, guesthouses, mountain lodges, and a handful of shops selling snacks, drinks, trekking supplies, and local handicrafts. Naturally, my number one quest for the day was to find a tacky Imlil magnet for my collection. Check! There are also guide offices where hikers arrange mountain excursions, questionable ATMs, and muleteers who transport luggage and supplies into the surrounding valleys. The village has this gentle buzz of activity, with trekkers arriving from Marrakech and locals going about their daily routines, but not too hectic; nature provides a needed quiet escape.
A stream runs through the valley, crossed by small bridges. There are lots of walnut, cherry, and apple trees and short walks from the center lead to neighbouring hamlets, with views of terraced fields and earthen houses.
I had a late lunch in the village, took some photos and enjoyed the peaceful afternoon to the sound of the stream. I climbed back up to the hotel for a hot evening shower and dinner, as well as preparing my backpack for the trek.
That was my last day in my thirties and I felt a little nostalgic. I was alone and although I rarely have any issues with that, a bit of sadness crept up on me as well. I had to assume responsibility for giving my ex a chance and staying too long in a relationship that wasn’t good. I had made the choice to book a trip there again, to be with him, although he had shown me many times before that I should be more cautious. I hadn’t listened to the voice of reason, I had forgiven way too many things and there I was, heartbroken, dumped without even having that conversation, repeatedly cheated on and far away from my friends on my 40th birthday. It gets to you, no matter how strong you are, no matter how beautiful the mountain views are. I had done something similar for my 30th birthday, when I went to Istanbul to spend time with my then partner and he turned out to be a huge disappointment as well (you know, the dude who decided to get engaged to someone else while we were still together). So I had to make a promise to myself that I wouldn’t allow something like this to happen again, that I would do my best to break my own negative patterns. I had a little moment, when I cried about the things that had happened in the last year and I got emotional at the hospitality of the hotel staff, who went out of their way to make my stay pleasant. Even the group of ladies who were there on a yoga retreat were super supportive, and one of them had had a similar experience with a Moroccan man. Life…
Nature is a healing force to be reckoned with. In the presence of rocky giants, insignificant men from the desert become even more insignificant. Green and blue are calming colors, the sound of a stream can help you focus on the moment and the coziness of the place can give you something soft to land on, both literally and metaphorically.
On top of that, a good aspect about crying is that it helps release a lot of things; and when you’re also perimenopausal, there comes a point where you just have to go to sleep after a good bawl. Like, ok, my energy level for this is -48 right now, buh-bye. So I slept well that night, in a very comfortable bed, with the quiet of Imlil surrounding me and helping me refocus on myself, bit by bit.
Come morning. In my stress and lack of focus and motivation before the trip, I managed to not pack my winter jacket, which I would need for the trek. I can’t tell you the amount of shame I felt when I discovered that, right after confidently confirming to my guide that I had everything I could possibly need. Facepalm. I had placed it right next to the luggage before leaving home, but didn’t take it because it was hot outside and my brain totally forgot I wasn’t just going to palm trees and sunshine but also to the High Atlas Mountains… So I asked my guide if we could first go to a little shop in the village to buy one. Not only was he super understanding and patient, he had a jacket for me to borrow, so I didn’t have to buy anything on the road.
So before I go on, I simply have to give all the cred in the world to Ahmed, my guide, who really made the whole experience great for me and who supported me with so much kindness and patience throughout the entire trek. When altitude sickness beat the shit out of me, I couldn’t have had better company and help. Insert 100% heart emoji!
We met at my hotel sometime between 9 and 9:30, the staff were sweet enough to let me store my luggage there for one night, and then we set off on the trail towards Toubkal. I was already terriffied, because a mountain is a mountain regardless of how easy the road is or how well prepared you are. Toubkal stands at 4167 metres, and my worst day in the Himalayas happened at around 4000 metres. I was taking my medication for altitude, Diamox, and I was in better shape now, but there’s still a lot to consider when you get on a path you’ve never walked before.
One significant difference between Toubkal and the Himalayas is that Toubkal is much more straightforward – it’s pretty much a constant incline so you can see you’re going upwards all the time. Another difference is that the beginning of the EBC trek offers a few bits of pavement and there are villages with bigger guesthouses along the whole route. Morocco is something different – the trail is mostly just rocky, there are a few kiosks but no places to actually spend the night in a warm room with a bed. So if you want to split a trek into more days, you’ll have to either use a tent or make do with some mattresses in a couple of tiny shops. That’s where people stop to refill their water bottles, buy some snacks, use a rudimentary toilet and maybe even have a simple lunch. The smallest shops don’t have that, at best you’ll get a plastic chair to rest on for a bit. The ones that offer that usually have like one larger room with some benches and tables, some mattresses and pillows.
The trek itself is absolutely doable in two or three days, I mean it’s very challenging, but really not impossible. Lots of people do it and you don’t need mountaineering experience for it. Even I, the narcoleptic snail, would have managed, slowly slowly. The trouble is that if you’re not used to higher altitudes, chances are pretty high that you’ll get sick. I’ve never experienced altitude sickness before, and I was hoping I’d do fine here too. I was relying on having survived 5200 metres in the Himalayas, but it’s silly to not consider that it was done in many more days, at a different pace, with lots of time and exercises for acclimatisation. Here, on the way to Toubkal, I had zero trouble up to 3000 metres, other than normal fatigue from walking uphill. I should have considered that doing this in such a short time meant a serious ascent on the first day, the whole 1400 metres, which is quite a lot for a body to put up with. Normal for people in the mountains. Not so normal for those of us who live at sea level.
Imlil is situated at 1800 metres, and from there, we walked all the way to the Toubkal Refuge at 3200 on day one. For people with long legs and in better shape, this doesn’t take a whole day. If you start in Imlil in the morning, you’re usually at the refuge in the early afternoon. For this little mountain goat, it took around 10 hours, including a longer lunch stop, lots of breaks to take photos and catch my breath. Ahmed carried my backback, which helped me a lot. We followed the trail, which is not difficult to do as there are lots of groups and mules doing the same thing until around 5 pm. It’s like a nine-to-five job, there’s lots of traffic first and eventually it gets quiet when everyone has reached the refuge.
Right outside Imlil, there is a lovely waterfall with icy cold water. We then continued to the village of Armed (also spelled Aroumd, Aremd, Around, Arempt, because why not) and crossed the river valley before officially entering Toubkal National Park. There’s a checkpoint where you show your passport (it’s good that they know you’re there, in case you do stupid shit in the mountains or, like me, get sick), inevitably use the loo (because you know it’s one of the few with good plumbing indoors before reaching the refuge), and then stop for an idiot pose at the sign (because it’s important to point out the bleedin’ obvious that you’re on a trek towards Toubkal). Did I do it? Hell yeah. And proud of it! For the record, I can actually read the Tifinagh alphabet as well. 1000% hubris.
Not gonna lie, there’s scree of all sorts and sizes, from tiny pebbles that annoy you on the river bank to large boulders that make your life a living hell above the refuge. And it’s always like that, when you trek a specific route for the first time, you don’t know what’s coming, you don’t know where to put your foot first and you’re both trying to manage a proper walk and document with photos and videos at the same time. And at some point, your neck starts to hurt as well because you’re both looking down at the road and up at the breathtaking mountains ahead of you.
Around lunchtime, we reached Sidi Chamharouch. This is a mythical shrine and pilgrimage site, famous as the home of the “Jinn”. It sits at an altitude of about 2350 metres. Pilgrims travel here seeking cures for mental illness, rheumatism and spiritual possession, among others, believing the spirit can drive out evil forces. The shrine is built beneath a massive natural boulder painted in white. Only Muslims are permitted to enter the inner tomb, but non-Muslims can explore the surrounding settlement together with the beautiful waterfall next to the shrine.
Lunch was like a three course meal, and already I was full. I could have totally napped afterwards, I wasn’t very fond of the steep steps taking us straight up from there and back on the path. But the landscape was absolutely beautiful and although it was a strenuous walk, I really enjoyed it.
The last little shop is at 3000 metres and that’s when I got sick, out of the blue. With only a little left to the refuge, I was generally tired but had no other alarming symptoms. We stopped for a break, I played with the kittens on the sofa outside in the sun and had a chat with a lady who wasn’t feeling very well. I felt sorry for her, because it’s not pleasant to have a headache, get dizzy and want to throw up. I was totally peachy, didn’t even consider it would hit me too. I was breathing normally, my head was fine.
I went to the toilet and I remember being more bothered by the foul smell than I usually am. I’ve done plenty of countryside loos, nature loos, hole-in-the-ground loos and whatnot. But this one made me hold my breath more and felt more difficult to handle, smell-wise. As soon as I got back to the lady and kittens, I felt how a lot of phlegm moved from like my nose to my throat and it gave me a gag reflex. I tried to spit it out, but I felt more and more like throwing up, it was stuck in my throat and suddenly I had all this acid coming up. Ahmed helped me get to a terrace next to the shop, I threw up over the wall. Felt amazing immediately; stomach was one million times lighter and I never imagined it would come back or get worse. I thought it was a one-time thing and everything was good for a couple of hours more.
As we approached the refuge, the first snow appeared. That’s when I started to feel more uneasy, my stomach was definitely not liking this and I felt like everything I ate was just piling up all the way to my throat again. I didn’t throw up in the snow, but there was this awkward feeling and of course it created a bit of anxiety. Finally at the refuge, closer to 7 pm, Ahmed got me settled in my tent and I was having the usual tea and chatting with a German trekker. It’s actually nicer to have your own tent outside, as there are very few private spaces inside, it’s mostly dorms with tens of people. The Spanish couple from my transfer had already arrived, coincidentally having Ahmed’s brothers as guide. At the refuge, people have dinner, you can buy snacks, wash yourself and just hang out with everyone else.
But before our lovely cook could even make my dinner, I felt I had to throw up again. So I schlepped myself up the steps and found a remote spot behind the building. I gave the mules a little performance. They were unbothered. Ungrateful audience… The only thing that came out of me was liquid, so the food stayed and kept building this unprocessed pile that was starting to bug me. Stupidly, I didn’t bring enough stomach medication, so in terms of electrolytes, rehydration, acid reflux and all that crap, I was screwed. I did drink properly and I so wanted to eat my whole dinner, which was delicious and literally made for me. But I couldn’t eat everything, as my stomach was obviously not taking care of business properly. I felt so full and annoyed. But this is what happens at high altitude, the body focuses on the brain, heart and lungs, and pretty much slows down everything else. So digestion is absolutely not a priority, which is why it’s important to not stuff yourself with heavy foods. My breakfast was hearty, lunch was a lot, I had a ton of freshly squeezed orange juice on the road. I should have kept it a little lighter, apart from taking more days to acclimate.
I hoped I would sleep well, that’s important before the ascent. We’d have an early call next morning, to catch the sunrise higher up, and I thought I’d be able to get a minimum of six hours. But the acid reflux had other plans and I really struggled. I also got sunburn during the day and had that horrible feeling that’s almost like a fever. Lots of people in the tents were out and about during the night, making a lot of noise and flashing their lights, which made it even more difficult to sleep.
At around 11 pm, I sat up and felt a little hungry, which is very encouraging. If you’re hungry at high altitudes, you’re not doing so poorly. But it was very clear that my body was struggling. When you take Diamox, it has a very distinct way of showing you it works at altitude – you get a tingling sensation in your hands, feet and sometimes even face. That went on for a long time after I took my evening dose, so obviously the altitude was no friend of mine. I can’t imagine how I’d have felt if it hadn’t been for the pills, probably much, much worse. I felt good about not having a headache or feeling completely out of breath and dizzy, but I still checked my lips throughout the night, to make sure I’m not turning blue or anything. It was scary to be sick up there, so I think the thoughts and feelings also contributed to an almost sleepless night.
I managed to sleep about three hours before turning the alarm off and reporting for duty. Breakfast was also made for me, but I couldn’t stuff my face with everything then either. I was tired and scared. I went to the toilet but my stomach was not cooperating yet. I was really torn between giving it a go and just going back to the tent to rest. I didn’t want to throw my money away and not make it to the summit, but I didn’t want to get really sick either and put both of us in a difficult situation.
Ahmed was super encouraging, patient and helpful. Heck, he tied the laces on my boots and put the crampons on my feet, I barely had to move an inch. Despite not being 100% okay, I didn’t feel like total misery yet. So we decided we’d give it a go and see how far we could come.
The trail from the refuge to the summit is horrible. Seriously. Horrible. It’s much steeper, it’s made out of rocks that move all the time and there was snow, which apparently was pretty unusual for that period. So crampons were absolutely needed, but they’re not easy to manage on the rocks. We started when it was pitch dark, made my friend Bosse proud for using the headlamp.
And guess what, THAT’s when my insides decided it was time to get moving again. Oh the glamour. I mean, seriously. Of all places and times, you’re gonna go loose on me at the most inappropriate, not to mention at a temperature not made for flashing any privates in the wind just like that… I would feel ashamed, but at that point, nature could not possibly humiliate me any more, been there, done that. Nothing to do but to ask for a break and find a rock big enough. Twice during that climb, because one time is apparently not enough for my insides. Toilet paper is important. Felt good afterwards, but that was just an illusion. There came a point when I looked at the climb ahead, to the pass, before the final push, and I really felt like my body was working against me. We didn’t have that far left to go, so I felt bad for potentially giving up. I knew that Ahmed was perfectly capable of carrying me down quickly if anything happened, but I really didn’t want to put him through that, it just didn’t feel right. And while I was fighting an inner battle on whether to go on or not, I felt I had to throw up again. That’s when we both knew that continuing was not a good idea. When your body struggles to retain liquid like that, you just have to go down as quickly as possible and rest.
I only had 500 altitude metres left to the summit, I had made it to 3600, but going on would have put me in more serious danger and I decided I wasn’t gonna die that day. Mild altitude sickness can resolve on its own within a few days. But it can also rapidly progress into two life-threatening conditions that require immediate emergency evacuation and medical attention: High-Altitude Pulmonary Edema and High-Altitude Cerebral Edema. That’s fluid building up where it’s not supposed to build up, and you really don’t want that. After all, I was on Toubkal. I had made it this far even after getting sick and it’s not like the mountain was going anywhere. I could always come back. If I hadn’t had plans of traveling to Casablanca the following day, we could have stayed at the refuge and tried again later. It was also freezing; even I, coming from Sweden, didn’t enjoy the cold wind anymore and I was wondering if my toes were turning blue. So it was definitely time to descend and put health and safety first.
I felt the difference straight away, when we went down. The whole body felt lighter and back at the refuge I was like a new person for a little while. So the plan was for me to rest a little in the tent, catch up with my sleep and then walk all the way back to Imlil.
But after a couple of hours in the tent, trying to sleep, the symptoms got worse again and it was clear that we had to pack up quickly and get moving. And by “we” I mean the guys, since I didn’t have to lift one finger other than getting my backpack ready. Forever grateful. I threw up one more time before leaving and then had some gag reflex downhill as well. By that time, I was starting to feel really dehydrated and was cursing the moment I decided not to pack enough medication for that. I was cursing in Romanian in my head, so it was bloody serious. The refuge didn’t sell anything like that and I was lucky that the Spanish couple had some which they shared with me before leaving. The guy had made it to the summit, while his girlfriend was forced to turn back just like me, as she had asthma and couldn’t breathe properly on her way up. I am so thankful for their help, as soon as I started drinking my new salty mix of electrolytes, I felt better.
The way back is really not that difficult, but when you’re sick and haven’t slept properly it’s almost as big a challenge as it is uphill. After all, out of a total of about 30 km, I did 25, and after a bit of barfing at high altitude, you’re more of a vegetable than usual. Honestly, without Ahmed’s help, I would have stopped somewhere and let the birds eat me.
We made a stop at the scene of the crime, 3000, for some rest. Soon, however, everything was tingling and I didn’t feel good, so off we went again. Pretty much a race downhill, with Ahmed holding me properly and me cursing my ex and my stupid decision to only do this in two days. We arrived in Armed after nightfall, and I’ve never in my life hated a river valley as much as I hated that one, because it felt like it was never ending, even with the bridge and car in sight. You know when you see the thing in the distance, but the distance is actually greater than what you think. It’s technically flat, but there are so many stones that you have to step on, that it feels anything but flat. Ahmed arranged for the taxi to pick us up there instead of Imlil, so it would be easier for me and because it was so late already. There are very few times in my life when I’ve felt this tired and dehydrated, but I am forever in debt for the help and support, and also proud of myself for not giving up completely.
We picked up my luggage at the hotel in Imlil, I did a few quick errands in the village before saying goodbye to the mountains and heading back to Marrakech. I had talked about getting a Toubkal magnet for my tacky fridge collection, but I didn’t get to buy one on the way down, given my general condition of overcooked vegetable. As I was putting my backpack in the taxi, Ahmed slipped a magnet in the top pocket for me. That was the sweetest thing ever, I’ll never forget that. You know, people that are nice to you not only when everything is great, but also when you struggle, people who don’t judge you or kick you when you’re already down, but help you up and encourage you. That’s what makes the experience totally worth it and I can’t wait to go back and do the trek properly!
I dozed off for a few minutes in the taxi, on the winding road through the valleys before reaching the city again. I remember the driver telling me things, but there was no way in hell that my brain could register his words. The drop-off is next to Jemaa el-Fnaa, and cars are usually not allowed further in the square. My hotel is not far, but with luggage and the way I was feeling, I really wasn’t looking forward to schlepping myself all the way. I was now carrying a whole bar of bottles for hydration, I literally didn’t have more space for them anywhere or energy to hold them in my arms.
One elderly gentleman, with one of those carts that they use for deliveries, offered me help. First I was reluctant, because I thought maybe he’s gonna try to rip me off, but pretty soon it was obvious that this was a person just trying to make a living. He politely, almost apologetically, asked for some dirhams. He had a handicap and my luggage was pretty heavy, so he did struggle. Without a word of complaint. His clothes were dirty and torn, his sandals barely functional. He asked curiously about where I’d been and how I was finding his country. He spoke French. The irony was that on his cart “Moha Berber” was written. Like my ex. Only that this time, I gave someone the money they really needed and he didn’t hurt me in any way. He did me a huge favour instead, and treated me with the utmost respect. When we arrived at the hotel, he even helped me bring the luggage inside over the steps. I gave him more money and he got teary eyed and kissed my hands for it. Cue in tears for me too, because I was reminded of how privileged I am compared to so many other people, and that if you show kindness, kindness will be shown to you too, in one way or another.
I honestly don’t know with what strength I managed to repack my bags and take a shower, it was already very late at night and my train in the morning was at 8:30. Stomach still not back on track, electrolytes as midnight snack. Hah! It even rhymes! But when my head touched the pillow, BOOM! Slept like a rock, would not be able to wake up during the night if my life depended on it.
Casablanca
One thing I did a lot during this trip was to travel by train. The Moroccan railway system works totally fine and they’ve updated the ONCF app. It’s been super easy to book, reschedule and be updated on my departures. The prices are decent and the trains are generally reliable, even though the older commuter-style ones sometimes get very crowded, hot, and delays happen.
A trip from Marrakech to Casablanca takes about three hours. First class comparments are not as fancy as the Al Boraq train, but they’re still very comfortable. Vendors usually show up with a cart of food and drinks on the train, so if you haven’t bought anything at the station, you can always get a snack on the road. The journey takes you through the smaller towns of Benguerir, Settat, Berrechid and possibly Bouskoura, before stopping at Casablanca’s three stations.
I hopped in a cab straight away and got to my lovely AirBnB. Not only was the host very welcoming and supportive of my whole situation, the place was huge and so comfortable. Bedrooms, baths, a fully functional kitchen, an enormous living room and, the best part, a balcony with views stretching across the city. Around the corner in the neighbourhood there were lots of restaurants and cafés, and from the balcony I could see fancy villas with large gardens. I didn’t take proper photos, these are from my wobbly videos.
Casablanca is Morocco’s largest city and economic center, and you can really tell. It sits on the Atlantic coast about 90 km southwest of the capital Rabat. Unlike the romantic atmosphere of the classic film, the real Casablanca is more of a modern metropolis where a business district, residential neighbourhoods and historic areas blend together.
The city’s most famous landmark is the Hassan II Mosque, one of the largest mosques in the world. It’s built partly over the ocean, and features a very tall minaret, one of the few mosques (if not the only one) in Morocco that offers guided tours for non-Muslim visitors. Nearby, the Corniche waterfront is lined with beaches, cafés, restaurants, and ocean views. It’s full of life, a place where you will see father and son enjoying a moment by the ocean, dudes playing chess, couples posing with a sunset backdrop, children learning to ride a bike, families catching up on the latest neighbourhood gossip and tourists trying to figure out rental bikes.
Casablanca also has a noticeable architectural mix. French colonial-era buildings, Art Deco façades, and contemporary developments can all be found within a short distance of each other. Areas such as the city center and the Habous Quarter provide a look at the city’s history, while newer districts showcase Morocco’s ongoing urban growth. Some super expensive hotels rise from the avenues and right around the corner from my AirBnB there was a boutique selling haute couture.
Casablanca works well as a one- or two-day stop rather than a destination packed with traditional sightseeing. But like any city, it’s got lots more to offer than what you see on the surface. It’s got good transport connections, a diverse food scene, and a more everyday atmosphere than many of the country’s tourism-focused cities.
I was knackered when the taxi dropped me off at the place, and starving. I found a cafe very close by, treated myself to the first real meal of the day and literally landed face-down on the pillows for a couple of hours before heading out to explore the city.
I had a good walk from the apartment to the ocean promenade. It was a very warm afternoon and I finally started to get a little vacation feeling. Tall palm trees, flowers, people having a coffee outside – even with Casablanca’s more local atmosphere rather than overload of historical sites – it all felt pretty inviting.
The city has a medina too, which the map sent me to, although instead of suggesting a more touristy pedestrian street, it decided I should end up in the dodgiest alleys around after sunset. Definitely more run down, dirtier, and I was really the only foreign woman walking there for a good while. But that’s also an interesting way to experience the real fabric of a place. If you only stick to the touristy bits, you’ll definitely miss out on hidden gems and real life. It was much more fun to navigate a maze of butchers’, barbershops and cheap watermelons than flock with other Europeans for the overpriced souvenirs on the other side of the medina. I think the hidden gem on this particular street was the sheep barn, where I was asked to maybe purchase a sheep, lady? Good price for pretty lady. Tempting. Tricky at airport security. Had to politely decline. Baaaah!
After sunset, I was really hungry, so it was time to find a nice place for dinner. Coincidentally, I was pretty close to a restaurant which had been recommended on TripAdvisor, so I decided to give it a go. It’s called La Sqala and it’s tucked behind the walls of a historic fortification on the edge of the medina. The bastion dating from the 17th–18th century has been restored and turned into a beautiful garden with palms, orange trees, fountains and mosaics. It did not disappoint.
I ate way too much, way too heavy and way too spicy for my poor stomach, but it was so worth it. I was also determined to find electrolytes, but after three Casablanca pharmacies without any luck, I was beginning to think I’d never find them.
The rest of the evening was spent walking around town, enjoying a cool breeze, finding a cheap magnet and ending up at a public concert that sported a ginormous photo of the king. When I felt I’d done enough walking in the city, I got a taxi back to my place, prepared my luggage for the next day and enjoyed a hot bath and a quiet night of proper rest.
Rabat
I’d have a very early call for the train to Rabat, but since my host was very accommodating, I decided I had no reason to leave so early, so I rebooked my train ticket to a later departure. Mind you, this was done at no extra cost, which is one of the reasons why I love the ONCF and their app. So I got to sleep in late and have a relaxed morning on my way to the station.
From Casablanca, it’s a relatively short ride to Rabat. The landscape changes a little, compared to the trip from Marrakech, as this is more along the coastline. I got there around midday and to my pleasant surprise, the station was just a short walk from my AirBnB. The unpleasant surprise was that the Rabat train station was undergoing thorough renovation and there was no escalator that worked. The line to the elevator was never-ending, so I took the stairs. Lost one life there, I think.
The walk was short, but sweaty. Rabat is on the Atlantic coast, but make no mistake, the pavement can melt in summer. The lovely ladies cleaning the apartment hadn’t finished yet, but I could leave my bags, get the key and head out to find a bit of lunch and do a little sightseeing. Next pleasant surprise was to discover that the place was literally across the street from the medina, super close to the tram and bus stops. So in terms of getting around in Rabat, I wouldn’t have any trouble at all, so convenient.
The city sits at the mouth of the Bou Regreg River. Compared with Casablanca, it absolutely feels calmer, more relaxed, much cleaner, with broad avenues, green spaces, and a manageable city center. It serves as the country’s political and administrative hub, but has a laid-back atmosphere that I really liked.
The city’s main attractions include Kasbah of the Oudayas, a historic fortress overlooking the ocean, and Hassan Tower, the unfinished minaret of a 12th-century mosque. Rabat’s medina is smaller and less hectic than those in other Moroccan cities, which makes it easier to explore during a short stay. The waterfront and nearby beaches also add to the city’s appeal. A weekend in Rabat is quite pleasant actually and I very much enjoyed the city.
From my research, I understand that it can sometimes be overlooked by tourists, or that people only spend a very short time here. I was there during a weekend and I mostly saw and heard Moroccans. As it was hot, the beaches across the bridge over to the town of Salé were more crowded. But this is a city that offers a nice mix of history, culture, and everyday Moroccan life. It works well as a one- or two-day destination, but I would absolutely come back and go deeper than the surface. It provides a quieter contrast to Morocco’s busier cities. Unless, of course, you join the screaming workshop with the lead singer of a metal band at a club nearby… I think Rabat can be full of surprises.
This apartment wasn’t fancy in terms of decor. In fact, it felt like I’d not only traveled in space, but also in time. The bathrooms where a hoot! But it was also a spacious place, super clean, with everything working perfectly and balconies with great views. It was quiet and felt safe at all times. I shared the elevator with some neighbours a few times, everyone was very chatty and welcoming.
I took a little nap, oh the luxury of choosing among many bedrooms, everything all to myself! For dinner, I was craving seafood, so I looked up a place and took an evening walk through the city to reach it. I was not disappointed, the food was great and right in the neighbourhood I found a Carrefour that had electrolyte drinks for hydration. Hallelujah! I bought as many as I could fit in my bag. The cashier looked at me as if I was from another planet, so I had to say the word “dehydration” and giggle nervously, total Hide the Pain Harold moment.
My plan for the next day was to hop on the tram early in the morning and get to the Hassan Tower, then make my way back to the Kasbah of the Oudayas, walk it properly, touch the water, do some shopping in the medina and keep walking in the sunshine until I couldn’t walk anymore. You know me. That’s what I do. Said and done.
Rabat truly is walkable and whenever you feel like you need a break, you can stop for a freshly squeezed fruit smoothie, hop on the tram (7 dirhams for one ticket, easy to get through the app or at the kiosks on the platforms, open until 10 in the evening) or just find a café for brunch. If you’re clever, you stray a little from the medina alley where all the influencer-posing tourists are and you find a cheaper fan at a more local store. It’s 1000% necessary in the scorching sun.
And speaking about scorching sun, Rabat is where I paid the ultimate price for not wearing sunscreen in the mountains. My lips were completely burned by sun and wind and so cracked that they were bleeding. I couldn’t smile properly so I felt like a rude celebrity who’d just injected something in her lips and wouldn’t smile at people, although that’s the only thing I wanted to do, smile at the hospitality and fun characters I met everywhere. Luckily for me, although they’re not high on electrolytes, Moroccan pharmacies have other things that are super efficient, like healing lip balm and proper sunscreen.
A day in Rabat really is lovely, even when it’s 5730231986 degrees in the shade. Children were playing soccer and jumping in the water right outside the Kasbah, the ocean felt refreshing, the orange smoothies were delicious.
At the Oudayas Museum, I was given a painfully long photoshoot by one gentleman of the staff. He was incredibly pleased with using the room’s symmetry and placing me in various poses to go with it. Me, a dehydrated shadow of my former self, with no make-up or will to pose, full of pms and still not having reached a ceasefire with my stomach… His pièce de résistance was a photo which his colleague was asked to take on his phone, of the two of us sitting together on a marble and mosaic bench, like a couple who had just announced their engagement. I was far more comfortable barfing in the Atlas Mountains than I was taking this particular photo, and I absolutely do not wish to know what he’d do with it. Or what his wife would think of it. The exit couldn’t be near enough…
But the Andalusian gardens were a welcome oasis, with white butterflies swarming around me, sweetly scented roses and a fantastic exhibit of Berber dress and accessories. I don’t necessarily believe in all sorts of fairytales, but I know that in many cultures and spiritual traditions, white butterflies symbolise inner peace, new beginnings and protection from departed loved ones. I had that in so many places during this trip, from the Imlil valley butterflies to the inner city butterflies. I don’t know what happens after this life, but at least for comfort I’d like to think that my mom and grandma were with me on this journey.
In the evening, I went looking for a local joint that people were raving about online. Easy to find in the medina, but inconspicuous. Nothing fancy, just normal people making normal food. This is the best harira I’ve had in Morocco, no cap. Not only did it come with an imaginary choir of angels singing, it only cost 9 dirhams. It was part of a menu together with a steak, fries, rice, roasted veggies, a ton of bread, water and a soft drink for a total of only 105 dirhams. Here, have my money! I could have lived the rest of my life eating their harira. If I’m ever back in Rabat, I have no reason to eat anything else. Restaurant de la Libération – go there, like NOW!
I was full but I have to admit that street food in Morocco is very tempting. The Rabat medina also had a lot of that and I wish I’d have tried more things from vendors and small food places, or at least bought stuff to enjoy later on the road. It’s generally cheap (one bottle of water costs only 5–6 dirhams) and tasty (sweets, bread, grilled meats, even oysters and clams). And although my stomach was maybe not entirely ready for all that fresh fruit, I did overdose on smoothies in the street, because, hey, vitamins! Thank you and good night, Rabat!
Tanger
A city that sits at the northern tip of Morocco, where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea. The location just across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain means that Tanger has been an important port and cultural crossroads for centuries. The city combines historic neighbourhoods with modern development, and has quite a strong international influence.
It’s attracted artists, writers, and expatriates, contributing to its reputation as one of Morocco’s more cosmopolitan cities. For many, it’s convenient, I get it. It’s apparently a popular place for retirement. So far, it’s cheaper than Europe, but pretty close to it culturally, in terms of cuisine, urban development and so on. It offers a mix of European and North African influences, so it’s a pretty good choice for those interested in history, coastal scenery, and the cultural connections between Africa and Europe. The Kasbah is like a white version of Chefchaouen, but the modern neighbourhoods could be anywhere from Málaga in Spain to Miami in the US.
One of the highlights is the old medina, with narrow streets, white-washed houses, markets, and cafés. You can also head to the Kasbah Museum for views over the harbor and a look at the city’s history. The waterfront promenade and marina have been redeveloped in recent years, giving Tanger a more modern feel.
While on the platform in Rabat, it was announced that the train to Kenitra would be delayed, which put me in a sticky spot because I would then miss the connection from Kenitra to Tanger. While trying to find another option on the ONCF app, another local train towards Kenitra arrived and I was allowed to get on it. Crammed in the corridor, with others in the same situation and fellow foreigners who were struggling with the map, the delay then was only 20 minutes, which left me a whole nine minutes to get off in Kenitra and make it in time to the luxurious connection with the Al Boraq to Tanger. It was sweaty and stressful, but I made it. I’d also been at the train station in Tanger before, so I knew how to get out and grab a cab and off I went towards the old town and a gem of an AirBnB house that I got all to myself.
The cab dropped me off right at the Bab Kasbah, where the lovely concierge of the home came to meet me. He carried my bags uphill and all the way to the house, which was an absolute jewel in the heart of the medina maze. A four-story traditional house, with a rooftop terrace, flowers, fully functional kitchen and space for me to lounge on a ton of beds and sofas as I pleased. This is a moment I will remember for the rest of my life, when it truly hit me how fortunate I was after everything with Mohamed, what an absolute idiot he’s been and what an amazing experience him and his friends missed out on. That feeling grew on me since the view from my room in Imlil and then entering the apartment in Casablanca, all the space in Rabat and finally, here in Tanger, I felt really good. I also remembered, when I met him, I had mentioned where I’d be traveling after the night in the desert; I would end up at the train station in Tanger on my way from Chefchaouen back to Marrakech, and he laughed at my pronunciation of Tanger. He corrected me in a mean way and I should have known then and there that the mask of a kind person was just that, a mask. Before that, I thought he seemed like such a sweet young man. The last time he ever wrote to me, he lied saying he was no longer working in the same desert camp, yet videos of him playing there continue to pop up to this day. So while his life remained as he deserves, miserable, I was having a blast and continued to be upgraded by whatever higher powers there are.
Good workout going from the front door all the way up to my chosen bedroom and the terrace. But so worth it, my shower had a sky window. After freshening up, I continued my quest for electrolytes. Tanger did not disappoint, right outside the Kasbah, past the sheep oblivious to its own coming sacrifice for Eid Al-Adha, one tiny, tiny pharmacy, with a gentleman who knew exactly what I needed. Victory!
I wanted to try out food at the Marina so I walked all the way there only to discover that restaurants would open much later. Determined to save money by not grabbing a taxi whenever I felt the slightest bit tired, I walked all the way back up to my area and gifted myself a couple of blisters from a pair of sparkly sandals I hadn’t worn in a long time and that were absolutely not meant for the streets and uphills of Tanger. To feel better, I treated myself to a delicious lunch and, guess what, more walking. Tanger is so lovely and I only explored a little part of it. There is much to see and do next time. For example, there is a Hop On/Hop Off bus that does two different routes, allowing you to better explore the whole city and taking you to more remote sites such as Villa Harris, The Donabo Gardens, Cap Spartel and the Grotto of Hercules, which from what I can see online are definitely worth a future visit.
I spent my afternoon mostly around the area of the Place du 9 Avril 1947, also known as the Grand Socco. The square is named after the date when Mohammed V delivered a landmark speech in Tanger, when he called for Morocco’s independence and national unity while the country was under French and Spanish colonial rule. The square is full of colourful taxis, buses, and pedestrians moving through one of the busiest intersections. It has a large central fountain surrounded by palm trees, gardens, and shaded benches. There is also the distinctive white façade of the historic Cinema Rif overlooking the square, and busy cafés with outdoor seating invite you to watch the constant flow of people and activity in the square.
The contrast to that: the quiet streets with white houses in the Kasbah followed by sunset on my own terrace, which really offered the perfect ending to the hot afternoon.
In the evening, I stumbled upon a fabulous restaurant just a couple of minutes from my house. I had already eaten so I just had some drinks, but I ended up going there the following night too and having a proper dinner. Absolutely lovely, worth every penny. Great views, cool atmosphere.
As Tanger is on the Mediterranean coast, I could not miss a few hours at the beach. First I thought I’d just relax on the city beach, but as my taxi driver, the sweet mister Hassan, picked me up in the morning, I decided to go a bit farther and asked him to take me to Playa Blanca, just outside the city. We arrived around 9 in the morning and I asked him to give me a couple of hours before picking me up again.
There was nobody else there. As he drove away, I was met by a pack of dogs barking and running towards me. I love dogs more than anything, but I have to admit at first I was a little scared. Hassan was gone, and there was not another human in sight. The beach bars were closed, there were no chairs, the houses looked almost abandoned and eleven doggos were heading towards me. Well, I’ve had a good run, this is maybe where I die, I thought to myself. But the pack were super friendly, the barking was the welcome and pretty soon tails were wagging, tummies were up for scratches and my beach towel was a bit crowded. These dogs stayed with me the whole time, almost building a protective ring around me.
The first person to show up was a dude who was going to do some diving and as the dogs went towards him too, he was obviously scared. He picked up a stick and was about to hit them when I pointed out that they pose no threat and called them back to me. Apparently I was now the leader of the pack, they all came back immediately and we continued our morning of snoozing on the sand and cooling ourselves in the sea.
The Strait of Gibraltar was refreshing and the doggos fluffy. I love sunshine. I love the beach. This was an absolutely perfect morning.
Mister Hassan was punctual and took me back to the city, where I had lunch and continued to explore. As per my usual strategy of not visiting everything at once, to have an excuse for a future trip, I didn’t stray too far from the medina. I will give the modern part of town a better look some other time, as it’s definitely worth coming back to in the summer. TripAdvisor shows me cafés with deliciously looking cakes, I’ve already pinned like three pharmacies on the avenues and lots of shops caught my eye, but with Eid Al-Adha coming up, many businesses were taking some days off.
I spent the quiet evening in the maze of streets in my own neighbourhood. There were very few people around. Most families were preparing and celebrating, and tourist season hadn’t really begun. I made a reservation at the lovely restaurant I’d discovered the night before. A table with beautiful views, super tasty local wine and a dinner to die for.
I fell in love with Tanger a little bit. I think mostly because of the fantastic house I stayed in, but there was also this breezy atmosphere of a Mediterranean city, the welcoming attitude of everyone I met and the feeling of summer really finding its way under my skin. The virgin mojitos, the fluffy beach dogs and the blue skies over the whitewashed neighbourhoods. My bleeding lips were healing, the electrolytes were doing the job, I was starting to look slightly Mediterranean myself. Not too shabby, thank you, Tanger!
Back to Marrakech…
…and back on my Moroccan transportation of choice, the train, a pretty smooth ride from Tanger.
My last days were spent with a slower pace in a very hot Marrakech. Arriving during Eid Al-Adha gave me an opportunity to experience a completely different side of the city. Total silence for one day, almost no one in the streets. And then it came alive again in the evening and following days.
I’ve done pretty much all there is to do in Marrakech sightseeing-wise, so this time it was mostly about shopping, strolling in the sun and enjoying good food and drinks. From a quiet breakfast on my own rooftop, to cocktails at lunchtime because why not, to an overload of street smoothies and cheap ice cream. Marrakech never lets you down, with all the options, and if your day doesn’t include 259024762 stops for tea, you’re not doing it right.
I discovered a hamam that I really enjoyed and hope to visit again. A good massage and body scrub in the hot rooms, very nice little pool with hot water and a delicious rooftop lunch.
It’s pretty easy to forget that you have to get back to work when vacation is over. I can definitely see myself traveling for a living and I sure as hell wouldn’t mind some big fat inheritance to help with that dream. Easier said than done, and don’t get me wrong, I love my home and my job. I have a better life situation than so many people in this world. But the more of the world I actually get to see and experience, the less I feel that I belong in just one place, tied down to a desk. At least for my retirement, I would love to have a home somewhere else and be able to roam more freely around the globe. It costs money, but it’s been one of the best things in my life.
When I arrived in Marrakech at the beginning of this trip, I was tense and sad. By the end of it, I felt really at home again and didn’t want to leave. It’s the beautiful sunsets and the madness of the square. It’s the dirt, the call to prayer that echoes across the horizon, the hidden gems and tourist traps. It’s the traffic jams of mules and motorcycles in the maze, the rooftops terraces, the street food, the cats, the tackiness of soccer t-shirts and Coco Chamelle (which I too proudly possess nowadays). It’s the performers that will try to squeeze money out of you and the shops and restaurants where you’ll be offered extra stuff on the house. Marrakech can be deafening but also quiet, as I got to experience on this trip. I’ve become comfortable with bargaining in the souks, I pour my mint tea from a decent height, I can survive on harira and msemen. Next time, I think I’ll even take the bus around town.
I leave you with the following: a photo that I like to describe as “Sister, sister and no douchebag mister”, of myself and the lovely Fatima, who just like me continues her own journey through the early stages of perimenopause, and another photo of a delicious drink at a fantastic restaurant (complete with magician, troubadour, Gnawa group and DJ) I discovered right around a corner from the square. Cheers!
Can’t wait to be back!
CRISTINA ON THE ROAD 