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!
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.
This morning we piled into two 4x4s to head into the dunes. Our first stop was at a man-made oasis, where we learned about the rather brilliant irrigation system that has been in place since the 12th century, bringing sweet water to the desert from the Atlas Mountains. We watched some men come to get jerry cans full of water from this source.
12th Century irrigation system.
Into the roadless desert
We then drove into the dunes, where there are no roads, just the tracks of vehicles every which way. Our drivers seemed to have an instinct about where to drive, and we rarely spun out in the sand. We arrived at a large lake, Lake Dayet Srij, right there, in the middle of the desert. Unusually heavy rains in the past couple of years have filled what had been a dry lake bed, bringing birds plus a few tourists and trinket sellers. And a particularly enterprising man with a van equipped with an espresso machine. While I didn’t try it, desert coffee is apparently fantastic.
New lake in a long-dry lake bed
"Desert Coffee"
Trinket guy
I'm hoping one of my botanist friends can identify this spiky flowering plant
Our next stop was at a nomad encampment for a visit. This group of nomads has been at this spot for some twenty years, tired of moving about, it seems. We were expected, and were welcome to explore their home with its various structures, and then were invited to sit with the women, a mother and her adult daughter. They brought us tea, of course, and some peanuts to nibble on. They dressed Melica in wedding clothes, laughing with us.
Nomad home
Amazigh (Berber) flag
Kitchen
Conversation before tea
Milica wears a wedding dress:
This particular nomad family regularly hosts tour groups, as I understand it, and I suspect this may be their main source of income, being that they are paid by the tour leaders. These women told Mariam that her visits are the best, because they cannot communicate in Moroccan dialect (which is not precisely the same as Arabic) with guides who don't speak Amazigh, which of course Mariam does. So we get to have a conversation, ask questions, learn about their family. These people are illiterate, have no address, and live with almost none of the amenities most of the world takes for granted. This family has a small solar panel, provided by the government, that powers a single light bulb in their kitchen. They receive some government or NGO support, but their needs are minimal.
After bidding farewell, we were driven further for a stop at Dar Gnaoua, in Khamlia Village where we had lunch of “Berber pizza," a flatbread filled with vegetables, followed by a drumming lesson and a performance of Gnawa music and dance. This music seems more akin to Sub-Saharan music than to what I’ve been hearing in Morocco, and the people looked more Sub-Saharan as well. The drums were djembes, which I suspect were brought in from elsewhere.
"Berber Pizza"
Always tea
Ready for a drumming lesson
Curious about this kind of music I’ve never heard before, I found this:
The day already filled with awe, it was time to head deep into the dunes to Camp Chebbi. This is one of many glamping camps in the area, each consisting of ten or so large tents arranged in two rows facing each other, with a central walkway and a large dining tent at one end, the other end open to the desert. To call them tents is a bit misleading; these are cabins, really, with canvas walls, fully equipped with plumbing and electricity, including a heat pump for warmth or air conditioning, both of which we needed. They are powered by solar panels. Water is brought in, in huge vats.
Camp Chebbi
After we'd settled in, there came what we’d been waiting for: a camel ride up into the dunes to watch the sunset. Our scarves were wrapped into turbans, whether for show or protection, I don’t know, but we thought we looked pretty cool. Uh huh. Mounting a camel is a bit of a feat. The trainer puts a foot on the camel’s front leg so it won’t stand up before the rider is ready. The rider tosses a leg over that great hump of a back, and leans back in the saddle while the animal thrusts itself up. Have you ever ridden in one of those simulators that, you know, take you on a swooping flight to the moon or something? It’s like that, except in this case there’s the very real possibility of falling what seems like two storeys to the ground below. None of us fell off, but some of us might have maybe screamed.
I do look pretty cool, right kids?
Bettyanne's square scarf didn't work very well
Just mounted
This feels as awkward as it looks
Success! Good camel!
My camel peered around several times to see who was the creature on his back this time. These animals do this twice a day, every day, for years or even decades. Not sure how I feel about this, but I suppose it’s not a different life from any domesticated, working animal, and camels have been domesticated for some 3,000 years. We were told that only male camels are used for these rides, that they are fully mature before anyone rides them, and that they are well cared for. I have seen camels in India kick up a fuss, I’ve seen them hobbled, I’ve seen their nostrils pierced. Our camels seemed better off than that, and were very good-natured. But of course, we know what happens when a camel ages out.
My gentle, patient steed
After our ride, as darkness fell, we had dinner in the dining tent, warmed by a wood fire. Then the people working at our camp lit a huge campfire on the dune above the tents and transformed themselves into musicians. They sang and drummed in a style I’ve always associated with West Africa, but they told me it was Berber music, that they grew up with it.
Milica and I wandered away from the fire to better see the stars on this clear, moonless night. One of the musicians followed us up the hill (we later learned he was not supposed to do this), and showed us the constellations, and took some long-exposure photos of us and the stars.
And so ended another astonishing day. A "holy-shit!" day. A day I would never have thought possible to experience.
