Morocco Adventures
I was a 22 year old female travelling solo to Morocco during early winter holidays from college back in 2006.
Thrudur
11/1/200633 min read
When I was in college, I had an extended early winter holiday and thought I'd use it to go to Morocco, as it seemed like a facinating place to visit. As a poor student, I didn't have much money to go around but I managed to wing a cheap flight. The plan was then to fly to Casablanca (somehow I thought that was the typical place most people would fly to but boy was I wrong), then travel by train to Fez where I had arranged to stay with a Hospitality Club member (similar to CouchSurfing). After Fez, I was going to take the train to Marrakech to stay with another Hospitality Club bember before then going on a self-drive trip to Ait Benhaddou, Todra Gorge and Merzouga. I was super excited!
Arriving in Casablanca
My trip to Morocco was my second-ever solo trip, the first one having been Thailand the previous year. I remember the scared girl (myself) arriving in Ayuthaya being stressed out thinking somebody could jump out and rob me or kill me at any moment, in one of the safest countries for travellers on the planet. Now I found myself, a young, strawberry blonde, solo-travelling female in Morocco and I was pretty chilled about it. I had definitely caught the travel bug for good.
I walked out of the Air Maroc plane I had arrived in from London and walk into this glorious arrivals hall, I had never seen anything quite like it! But then again, at this point in my life, I hadn't travelled much at all. But in the memory, it was just beautifully decorated and elegant, like they spent a lot of money to do up Casablanca airport.
Next I walk towards the passport control and the border control officer seems puzzled. "Where is your visa?" He asks. "I don't need one, I'm from Iceland and Icelanders don't need visa for Morocco" I said. The border control officer goes off to speak to a colleague in Arabic and comes back to me and says, "Yes, you do need a visa for Morocco". This was getting a bit frustrating by this point, I don't know what he was getting at. Maybe he was hoping for a bribe, I don't know. But I picked up my phone which conveniently had internet to show him the list of countries that don't need visa for Morocco and before I could show him, he got a bit uneasy and said "OK OK, go", I got my stamp into Morocco and went on to get my bag.
So after it, I headed to baggage reclaim, and in front of me there was a funny sight. Around 100 people, men and women, in what I would have called white robes – but is called gandora – talking so loud so the whole room echoed and the police men were on the move. I didn’t really get it what was going on. And then us, the few people who had come in the plane form London had our luggage in hand, the police officers pushed away the people in white robes to make a path for us Westerners.
Once I got out of that crowded room I found my way to where the train was but first I needed some hard currency – dirham. I looked for a place to change money, but there wasn’t any but fortunately there was an ATM so that saved me for now. After that I went to the Information Desk, where the first thing I saw was smoke coming up from the other side of the counter. The smoking man lifted his head and greeted me with a smile.
I found my way to the correct train to Casablanca, which cost me 35 dh. From the train station I took a taxi. I had booked a bed at Hostelling International in the old town of Casablanca and the best way to get there was to get a taxi. It was a funky experience to step into a Moroccan taxi for the first time, with the loud Arabic music, it gave me a whole different experience, realizing I was definitely far from home. I just had to record the music with my phone! Also, on this quick journey I couldn’t help but wonder… the roads have different lanes, marked with white lines, just like at home. But I couldn’t really see their purpose – guess it’s just for showing off, trying to look civilized – but honestly, nobody gave a crap about the lanes. There were three cars per two lanes everywhere.
The taxi driver took me most of the way there, but he had to stop by the side of the road outside the old town as he wasn't allowed into the old town with his car. It all happened a bit fast cause he was trying to drop me off as close as he could, but he wasn't really allowed to stop there, with other cars beeping their horn, he trying to explain to me where I had to go but also hurrying me out of the car. I left, walked into the old town and then realised that I had left my phone in the taxi. Damn. That was definitely lost forever, along with my recording of the exotic music and driving madness. I paid the 40 dh fare and left the car. I had been worried about finding my hostel, as it was already very dark and because the taxi couldn’t drive all the way to the doors, but left me outside the city walls. So, all alone, in a completely new country, new and big city, new culture surrounding me, after dark, I didn’t know what to expect. The medina was very dark in most places, very rustic, narrow alleys and not a lot of street signs. I was nervous as hell and almost ran through the city until reaching the HI affiliated youth hostel.
I got to my hostel and I must say.... it wasn't a pretty sight.
Hostelling International representative in Casablanca
While the exterior definitely wasn't inviting, it was even worse on the inside. And that's saying a lot for an inexperienced traveller and a rather sloppy young person. I walked inside and approached the guy in the lobby. It was a messy looking guy, smoking. He greeted me, smiling, and handed me the registration papers… first thing I noticed was that he was missing two fingers on his hand. What happened to this guy? I wondered. He really was a mess. I did get checked in eventually and shown to my room which was a tiny room with three bunk beds and clearly never ever ventilated because the smell was horrifically musty and the mattress was literally damp with humidity. Eeeeew.
My impression was proved even more when I went to the bathroom before going to bed. First I noticed the weird toilets, which aren’t anything unusual in Morocco anyways – a hole in the ground with porcelain stepping-points on both sides But the unusual thing (or perhaps not???) was that EVERYTHING in that bathroom was covered in shit – literally. Poo. Smeared everywhere. Piss all over the floor. Blockages. I nearly threw up. I checked the next toilet and it looked pretty much the same. Next one – same. I was feeling seriously ill in my stomach now, but looked over them all again and found the most “decent”looking one, with my sturdy shoes, and lifted the bottom of my trousers as high from the ground as I could and let it go. Of course there was no toilet paper anywhere, but I knew that from previous experience, that you should always carry some with you. But yuck. This was horrible.
I had noticed there were computers, so I asked if I could use them. Sure thing, he said. I sat down and I as soon as I touched the keyboard I could feel the thick layer of dust on top of fat on top of fat on top of some more fat, it gave me the creeps. The computer was probably from the year 1998 or so – this was 2006. And it felt like it hadn’t been used for years. This whole hostel sort of felt like it had been abandoned and some poor messy, fingerless guy had taken over the ruins. I didn't last long on the computer and just decided to give up, it hadn't been a great day, so off I went to sleep in my soggy bed, but inside my sleeping bag for a bit more comfort. I was going to take the train to Fez early the next morning.
Needless to say, the Hostelling International hostel in Casablanca gets zero stars. Don't go there.
Fès
It was my second day in Morocco. Before going to sleep the night earlier, I realized I had lost my amazing, new Sony Ericsson cellphone – apparently I forgot it in the taxi when I was recording the Moroccan music. So I didn’t have an alarm clock! Which resulted in me getting up too late for the train to Fès, missing the 8am and 9am departures, but managed to get the third one, leaving at 10:15, which was very late because the duration of the trip is around 4-5 hours.
My train left from platform nr. 1 and to reach it, I had to go up pretty steep stairs and there was an old lady really struggling to get up with her big suitcase. I ran up and offered to help her, which she gladly accepted. A bit different from the reaction of a lady I once offered to help in London, who just wanted me to get the heck away. Haha.
I had to wait at the train station for a while before my train left. So I took my time to watch people go on with their lives. It caught my attention how men greet each other. They grab each other’s right hand and then give each other at least one kiss on each cheek.
It was also interesting seeing the contrast of traditions within the same culture, regarding dress code. There was a group of female friends waiting for their train. One was dressed in modern fashion clothes, just like any other European, but the other one in a traditional, black, tailor-made black robe and with a scarf hiding her hair, and the two girls held hands. There were also men in suits, in robes, and women with their hair and face completely covered.
Men in the train cabin
I borded the train, but it’s a passenger train with cabins. I searched and searched, but all the cabins were beyond full. After some time standing, and a lot of time searching, I finally found a place in a cabin where one person had just left. Of course I had to start my glorious entrance to the cabin by stepping on people’s toes (accidentally, obviously) and then fell into my seat. The cabin was full. Shortly there came an older lady and asked the only man in the cabin if she could have his seat. The man just pretended not to hear her and didn’t move, while another woman stood up and let the older lady sit down. Shortly after, the only man in the cabin stood up and left as we had reached his stop and there was now a much lighter air in the room, all the women started talking, a lot and very loud and when there came two new men at next stop, they immediately stopped talking again. A long while without a single word, until a foul smell filled our space. Apparently, one of the two men had just farted, and the women didn’t just sit in silence, but all stood up, scolding the man, shouting at him, very angry. I’m sure they called him all sorts of horrible names – even though it was in Arabic and I don’t understand it, but it sort of sounded like that. The man eventually ran out and the women opened the window.
Arrival in Fès
I finally arrived at my destination and I finally felt like I had truly arrived in Morocco – the first thing that I saw, getting out of the train station was the large, colorful mosque tower.


My first views of Fez
I was absolutely starving, but my first priority was to find a cybercafé to look up my CouchSurfing host, Hayar’s, phone number, call her and then go to some restaurant to meet her. But plans changed. In Hayar’s number there was one digit missing, and nobody could help me filling in the gap, so I couldn’t contact her. The clock was ticking, night was soon coming and I had to find out what I was going to do.
I just went to some random place to eat something cheap and then took a taxi to the medina – which Fès is so famous for. The Fes el-Bali medina is a UNESCO World Heritage site and one of the largest car-free urban zones in the world. With its narrow, winding alleys, bustling souks, and historic mosques, it offers an authentic glimpse into medieval Islamic life. However, due to the chaotic outlay of the old town, people who are unfamiliar with the Medina can easily get lost, which is why a guide is recommended. The city has the world’s largest medina and it’s so big and complicated that it’s near impossible to find your own way through it.
The taxi recommended me a guide, probably a friend of his, and I thought, fuck it. I’ll just hire a guide to get the most out of the little time I have in Fès. The guide cost 150 dh. Plus, the guide allegedly spoke Arabic, Berber, French, Portuguese and Spanish – I was fine with Spanish. As we left, I realized he only spoke one and one word in each of those languages, besides Arabic and Berber. So I got a colorful mix of all five, understanding absolutely nothing. He was also in such a hurry to take me to all the places of interest before closing, that I barely got a chance to take pictures. It was just a race against time. I got a sneak-a-peek to an Islamic school and mosques, which I didn’t really enjoy so much because my guide, Mohammed, wanted all my attention, that I should listen to him and not look around… and I couldn’t really understand him, so it was a lose-lose situation. Once he had finished talking, he rushed to the next destination within the medina.
At one point, we stopped at a square my guide showed me. Except at the square there were hordes of children and I was the only tourist around at that time. They all ran to me, literally surrounding us, asking for money. I had my big backpack on and was holding my camera. Meanwhile, the children were putting their hands into my pockets and feeling up my backpack, which was really unsettling. I thought I could maybe get them off by giving them sweets. I had brought a bag of sweets with me that I kept in my backpack, a bag with probably around 100 wrapped hard candies. I asked my guide if he could tell the children in Arabic to share the bag, and allegedly he did (or at least he said something to them). I moved towards handing a child the bag and his eyes lit up like Smeagol in Lord of the Rings looking at the ring... "My precious" when the intense look was suddenly broken by absolute carnage - literally ALL the children jumped at the bag ripping into all the sides and all the corners of the bag to the point it exploded and wrapped hard candies went flying all over the square. The carnage didn't end there - the children dropped to the ground, all going absolutely mental trying to get as many sweets as they could, to the point they would punch other children and bash other children's heads into the pavement, ripping their hair and the like, just so that they could get more sweets. Holy shit.










A few snapshots from my visit to Fez
Then after the quick tour I was taken to the Chouara Tannery and its leather shop where I came across a pretty neat, black leather jacket made of goat skin. The guy at the shop took the jacket to the side and let me look around. Also saw a really nice belt of brown, rough and thick leather, very smart looking. Then it was time to do some business. I had basically not thought about buying any of this stuff, I just liked to look. I was too poor of a student to go ahead and buy lots of nice, fancy leather products. I told the guy in the shop so. He offered 3800 dh for the jacket – $490 USD – which I totally refused. Impossible! I’d rather buy a cheap one made of fake leather than real leather at that price! I didn’t want to have anything to do with the jacket and told him repeatedly no. No. NO. But when the price was now 1300 dh for both the jacket and the belt… just 33% of the original price, I couldn’t help myself and buy it. Ended up costing $170 USD for both pieces.
I passed the man the money and BANG. There came a loud noise from outside – a tremendous thunderstorm had just started. It was time to leave the leather tannery and go outside to the horrendous weather. I had a rain poncho, but it was no use. I was completely soaked because no matter how much I tried to hide under my rain poncho, the water always found it’s way onto my clothes. I was completely soaked from top to toe and Mohammed felt a bit sorry for me, as I didn’t have a hotel to stay at, cause I had decided to take the night train to Marrakech that night since I didn’t manage to contact my CouchSurfing host, so he invited me to his family’s house.
Proud owner of a Chouara Tannery leather jacket
Invitation to an evening with a Berber family
At Mohammed’s home there were loads of people and everybody tried as hard as they could to speak to me, in the little French they knew and the little French I knew. Nobody spoke a word in English. I was offered a super-overly-sweet mint tea – which is very normal in Morocco, and with it a simple, quite dry cake. Once there was nothing left of the cake, Mohammed’s wife brought bread, jam and cheese, which tasted a lot better.
Mohammed proudly told me that all the women in his family know how to make Henna tattoos. They wanted me to try some on my hands, and as it’s something enormously cultural in Morocco, of course I accepted. They also showed me photos of their previous guests who had also got henna tattoo. Not everybody gets to go to the home of a a berber family and get a free henna tattoo done in their house!
Like many things in Morocco, henna is made of natural herbs. It’s mixed into some sort of propanol-water solution and mixed thorougly until forming some sort of paste, which is placed into a syringe with a thick, plastic needle and used to draw symbols on women’s hands or feet.
When one of the sisters had been drawing flower patterns on my hand for a while, Mohammed asked me if I didn’t want to just stay at his home in Fès overnight and take the train the morning after. That I could sleep and eat there, at no cost. I thought it was a very, very kind gesture, but I thought it probably wasn’t a good idea, because then I’d lose a full day in just travelling from Fès to Marrakech – the idea of taking the train was a pretty good time saver. He didn’t surrender just yet, and insisted I should relax and stay with them. That I should at least stay with them for dinner, which I accepted.
One man in his family is a preacher man, and he borrowed me his hat for the rest of the night. They thought I looked pretty good with it on! Of course we had some laughs and took some photos.


Getting a Henna tattoo from my guide's wife
Then came dinner time. It started up a bit awkward. We got one, big, common plate in the middle of the table for all 14 of us and then each person got loafs of bread, which they used to shove up food, as there are no plates, no forks, knives or spoons. It was a bit hard for me, because as hard as I tried with both of my hands to get some food to stick on my bread, usually the only thing that I got was sauce. People stared at me. I wondered why, looked up and smiled. Then, No, no – I was told. You can’t do that. You only eat food with the right hand, don’t use the left. The left is used for.. you know… He said, miming himself wiping his butt with the left hand. Ahhhhh! I said, and immediately sorted out my tactics. Couldn’t help but think though, without saying a word – I actually wipe my ass with the right hand, not the left. But some people actually use toilet paper and wash their hands afterwards ! People were constantly passing me a special plate with food, because they were afraid that with my clumsy way of eating I wouldn’t manage to eat anything, as I was having a real hard time getting some food off the dish.
I can’t really say it tasted good. It was a vegetable dish, mainly made of large celery sticks and some sort of yellow sauce. It tasted so horribly bitter, and there was nothing to drink, so with that and the bread that came along, it was really hard to swallow.
After dinner, we got fruits for desert. That was a true struggle, as the fruit was supposed to be held only in my right hand, and peel it with my left. And I’m right handed. Working with my left was just not working out.
After this delightful, weird but fun evening with Mohammed’s Berber family in Fès from 7pm to 11pm, it was time to head back to the train station Luckily I was there early, because the original departure time of my train was at 02:30 but had been changed to 01:40.


Having a home-cooked Moroccan family meal
I had to use the bathroom before I went back to the train station to catch my night train to Marrakech. Again, I was met with a hole in the ground instead of an actual toilet, but I made do. Except there was no toilet paper? Apparently many people use water instead of paper, but that was definitely not my thing.... But fortunately I had brought some papers with me. Wondering if this is why people use their right hand only for eating?
It was a very cultural experience I had at the Moroccan family home in Fez and I don't think I'll ever forget it. My guide helped me hail a taxi outside his home and off I went to the train station.
Marrakech
It was my third day in Morocco and now I was headed to Marrakech. It was interesting to wake up in the train in the morning and see how the soil was red everywhere (as to light brown in Fès), all the buildings red and women and men walking with horses, donkeys, cows and sheep through the desert, the mountains looked strange and the lighting was interesting.
I once again managed to get off at the correct trainstation, and from there I took a taxi to Marrakech’s main square Djemaa El-Fna where I walked up and down the red streets of Marrakech for a while. I was hungry and decided to get something to eat, but the places I went to weren’t offering any food until midday, and it was still early. So I just kept on walking. Came across a snake charmer, sitting around doing nothing, and then was certainly going to get some money off of me for taking a picture of the snake, even though him, himself, hadn’t done anything to earn that money.
Some scenes from my first day in Marrakech
Then I tried to call my CouchSurfing host in Marrakech but he didn’t answer, but now the restaurants were open so it was time to grab something to eat.
Morocco is said to be a culinary paradise. It definitely has some interesting traditions! My dish at the restaurant was just delicious, so different to the typical family meal I had in Fès the day before. This one was a mixture of fried beef, almonds and dates, extremely yummie!
After that delicious lunch I called my CouchSurfing host again, and he and his friend came to pick me up on motorcycles. He asked me if I didn’t want to sit on his friend’s bike, but preferred to sit on his, as he’s a member of CouchSurfing and can be made reliable for anything that happens. His friend not, and I had no idea who he was. So off we went. It was my first-ever time on a motorcycle, and it wasn’t the smoothest of starts!! He gave me his helmet, and drove like a complete maniac, criss-crossing the busy Marrakech streets – as from my previous post, in Morocco there are marked lanes, but the lines are not respected and the rule is, there should be three cars on each two lanes – and with the streets as full of cars as they were, Issam drove, full speed, between all those cars on his motorbike, me wondering if I’d still have two legs when we’d reach his home.
I shouldn’t really have called my CouchSurfing host so early, because his house was really far away from all the tourist attractions, so I was in the middle of nowhere, with nothing else to do but just sit on the floor mattresses in his livingroom and talk to the guys. We talked about a lot of things, different things, and he’s in general a very friendly guy and speaks brilliant English, the only English speaking Moroccan I had met so far. His friend spoke no English on the other hand, but very good French, and my French is extremely limited.
We talked about Morocco, the desert, Europe, food, my CouchSurfing host’s Polish girlfriend who he apparently was going to marry and some seriously troubling extremist views he held against a certain country. I thought that was just sick. I was obviously not comfortable with this conversation and tried to explain to him about peace, understanding different cultures and values, patience and that he can’t blame the people of an entire country for how their government behaves, and that there are always two stories of every case. He didn’t want to listen.
It was getting late, and my CouchSurfing host wanted to cook something so he said he was going to go to the supermarket. I was dying to see what a Moroccan supermarket looked like so I asked if I could go with him and he said no, that I should stay at home with his friend. Eh.. OK. I thought. That would be boring, as there was a serious language barrier. But he left. Without me.
I thought I’d just leave his friend with his things, so sat down to use the computer there to chat for a bit with my people back home. His friend sat down beside me and tried to speak to me in French of which I understood very little. He wanted me to add him to Messenger – which he just did without really getting my permission, but I thought oh well, I can just delete him later. He then wanted to use the computer, which I let him, so I just sat down on the floor mattresses and relaxed with my book, but then he sat back down and talked to me about his chicken business – that he is starting his own business in selling chickens and eggs in a special carriage. He was trying to impress me – I wasn’t impressed at all. He then all of a sudden asked if I would like a shoulder massage. I didn’t know what to say… ! So I stupidly just said “Ok”. It was very innocent to begin with, and he’s actually quite good at giving shoulder massages.. but then he started getting closer… and kissed me on my neck. Then I had had enough!! Told him to stop and he got pretty upset, and then I just sat in front of the computer and completely ignored him until my host came back, a loooooot later, just to not give him any wrong signals.
My host finally came back from the supermarket, almost two hours later, and it was obvious he had been expecting something to happen while he was away, he asked his friend something and his friend was upset, arguing. Then my host said that Oh- he had forgotten the drinks!! This was just TOO obvious!! I just kept the same track, on the computer, blocking everything else. His friend tried to talk to me, but I showed him just an obvious disinterest. My host came back an hour later and talked to his friend, and shook his head. It was obvious the two friends were trying to create a plot and I wasn’t falling for it. My CouchSurfing host was not trying anything, because he already had his European passport with his Polish girlfriend in sight, now it was time for his friend to get his. Apparently! I felt incredibly uneasy. But luckily it was soon night.
Never did I realize how long it would take to cook something Moroccan style!! My host got his Tagine out at 11pm and made everything ready, lamb with potatoes and vegetables, and left it for simmering. For hours!!! Weird eating habits, I must say, because we were eating dinner at 2am! I must admit it tasted delicious – he can have that, that he does cook delicious food – although I did get a diarrhea that night. Don’t know if that was because emotional stress or the food.
Finally it was bed time at 3am, where I slept on a mattress on the floor.
My host was going to work that morning and had promised to wake me up before he left, because I needed to be at the car rental place early, to take advantage of the day – but he didn’t. And I didn’t have my cellphone, since it got lost in Casablanca, and therefore no personal alarm clock. So I didn’t wake up until at 12:30pm. I did wake up earlier at one point, but my host was still sleeping, and as he had to be at work at 6am, the time must have been less than that, so I went back to sleep. But apparently he overslept, because later he got up and went to work, I laid there and relaxed for a little bit and then got up when I noticed his friend watching me “sleep”. Creepy. At that point I realised what time it was, and was indeed NOT happy. I literally jumped into my clothes, grabbed my bag and left – but my host's creepy friend ran in front of the exit door blocking my way, and asked me to stay. I told him no, but he insisted. I put on my angry face and pulled the door, which in the end I managed to force open, and ran away just in case. This guy completely freaked me out.
Driving from Marrakech to Ait Benhaddou
I took a taxi and arrived at a car rental, charging 400 dh ($52 USD) a day for a brand new Fiat, which had only be driven 420 km! So I filled in my papers, which was a little bit tricky at times, as the applications and agreements were all in Arabic and French – not really my strong side. And then the guy at the rental company was so kind to help me get out of the city, by taking his car and driving in front of me until reaching the highway so that I wouldn’t get lost, and taught me a few tricks of the trade, like that you should give some coins to the guy putting petrol in your car.
Then I was on my own. Driving up to 2.100 m altitude in the Atlas Mountains was a piece of cake for my little Fiat, even though some hills were quite steep, but it was a reasonably powerful car. The drive was very scenic, the red desert, the adobe villages in the hills all around, the snake-like roads sneaking up the mountain slopes, the massive colorful rocks rising out of the hills – amazing. I stopped in some places to take photos.




Scenic drive from Marrakech through the Atlas Mountains
At one point I was just fascinated by one of the hilltop adobe villages, one on the other side of the road, so I drove to the side, parked the car, took my camera and got out of the car. There was no traffic, too, so I had the space all to myself.


Scenic hilltop village in the Atlas Mountains
Down the hill on my side of the road comes a cute Moroccan kid running down the slopes. He says Bonjour. I tell him good day back in French and compliment him on his French. He smiles. Two more kids come running down the slope, both say Bonjour and I do the same. More and more kids come, one starts asking for money, but I tell him no. All the other kids demand money, and are now getting really aggressive, placing their hands in my pockets and I try to shake them off, telling them I don’t have any money.
One kid runs to the passenger side of my car and sees my 75-300m Tamron zoom lens, and says “Yes, you do have money.” At this point I was getting rather nervous – the car wasn’t locked. So I quickly went back to my car, luckily, because as I just got into the car, and just managed to push down the lock of the door on the passenger side of the car, the boy tries to open it. I close my side, having to really struggle because the group of children pull my door, with angry faces. It does eventually close and I start driving away as fast as I can, seeing in my rear window that the children start throwing stones towards my car, with hatred in their eyes. That was scary! Luckily none of the rocks hit the car, otherwise I would have had a large bill on my hands once back in Marrakech!
Ait Benhaddou
I got up the next morning, I was on a mission to go out to see the fortified village of Ait Benhaddou. I didn't have a map, didn't have a phone and didn't speak the language but tried my best to try and find the place.
Ait Benhaddou is a stunning UNESCO World Heritage site in Morocco, known for its well-preserved ksar (fortified village) made of earthen clay. Nestled along the ancient caravan route between the Sahara and Marrakech, this striking example of traditional southern Moroccan architecture features towering kasbahs, intricate mud-brick homes, and narrow, winding streets. The site has served as a backdrop for numerous famous films and TV shows, including Gladiator, Game of Thrones, and Lawrence of Arabia, due to its dramatic, time-frozen appearance. Beyond its cinematic fame, Ait Benhaddou offers visitors a glimpse into Berber culture and historical Saharan trade routes. While many families have moved to modern homes across the river, a few still live within the ksar, preserving its traditions.
As I was wandering, I found a friendly dog and started following him. A funny coincidence cause the dog literally led me to the old town! It was starting to rain, but it was nonetheless beautiful! I didn't have an umbrella (who's expecting rain in Morocco when it almost never rains?!) so I took a few pictures but made the visit short. From what I hear, climbing to the top of the village provides breathtaking views of the Ounila Valley and the surrounding desert landscape, exploring the village's ancient passageways and experiencing a sunset over its golden-hued walls is meant to be incredible, but I just didn't have the time. It was time to hit the road again.



The fortified village of Ait benhaddou
Because of my late departure that day, I only just managed to get to Aït Benhaddou that night, at 6:30pm, so I found a room at a simple and a bit shabby hotel there and decided I’d go and see the old fortified village the next day. Just took it easy and had a traditional Moroccan dinner at the hotel’s restaurant – some sort of yellow curry couscous with chicken and vegetables – and what a STACK of food! And was in deed yummie!! I had officially become a fan of Moroccan cuisine. The room with hot water shower, dinner and breakfast the morning after cost me 150 dirhams ($19 USD).


Driving from Ait Benhaddou to Dades Valley
I kept driving east towards Ouarzazate and then started driving in a northerly direction. My next destination was the Dades Gorge. There were lots of puddles on the road from the rain in the morning, and as I drove further, these puddles started growing bigger. Nothing an Icelander can't deal with but it sucked that it was rainy and wet in a place I hoped to espace from the rain in Iceland and get some sunshine, but oh well.


October 2009 floods between Oarzazate and Dades Valley
Nobody was moving. I went back to my car and contemplated my next move. I also had a chat with a couple of guys that were also stuck. Eventually some people started crossing the flooded road in their cars and it didn't actually look too bad. We did this sort of thing all the time in Iceland! So I decided I'd skip the queue and attempt to ride me little Fiat Punto across the flooded road.


Cars starting to cross the flooded road between Ouarzazate and Dades
I crossed the water without any issues - just drove along nice, slow and steady without stopping, making sure I started as far 'upstream' as possible in case I drifted a bit.
Now that the young strawberry blonde girl in her little Fiat Punto had crossed, the two local guys I had been chatting to felt they couldn't be scared of crossing, so they made the attempt as well, successfully. I kept on driving, focused on getting to my destination before nightfall but I realised that I'd have to reduce my itinerary, as I had lost a lot of time due to not being woken up to get my day started when I was in Marrakech, due to rain and due to floods. But I'd make the most of it. Until I got to the next piece of flooded road....


Lorry in the water
This time I didn't feel as confident crossing the water, as a surge had just swept a lorry off the road and the driver was unable to get it back onto the road. Pretty scary! I was starting to see a pattern emerging and suspected that there might be more flooded points like this, even possibly worse than this. I wasn't going to make it very far if the state of the roads was like that the whole way.
Conveniently, there was a restaurant within the stretch of road where I was stuck. The guys from the other car offered to take me out for lunch, where they ordered a tagine to share between the three of us. It was delicious. It was actually nice to be able to chat to somebody in English as well, as most people just speak Berber, Arabic or French. We then went to our respective cars after lunch, but the guys tried inviting me to their house when we would get out of there. I clearly had other plans, so said thanks but that I had to keep going. I don't know what was going through their mind, but they were very pissed off, if not flat out angry, with me for not being willing to go to their house. I guess I dodged another bullet!
In the end, I decided that with all the lost time, I wouldn't really get to see much at all and I'd better just go back to Marrakech rather than risking getting stuck somewhere hundreds of miles from Marrakech. I therefore turned my car around and started driving back to the water crossing I had just come from a couple of hours earlier. Except by this point it wasn't just a flooded road, it had turned into a brown raging ocean!! It was also starting to get dark and I could see the lights of stranded cars within the torrent of water, along with trees and other debris that the flood had brought down with it. I most certainly wasn't crossing that!!
It wasn't a good situation to be in - the road was severely flooded on both sides of me. I hoped it wouldn't rain any more. All I could do at this point was to find the highest point within the stretch of road and hope that the water level didn't reach it, then get my sleeping bag out of the back of the car, lock my doors, crawl into the back seats and into my sleeping bag, try to get some sleep and hope for the best.


I then came to the back of a very long queue of cars that were stopped. I wondered if there had been an accident. I sat in my car for a fair while, until I started getting a bit unpatient, got out and walked past the queue of stationary cars. Turns out the road was completely flooded!
Back in Marrakech
I woke up in the back of my car around 4am in the morning. I was still alive, the car hadn't been swept away by floods and it looked like the water levels had come right down. All there was left was mud on the roads with debris and scattered vehicles and tree trunks all over the place. I thought I may as well beat the traffic and start driving back to Marrakech.
Once I was out of the valley and started climbing up into the Atlas mountain range again, the road conditions were a lot better and I was soon in the outskirts of Marrakech. I had no map except the one in my Lonely Planet handbook, I had no co-pilot to guide me so I just had to try to plan my journey the best I could to find out where I was to drop off the rental car. The route was fairly straight-forward, but involved a roundabout which proved more problematic than I had anticipated. There was a traffic warden at the roundabout that pulled me over and tried speaking to me in Arabic and French and I had no idea what he was saying, aside from that he wanted the car's paperwork, which I passed him. There was some problem with the papers, no idea what, but the warden said that I should tell the owner to speak to them. But then somehow I ended up again at the exact same roundabout a few minutes later. Absolutely no idea how that happened but the exit I thought I was meant to take just took me on a loop. I did that three times, and the traffic warden stopped me every time. What the hell?! The third time I asked him for help to tell me where I had to go so that I wouldn't end up back yet again at this same roundabout and he pointed fingers trying to explain where I had to go. Fortunately, this time I managed to get to my destination!!
After my bad experience CouchSurfing in Marrakech, I decided I'd get myself a hotel room this time. It was a cheap and cheerful place for one night before going back home to Iceland. I dumped my bag there and started wandering the streets of Marrakech.




People living their lives on the streets of Marrakech
There suddenly was a point I realised I had wandered away from the beaten path and I had no idea where I was. There were children playing on the streets, adults sitting outside their houses. Some guy approached me and asked if I wanted to see "the tanneries". I had already been to a tannery and there weren't meant to be any impressive ones in Marrakech so I wasn't really bothered. There was this other young guy that had heard us talking about tanneries and he seemed interested in seeing them. I guessed he hadn't been to Fes. He was a friendly Swiss actor called Oliver and said he had just finished his latest project working on a new film that was being shot in Marrakech. In the end, the two of us ended up getting taken to the tanneries.


Tannery in Marrakech
On the plus side, it was a lot brighter this time than when I was at the tannery in Fes but this one looked a lot less orderly. A Moroccan tannery is a traditional leather-processing facility where animal hides—typically from cows, sheep, goats, or camels—are cleaned, tanned, and dyed using age-old, natural methods. These open-air tanneries consist of large stone vats filled with different solutions for softening, treating, and coloring the leather. The process is labor-intensive and has remained largely unchanged for hundreds of years.
To dye the leather, workers first soak the raw hides in a mixture of water, limestone, salt, and pigeon droppings (rich in ammonia) to soften and remove hair. Then, the hides are washed and transferred to dyeing vats, where natural pigments like saffron (yellow), poppy (red), indigo (blue), henna (orange), and mint (green) are used to create vibrant colors. After soaking in the dyes, the leather is left to dry under the Moroccan sun before being crafted into bags, shoes, belts, and other goods.
After we had seen the tannery, we were taken to the next door leather shop. I had already done my leather purchases in Fes, and besides, this place didn't have anything even remotely as nice for sale as the shop in Fes did. We both said no thanks to the sales pitch and proceeded towards the exit door. Except a big man went and shut the door and blocked us from exiting, saying we had to buy something. We were literally being held hostage for ransom and these folk were not friendly. We wandered around the shop and literally picked up the cheapest looking thing we could find - a pair of leather slippers. We paid for them and we were released from "prison".
Up to this point, I had been travelling on my own as a solo-woman. Now I had a male travel buddy for the day and me and Oliver walked around the city, grabbed some juice and snacks at the main square, Djemaa El-Fna. The difference in treatment was extremely obvious when I was accompanied by a man rather than on my own. People were a lot friendlier (aside from the tannery men) and a lot more polite to me / us. It made me want to go back to Morocco one day, but with a male travel partner to make my life a bit easier.
Oliver asked me if I had ever been to a Hammam while I was in Morocco. In all honesty, I didn't even know what a Hammam was at the time, but he said that it was incredible and that he knew of a very good spa which he recommended. A Moroccan hammam is a traditional steam bath and bathing ritual that has been an essential part of Moroccan culture for centuries. Inspired by Roman and Ottoman bathhouses, hammams are social and cleansing spaces where people go to relax, purify their skin, and unwind.
I thought I'd give it a go. I went to the spa where I was taken into a room where I was to wear nothing buy a towel. The hammam ritual began with soaking in the steam to open pores, followed by applying savon beldi (black soap made from olives) to soften the skin. A kess (exfoliating glove) is then used for an intense scrub to remove dead skin. It was actually mind-boggling how much dead skin was possible to remove, and it is definitely not for everybody have a stranger with sandpaper gloves rubbing you all over from top to toe. The woman that was doing my ritual then sent me away to an area where there was a bucket to wash myself and once that was done, I was sent away. Definitely an experience I wouldn't have wanted to miss out on, but I wouldn't say I would hurry back to do it again. It just felt... weird.
The Hammam basically concluded my stay in Morocco, as it was already the evening and I was flying back home the next morning.
Summary / Reflection
I had incredibly intense few days in Morocco, with some brilliant experiences, other strange experience and some rather scary experiences. I met all kinds of people, many were kind some were quite hostile but what I would still say is that I would go back to Morocco in a heartbeat. It's an incredibly intriguing country with beautiful buildings, unique cities, fascinating markets, incredible food and stunning landscape. I felt cheated that I couldn't see more of it due to the floods. I'll be better prepared next time. I will also try to go with a male travel partner, because it just makes life a lot easier. I will plan better.
I would definitely recommend people to go to Morocco, but perhaps be better in-the-know and don't lose your phone! I wouldn't really recommend CouchSurfing based on my experience, but others' experiences may well be very very different. Maybe I was just unlucky. I just know the next time I go, I will be staying in hotels for sure.
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