A Moroccan Diary

Last January, I was living and working remotely in Sierra Nevada, Spain, for a month. I’d had Morocco in mind for a while, and it was just a ferry away from there. I decided to give it a go. With little time between the last day of my work and the ferry departure (four hours, exactly), I hadn’t made any specific plans for my trip. I knew I wanted to see the mountains and possibly meet some friends at the finish of the 2024 Atlas Mountain Race, which was happening a week later. The north part of Morocco, where I would start, was too far from the Atlas Mountain Race’s finish line to reach it purely by bike, so I decided to improvise and work things out along the way. Below, I share some vignettes from my 15-day journey.

DAY 1

The ferry from Motril, in Spain’s far south, takes me to Melilla, an autonomous Spanish city on the North African coast. It has a modernist look, well-kept streets, and a massive barb-wired border fence surrounding it. There, I go through control points and have my bags searched. I’m as wished a good journey as I finally set foot on Moroccan land. Unusually strong winds and a lingering storm greet me and seal my decision to take a train to Fez, which departs in the next half an hour. 

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The train station office firmly tells me that I can’t take my bike onboard. After some negotiation, they say it’s okay if I take off a wheel. The train is delayed, and no one knows when it will depart, so I sit on a curb and wait patiently for about an hour. Five minutes before departure, the same officer comes up to me and says that I must take off the other wheel, too. My bike is wrapped in big trash bags, and I destroy everything in a rush to take off the other wheel, still not understanding where this requirement suddenly came from.

The officer instructs some man to carry my bike to the train (assuming I won’t be able to do it on my own), and before I manage to oppose, the man picks up my bike and hits the metal pole with derailleur hanger as he rushes toward the train door. The sound of it resonates in my head for the full five-hour train journey, leaving me to wonder whether the hanger was bent or not. I observe people on the train and watch the wind blow from behind the windows. It pretty much flattens the palm trees to the ground, and the sandstorm dancings between buildings. It’s somehow a good introduction to Morocco.

Drizzle falls from the sky as I get off the train, and I’m surprisingly relaxed despite the uncomfortable ride. Fez feels way more relaxed than the provinces I just crossed by train. And it’is hard to believe, but the bike is fine.

DAY 2

60 kilometres / 795 metres

I spend the morning in the Medina of Fez. Come afternoon, I decide to cycle out of the city. It takes me longer than expected. It’s getting dark when I stop by a roadside kiosk in a small town. The owner speaks little Spanish, as he spent a couple of years working in Mallorca. Lahcen invites me to stay with his family for the night if I’d prefer not to cycle at night. I accept.

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It is quite dark and damp inside their house, with concrete floors and walls covered with a thin layer of paint. The living room has an old sofa, table and, surprisingly, a flat-screen TV. In the corner of the same room is a drain in the floor. The kitchen has running water but no sink. They pour some water into a bucket so I can wash my face and hands by the living room drain. Two daughters, “around 14,” as the father describes their age, take me for a walk in their garden.

Lahcen makes around seven euros a day in his little kiosk, and that income needs to feed his five-person family. We eat a pile of couscous with vegetables for dinner, sitting around a huge plate. It has one chicken drumstick for the five of us, which I’m encouraged to eat as a guest. I don’t want to take it. Lahcen says he has never seen a woman alone on a bike in their village. I also learn that his wife and children have never been outside the village. Lahcen said that it would be pointless to spend his whole daily wage for the taxi (as they didn’t own a car) to get to the city.

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“And then what? We wouldn’t have money to buy anything there, anyway. Plus, I would need to close my kiosk for the whole day. What would we eat the next day?” he says. We watch TV together, and I sleep next to the parents and the youngest son on the blankets in the living room. Before leaving the next morning, I’m told, “We are family now. Come back one day with a car so my family can see Morocco too!” That sentence hits me deeply, and I suddenly feel guilty for having the privilege to travel to a different country merely for fun. I give Lahcen the equivalent of two nights in a hotel. I wish to go back to Morocco one day and take Lahcen and his family on a trip to show them what I was lucky enough to see during my stay.

DAY 3

76 kilometres / 1,210 metres

The landscapes grow greener and more hilly. I reach Ifrane, a town referred to as “the Switzerland of Morocco,” complete with colonial architecture, alpine ski lifts running in the winter, restaurants, and a hotel named “Chamonix.” Built in the 1920s, it was intended to serve as a summer resort for French administrators from the Moroccan summer heat. There’s a convertible parked nearby. A guy in sunglasses and a girl in a mini-skirt get out of the car and head into one of the bars. I spot an inflatable snowman with balloons and music playing from speakers outside the building. I realise there’s a royal palace across the road, which explains why everything in this town looks so well looked after. What a bizarre contrast to the first two days.

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I continue my way on a side road toward Azrou. Three monkeys cross my path. They’re Barbary macaques, native to the Atlas Mountains. I hang around for a good hour observing them and sharing some fruit. I reach Azrou and stop in a cafe on the main square—the perfect spot for observing street life. I order tea and take a seat. 

A little girl sitting with her parents at the neighbouring table keeps smiling at me and eventually comes over, pulls up a chair, puts her glass of milk with a straw next to my tea, and makes a gesture inviting me to play with her toys. I find out later that the parents paid for my tea. “Marhaba. Welcome to Morocco!” they say. 

DAY 4

94 kilometres / 1,950 metres

I find myself on a high red and yellow plateau, cycle through amazingly friendly villages, and pass a few roadside coffee shops. I stop for lunch by the chicken shop in a small village. The two brothers running it speak quite good English. We chat, and they tell me I’m really lucky to be able to cross borders so easily and that every person in the village would love to be in Spain right now. This theme is constant throughout my travel, Spain being an idyllic place in the eyes of many Moroccans—a gateway to a better life. One of them invites me to stay at their house, quickly adding that I would share a room with his mum. I politely say thanks and keep pedalling for a couple of hours until sunset.

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DAY 5

135 kilometres / 2,196 metres

I have lunch by a high lake, then cycle up a 2,900-metre pass to enjoy a long gravel descent. From this day, I distinctly remember the silence, the light, and the fact I met barely any people. I stop for the night in a small village’s community centre. The guy who runs it is my age and speaks great English. He makes me tea and eggs. He was born in the same village and studied in Agadir. He felt in love there, but the girl left him, then he got expelled, fell into depression, and came back to his town for a new start.

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He tells what I’ve already heard before: I should appreciate how lucky I am to easily cross borders. At one point, he says, “It costs 10,000 euros for someone to smuggle you to Spain. I will never make that money, but even if I magically did, you never know if you make it alive. I would risk my life if I had this sum, though. My life here will never change. It will look like it looks now for the rest of my life. I’m making just enough money to live day by day, so I will never be able to make it any better.”

DAY 6

101 kilometres / 1,057 metres

The day’s highlight is an iconic descent through Gorges du Dades. In the evening, I end up in antoher village. As I think about where to stay for the night, a man passing by asks if I want to meet his family and stay with them. I accept the invitation and spend an evening with his mother and his bother’s wife and kids. Their house is really big relative to what I’ve seen before. His brother works in the US and sends money back home while he takes care of the family and builds a second house with his hands, brick by brick.

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He asks if I want to have a shower and proudly shows me that they have a boiler and hot water. However, the boiler system isn’t plugged into the shower, so I’m instead handed a bathroom bowl with hot water to use under the shower. The man asks if I want to wash my clothes and starts pulling a washing machine carefully wrapped in cardboard out of the storage room. I tell him I only have shorts and T-shirts to wash and can do it by hand. The woman of the house asks if I know how to hand wash properly, and after assuring her that I do, I’m carefully watched, which gives me the impression I’m doing it completely wrong.

I think it’s probably true, at least compared to the experience of these women, and I find it funny. We call Europe’s countries “developed,” but we are lost when there is a bucket of water instead of toilet paper in the toilet or when it comes to gracefully eating dinner with your hands. And that’s what we do soon after. A big pile of couscous with chicken and vegetables lands on the small table we all sit around on the floor, and we eat with our hands. No one speaks while eating, and the food is gone quickly. A while later, the kids’ mum cuts some fruit for dessert, followed by tea and watching TV together. I wish to have had time with the women to get to know them more deeply, but there’s a language barrier. I’m given a room and sleep in my sleeping bag on the carpet.

DAY 7

64 kilometres / 1,093 metres

I realise I’ve crossed the Atlas Mountains from the north to the south. In front of me are the Anti-Atlas, drawing their shape—lower but no less spectacular as there are endless layers of mountains on the horizon. I climb a gravel pass and spend some time in the cafe on top. Descending to the southern side, I find suddenly find myself in a far drier and hotter climate. I make a plan to see my friend Kanza in Marrakesh in the evening, assuming I can make the bus there. It goes from a nearby town, but I know I won’t catch it cycling. There are around 50 kilometres of long and flat roads with a strong headwind ahead of me and not so long until the bus departs. It’s the last day I can catch Kanza, as she’s flying back to France the following morning. I decide to try my luck finding a taxi in the town centre to get me to the bus station. 

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The taxi driver is friendly and assures me there’s no problem. He can take me to the bus station. We attach my bike to the top of the taxi with the ropes, and I sit down inside. I eagerly ask when we’re going to depart and the driver answers, “When the taxi is full.” But… my bus departs in an hour! He just shrugs his shoulders and continues smoking a cigarette. Then he walks around shouting, “Ourzazate, Ourzazate!” which is the name of my destination. No one else gets in.

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I want to make it in time for the bus, so I offer to pay more if no one else comes on board. The driver nods but continues calling people for a good 20 minutes until, finally, two more join, and we depart. On the way, he suddenly stops and gets out of the car to pick up a package from someone who seems to be waiting for him by the roadside. A while later, we’re stuck in the traffic of a shepherd and his goats crossing the road. Someone gets out, someone gets in, and we end up being five people in the taxi.

The driver drops me off at the bus station five min before the bus is scheduled to depart. He asks for the higher amount I said I’d pay if no one else came on the board, and when I raise my eyebrows in question, he says, “You paid for the whole taxi so other people could ride for free.” It cost just 12 euros, so I’m ultimately happy I can do a little something for the other riders.

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The bus takes me to Marrakesh, where I’m reunited with Kanza. Her whole family is there to see her for dinner before she leaves for France, and I feel honoured to be able to participate (and slightly intimidated about possibly disrupting the party). I have some of the most amazing food I tried in the whole country. Thank you, Kanza!

DAYS 8 to 10

I spend these days in Essaouira with Adelaide, cheering on familiar faces and catching up with friends. We wait to meet Sophie at the finish line. She arrives there around four in the morning, smiling and crying at the same time. It is great to be there at that moment for her. We pretty much hang around and eat at the local markets for the next couple of days. The flavour of freshly grilled sardines will always stick with me.

DAY 11

99 kilometres / 1,989 metres

Watching people finish an ultra-cycling race makes Adelaide and me eager to hit the road. We take a bus to Taroudant to get closer to the High Atlas and then cycle through small roads toward the beginning of Tizi’ n Test Pass. We meet a guy around our age grazing camels and stand with him for a bit, watching the baby camel struggle to stand on its feet properly. The man tells us the camel’s mum didn’t have enough milk, and the baby camel most probably won’t survive.

I take out a bag of dates and treat him to a few. He thanks me and grabs the whole bag. I feel ashamed to explain that I only offered a few. It happened on another few occasions. Maybe it doesn’t make sense in Morocco that someone offers something but then puts a limit on it and takes the rest back. Or maybe I tend overthink details like this, but a hungry cyclist needs her calories to make it through long days on the bike. 

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We climb nearly empty roads, passing tents covered in plastic foil inhabited by locals who lost their houses in the earthquake in September 2023. More than 2,100 people lost their lives in the quake. People smile and wave at us. The sunset light brings its magic, lighting up the road in soft colours as we climb the last few turns. We find shelter for the night at the auberge atop the pass.

DAY 12

91 kilometres / 1,488 metres

Starting the day with a long descent lets us fully immerse ourselves in the views. The morning is quiet. It’s just us on the road. We see snowy peaks on the horizon and are immediately compelled to head in their direction. Tiny houses at the bottom of the valley contrast with huge mountains beyond, intensifying the feeling of vast space all around.

We stop a few times to interact with people, drink tea in a small kiosk, and have another dose of omelets. We pass post-earthquake tents for most of the day. They were supposed to be temporary solutions, but people who live in them explain that rebuilding their houses will take at least a generation. We ended up in a small village surrounded by dramatic peaks for the night, the call to prayer echoing off the rocks.

DAY 13

53 kilometres / 1,796 metres

This day is marked by learning to expect the unexpected. We cross a mountain on a gravel road and go to Imlil, the starting point for hikes to the highest mountain of Morocco, Toubkal, which stands at 4,167 metres. The town is dense with outdoorsy tourists and second-hand stores selling everything from sleeping bags and jackets to bike parts. It’s still early in the day when we decided to press on further.

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A steep climb leads us out of Imlil toward Tizi’n Tamatert Pass and the stunning valley behind it. The road climbs as it traverses the valley with a dramatic canyon below. The skies are blue, and their contrast with intense green and snowy peaks leaves us quietly absorbing the stunning beauty all around. We watch women go home with stock from a day of grazing, kids playing football in the streets, and clothes drying out on the warm rocks.

Some kids run behind us, wanting a high-five. Others try to put a stick in Adelaide’s wheels while she rides to get some pocket money for sweets. The sun is getting low as we pass a family guesthouse. The owner calls us to stay with them. We first want to keep going further but eventually agree on staying there, which turns out to be the best decision we could make.

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We’re offered tea and homemade biscuits on the rooftop terrace as we watch the sun disappear behind the mountain and the sky turn pink and violet. The women of the house ask us what we want to eat for dinner and tell us to take a shower in the meantime. While waiting for dinner, we entertain the little boy who came to us smiling shyly and then slowly unfolded his character and energy. He takes off his socks and makes a little ball out of them, asking us to join in kicking it around the room. I notice that I’ve seen barely any toys around kids in Morocco. They usually play with what’s around or with each other.

The family serves us a massive portion of couscous with vegetables, which was impossible to finish between the two of us. After food and compulsory sugary tea (we’re not too shy to sweeten it even further by this point), the woman of the house follows us to our room and starts a fire for us, as it’s only a few degrees outside. We feel touched and somehow empowered in that moment, as it’s not too common for women to make fire for women. 

DAY 14

74 kilometres / 1,561 metres

We start the day quite early with a descent followed by a steep climb. It begins with asphalt and turns into gravel as it takes us to Oukameiden, a skiing town located at 2,600 metres. We stop on the way up to have lunch, listen to the silence, and take a last look at the High Atlas, as we know we’ll descend towards Marrakesh from there. Oukameiden looks like a ghost town, consisting of a ski resort with no snow, two rather empty restaurants, and few local sellers hoping to at least sell tea and souvenirs to stray tourists that happen to visit.

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The landscape is amazing, and a grassy football pitch captures my attention, especially at such an elevation. We’re tempted to take another gravel detour, which would take us above 3,000 metres but mean stressing about whether we would make it back to Marrakesh the following day. So, hoping we’ll come back to ride it on another occasion, we follow a long and spectacular downhill into Ourika Valley. With each kilometre, we find more people and more traffic. Eventually, both sides of the road are covered in market sellers offering ceramic and carpets.

It soon grows quite overwhelming, and we regret not spending our last night in the peaceful mountains. It’s busy on the streets; we must have hit rush hour. Mothers walk kids from school, cars beep, people shuffle around town for their errands, and stray dogs play in a dried-out riverbed. One could think it’s chaotic, but if you spend some time in Morocco, you will understand that it is a very well-organised chaos where everything has its place. Our hostel owner shows us a small place to eat. We have chicken screwers and milkshakes and already feel nostalgia for the last few days together.

DAY 15

57 kilometres / 63 metres

We set off together in the morning cycling on the small roads and being surprised about how quiet they are considering the proximity to Marrakesh. I’m heading for my flight the same evening, and Adelaide is staying for a few more days at a small riad close by. We have our last meal together before parting ways. As we’re saying goodbye, a group of fast-looking guys pull up. They’re heading to the same bike shop in Marrakesh as me, and I’m grateful to join the bike train as we breeze toward the city.

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I visit a bike shop called Atlas to pick up a cardboard bike box. After folding it in front of the bike shop and securing it to my back like a backpack with two old inner tubes, I pedal another seven kilometres to the airport. There, I put it back together, packing my bicycle and all my luggage inside, ready to head to the Canary Islands for my bike-guiding job.

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It’s been one of those trips that felt like it expands time. Only two weeks have passed, but I feel like I’ve been out here for a month. The memories are vivid, and I know I could recreate the trip in my mind at any point in time simply by loading up the GPX files and letting the memories flow back in. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to see Morocco even more deeply on another occasion, and I leave feeling incredibly grateful for my time in the country. Shukran!

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