From Oasis to Mountain

 Wednesday, March 18

Another very long day of driving today. When we were planning to join this tour, I did look at driving times, and I remember several very long days, but I don’t think it registered that almost every driving day would be long. Fortunately, the tour is planned so as not to ever have two six-hour days in a row. In addition, stops are frequent and well-spaced. Nevertheless, it’s exhausting. I’m grateful for the good company of my fellow travellers. We always manage to have good conversation and lots of laughs.

Stars of our own film

Our first stop today was at Ouarzazate, known as the Hollywood of Morocco. We gazed down a long driveway at the studio lot whose main claim to international fame, it seems, is “The Mummy”: the outer gates were flanked by Egyptian motifs. Must see that film!

Entrance to film lot

We continued on, and visited a women’s carpet co-op. Mariam and Wild Women have been careful to find places that are true co-ops. Many storefronts call themselves co-ops, but in fact are not. This establishment, Coopérative du Tapis Akhnif Lglaoui, is where women from the region can bring their carpets to sell, under no duress to produce. There must be thousands of carpets here, in all different styles, from thick knotted pile to fine kilims. These latter were my favourite to look at, but they are so coarse to the touch, I was dissuaded from even considering buying one.

Carpet cooperative

Would you like to buy a thousand carpets?

We watched a woman carding wool, and then spinning it expertly. Another woman was knotting a piled rug, knot by knot. We know hand-knotted rugs are valuable, but watching this woman work, I realized a finished carpet of any size represents years of labour.

 

 

 

Some carpets have designs that tell a story, if you know how to read them. When distances were long and communication difficult, a young woman would make a carpet to send to her mother. The code she wove into it would tell her mother how her marriage was going and if she was happy. The men were not privy to this code.

The best carpets sell for upwards of $6,000 dollars Canadian, but I would think they’d be twice that price in Canada, if such quality can even be found. We were shown carpet after carpet by “Mr. Muscles,” the only man in the place. They’ll ship all over the world. I suppose sometimes people actually buy.

 

Kilims like these are my favourite 

A hefty price tag: about $6000 Canadian

Across the river from the co-op is Ait Ben Haddou, a kasbah which has been designated a Unesco World Heritage site. The kasbah we visited in Merzouga, so well preserved, does not have such a designation, and does not want it and its accompanying commercialization.

Ait Ben Haddou

I would have thought that World Heritage designation would mean preservation of the spirit of a place, but this is certainly not the case here. The whole place is a marketplace for tourists, and it's crawling with them. All the usual crap…er…goods are here: scarves, bags, kaftans, trinkets, fridge magnets, postcards. I’m grateful we’d seen the more authentic version.

Shopping in the Kasbah

 

This man's little paintings were invisible until he held them over a flame. 

 

Synagogue in the kasbah

One must always know how long one's camel will take to get to Timbuktu

My list of must-see movies just grew

From Ouarzazate, we began the climb into the heart of the High Atlas mountains. Roads were excellent, but winding. We stopped for lunch at a mega-eatery, where a tour bus load of people was just finishing up. I’m starting to realize there is a set pattern that all the tours follow, set places to stop, set places to eat. It’s kinda weird. But the bathroom are clean and the food suits the needs of the less-adventurous palate.

The thing about winding roads is that they are motion-sickness inducing; you have to keep your eyes on the road. We were fine: I had my perch above the wheel, as did Bettyanne across the aisle. Sue and Milica were ensconced in the back seat as always, higher than all of us. Vicki seemed to be fine in front of me, without the forward sight line. 

Sporadically along the way, there’d be a bend in the road with a pull-out, and, sure enough, a man with things to sell, the same things that are for sale everywhere. I started thinking about these guys and their make-do roadside shops, all with the same stuff, and I realized there must be a central warehouse somewhere, and maybe someone who runs the goods out to the tourist traps and the bends in the roads. I guess I was thinking out loud, and I started muttering about the “Trinket Cartel,” and the whole bus erupted. That was it! We were on the lookout from then on. I tell you, the Trinket Cartel is everywhere.

The Trinket Cartel by the kasbah

  

The Trinket Cartel by the side of the road

 We came in sight of snowy mountains. We came perilously close to snowy mountains. 

We’ve been cold a lot on this trip, colder than the tour packing list led us to expect. We’d been told the desert gets cold at night, but let me just say the desert was positively balmy at night compared to many of our days in Morocco. We’d had some respite, in the oasis and in the desert and in the valleys by Merzouga. I, for one, was not ready to be back in the cold. But up we climbed, up and up, to emerge in Imlil, a mountain village at the base of Mount Toukbal, the highest mountain in Morocco and the second most popular mountain for climbing in Africa, next to Kilimanjaro. And it was cold.

Imlil was a location for “Seven Years in Tibet.” I bet Brad Pitt was cold, too.

We were let off in the main road of the village and walked the last bit to our abode, the Riad Jnane Imlil. This was a rustic mountain lodging, but beautiful. It was heated by heat pump in the bedrooms and by fire in the common rooms. We were provided with djellabas, which we discovered were wonderfully cosy. I understand, now, why this full-coverage robe is still worn here, even by young men. We ate our tagine fully djellaba’d against what cold there might be.

Welcoming committee, Imlil

 

Imlil from our riad window

 

 

Ride to the Kasbah

 Tuesday March 18


We were met in the morning by a local guide to lead us on a two-hour bike ride through the neighbourhood. The way was rough, with lots of bone-shaking gravel, uneven paths, rutted dried mud. But it sure felt good to ride, a change from all the walking we’d been doing.

 

 

We passed through neighbourhoods broken to rubble by the earthquake of 2023, the one that made the news around the world. The people able to replace their homes abandoned the customary adobe construction of mud and straw, building new houses with concrete bricks. I wonder how this will change the the look of Morocco with its rose-coloured cities and villages.

Putting our feet down on narrow paths with sharp corners to navigate

Our destination was the Ameridhl Kasbah, a privately maintained fortress home once belonging to a wealthy family. Our guide was highly knowledgeable in the history of the place. We saw olive presses and old kitchens (there were four of them); we climbed through the several storeys of the building; we took in the view of both the courtyard with its fountain and the outside, with the remains of the neighbouring Ksar. We learned that a Kasbah is a wealthy fortified home, and a Ksar is a neighbourhood, also protected by walls.

Courtyard

Sitting room

 

One of four kitchens, spread out for security and warmth

Another kitchen

And another

Complex construction

Sign of the Amazigh

This approximates the view depicted on the 50-dirham note, the kasbah as a symbol of Moroccan heritage

We were there!

Traditional olive press

Amal picked us up at the Kasbah -- enough of rough riding! -- to take us back to Sawadi for lunch.

Moroccan salad: finely chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, and a bit of onion, with olive oil and lemon vinegar. Don't eat the flower!

 

A mostly demolished Berber omelet

We were free for the afternoon to hang out at the Ecolodge. We explored the farm, just barely begun to come to life at the end of winter.

 

Olive trees being watered

 

 

The hammam, just behind the lounge chairs

And then, most of us opted to partake in the hammam that was offered there.

Hammams, in their traditional form, are public baths. In times when water was not available in private homes, the hammam was where people washed. The last hammam I experienced was in Istanbul, back in 1972. It was a building many hundreds of years old, with marble interiors where we lounged naked for what seemed like hours, where someone would come along now and then to pour hot water over us. We were scrubbed, by equally naked hammam women, and the skin rolled off in black ribbons. We were gently massaged with scented oil. The guys, I remember, said the massage they got was anything but gentle. They were in the men’s section, of course, nowhere near the women.

The hammam at Sawadi is meant for two people at most. We went individually into the little steam room, where a not-naked woman scoured every inch of our bodies. I started off wearing underwear, but it was evident within the first minute, that that was ridiculous, so there I was, naked. This woman toiled vigorously over me. It seemed like such an act of love, one woman caring for another. And the skin rolled off in ribbons, again. This time, not black; I haven’t been travelling for eight months, like I had been back then, more than fifty years ago. 

We were, all of us who participated, blissed out for dinner. 

Sue’s birthday today! Mariam and Amal used the kitchen (pretty sure that’s what happened; these kitchens seem to be open to outsiders cooking in them) to make a cake, complete with candles. Happy Birthday, Sue!

Not a Moroccan cake, for sure!

 

 Today's ride

 

Relive '03/17/26'

From Camp Chebbi to Skoura

The last sunset

 

Monday, March 16, 2026

 

We got up early and walked up the hill to watch a Saharan sunrise. Milica joined us, and, thinking it a good idea to stand on a chair set into the sand, took a tumble that actually hurt her. We didn't know she was hurt, and we weren't about to drop our mission to catch sunrise on time lapse. I mean, priorities! She's fine, but I do feel bad.

 We were not alone, seeking sunrise:

 

 

 

Given a choice, I would spend another day in the desert. It was hard to say goodbye after just one beautiful, intense night. The worker/drummers felt like our friends. The camels felt like our friends. Pretty sure we'd be fast forgotten by the guys who'd be welcoming another bunch later today, and the camels ... well.

 

Good bye to Camp Chebbi and the comfort of our "tent"

Goodbye to one of our new best friends

Our 4x4 drivers whipped us back across the desert from Camp Chebbi to Riad Chebbi, where we and our bags were transferred back to our deluxe van. It would be another very long (6-7 hours) day of driving. The long distances are one very big downside to this tour, but I can’t really suggest a better way of doing it. We are moving from one place-worth-spending-time to the next place-worth-spending-time, and there’s not much in between in this rather large country. I’m just glad it’s not me doing the driving. Amal is tireless.

We were backtracking now, past the reed barriers, past the date cooperative, where owners or workers rushed out to chat with Mariam. Mariam, known and loved throughout Morocco. It didn't seem to be a problem to stop the van in the middle of traffic. People waited patiently for the conversation to be done. 

 

I think I previously posted an image of these structures, but this is clearer: reed barriers, keeping sand from blowing across the road

The Alansari Date Cooperative, which is apparently a popular stop on the tourist trail.

We made a roadside stop to learn more about the 12th century irrigation system, the Khettaras, that serves, or did serve, the desert with sweet water from the Atlas Mountains. We descended into the original underground aqueduct where apparently a scene from The Mummy was filmed. Now I have to watch that movie when I get home, I guess. 

Mariam explains the system

Setting for a scene from "The Mummy" 

Basket for hauling up water

At the top of the shaft

Access shafts across the desert as far as the eye can see

We made a coffee/pee/shopping stop at the Touroug Café. Pretty spot. I bought bookmarks for grandchildren. I got change in Euros. What does that say?

A good spot for a bathroom break

 

We stopped for lunch in the town of Tinghir, at a restaurant set up for tour buses, of which several were there. I imagine there are few tourist-appropriate places, meaning with European-acceptable food and clean toilets, actual toilets, this far out in the sticks. Our meal was ready for us, thanks again to Mariam, an egg tagine, my favourite, served to us in a leafy patio.

Tinghir and its oasis. In the mid-foreground, you can see a concrete block house being built, replacing traditional construction after the devastating earthquake of 2023.

Nearby, we took a short walk in Todra Gorge, a popular climbing destination. The trinket/scarf/kaftan sellers were out en mass. One of them taught me how to say “no thank you” in the Amazigh (Berber) language, after I’d said it in Arabic. (It’s about the only Arabic I know, by the way). We saw young Europeans trudging out with their ropes, ready to conquer the cliffs. 

Climbers ready to tackle the cliffs

Cliffs, donkeys, souvenir shop

Further along our way, we stopped at the Aromes du Sud Cooperative in M’Gouna, an area known for rose oil from the Damask roses that originated here. We were feverish for shopping, and some of us bought plenty of oils, perfumes, lotions, and serums. I learned that oil distilled from fresh roses smells different from that distilled from dried.

Still and dried rose petals. April is harvest time. 

Eventually, we arrived at Skoura, where we’d be spending two nights. To get to the Ecolodge that would host us, we wound through the narrowest and winding-est of dirt roads, past women doing their wash, children riding bikes, men with donkey carts. Even Amal was asking, “Where are you taking me?” as she manoeuvred brilliantly, impossibly. I believe we navigated by arrows pointed on the walls at intersections. I don’t know what would have happened had we met a car coming the other way. 

Sawadi Ecolodge is astounding, there in the middle of a warren of red mud houses. Through the gate, there's a tropical bit of paradise. A pool reflecting palm trees, surrounded by patios for lounging. This is a working farm, with fruit trees, garden fields, and animals. We were greeted with the obligatory round of tea, and shown to our rooms, spread out through the compound. 

Welcome to Sawadi Ecolodge

Waiting on the patio for our welcome tea

 

The door to our abode, one-way glass. There is a wooden outer door as well, which we could latch.

Before dinner, we met up in one of several lounges, cozy by an open fire. We could have ordered drinks, had we wanted them. Dinner was another tagine. Still not sick of them.

Waiting for dinner in a cozy lounge.

Bettyanne and I settled into our rustic room — well, not so rustic, but simple -- comfortably heated and well equipped.

 

Plenty of room to spread out. That door leads to Vicki's room, which was comforting to her. 

 

 

Pretty sink, typical of where we stayed throughout. 

 Settling in for the night, we were looking forward to cycling through the oasis in the morning.