When I take my days off in Ouarzazate, it feels like I've stepped into a story straight out of an Arabian tale. This city, situated on a plain at an altitude of about 1,200 meters, nestled at the foot of the High Atlas Mountains and west of the desert, is the first sizable city I've come across in a while. It's the beating heart of Morocco's film industry, drawing filmmakers from Hollywood and beyond to capture the essence of the Middle East on screen. You wouldn't believe it, but movies like Gladiator, Prince of Persia, and Game of Thrones have scenes filmed right here. As I enter the city, urban life springs back into action with its bustling traffic and vibrant atmosphere, bringing with it a whole new level of comfort.
The farther north I venture, the more I discover an array of enticing things to indulge in. Every town and city I encounter seems to offer a greater variety of culinary delights. There's no shortage of restaurants, tea houses, and markets brimming with diverse products. And when it comes to accommodations, the options keep getting better, offering improved conditions at very reasonable prices. It's a continuous upward spiral of quality and quantity in everything I come across.
What truly captivates me about Ouarzazate is that amidst this rediscovery of modernity, the city still maintains its authentic charm. It's like stepping into a realm where reality and fantasy intertwine. The Berber culture flourishes here, and you can see it in the architecture, with its captivating blend of uniform shapes, rugged textures, and warm sandy colors. While the famous Taourirt kasbah, perched high above the old town, is undeniably stunning, the true enchantment lies within the network of narrow alleys that stretch beyond the wide boulevards. It's in these alleys where I'm transported back in time, witnessing the vibrant pulse of life and bustling commerce, reminiscent of centuries past.
To be honest, it's becoming increasingly difficult for me to bid farewell to each place where I take a break. Maybe a part of me is trying to compensate for the challenging months I've spent facing extreme difficulties and enduring scarcity. But beyond that, I'm convinced that the towns and cities of the Atlas Mountains have an irresistible allure that tempts me to linger longer and longer. Ouarzazate is no exception. As I prepare to leave, I'm torn between the desire to continue my exploration and the longing to immerse myself in the vibrant Moroccan life. Nevertheless, what matters most is that I'm filled with renewed energy and an eagerness to embark on the journey through the majestic High Atlas Mountains.
Leaving Ouarzazate, I don't have much choice but to return to the main road. It's not exactly what I like the most, but the surrounding landscape captivates me completely. With snow-capped peaks in the distance, the desert stretching out on either side, and oases abundant with date palms, it's a sight so extraordinary that I can't let the passing cars bother me. As I pedal onward, the kilometres bringing me deeper into this enchanting scenery, the beauty only intensifies. The mountains reveal themselves in layers of vibrant colours – shades of orange, yellow, and red, reminiscent of the landscapes in northwestern Argentina but with the unmistakable aridness of the Sahara desert enveloping them. I find myself navigating through this vast expanse, right in the middle, alternating between expansive plateaus offering endless vistas and narrow valleys nestled between the mountains. In the Berber villages, minarets peek through the palm trees, their sand-coloured kasbahs standing tall, their weathered walls bearing witness to the passage of centuries. It's a sight unlike anything I've encountered before. While I've visited numerous oases in the past, they have always been situated within the desert itself, never at the foot of a mountain range as majestic as the Atlas.
As I pedal further through these lands, I find myself enveloped in a sense of enchantment around every turn. Suddenly, a delightful fragrance takes hold of my senses, catching me off guard. The aroma is so potent that it feels like I've taken a spoonful of wasabi, expanding my nostrils with its intensity. I glance around, trying to trace the source of this captivating scent, until my eyes settle on a valley to my right, adorned with a plantation of red and white roses. Never before have I encountered such a bewitching and almost aphrodisiac fragrance in any plantation I've passed by. Typically, my greatest joys on the road come from the visual and auditory stimuli. It might be the colours of a sunset over the sea or mountains, or the melodic song of birds and the lively chatter of monkeys in the jungle. However, this olfactory experience surpasses anything I've encountered before, aside from the irresistible aromas wafting from street food stalls whenever I arrive famished in a town. It's such a unique and remarkable sensation for me that I feel compelled to slow down, allowing myself to keep getting high on the intoxicating perfume that surrounds me.
As the afternoon draws to a close, I find myself ascending approximately 300 meters higher, reaching a base of 1500 meters. The lingering effect of that exquisite aroma, which took control of my senses hours ago, still holds me in its grasp. I can only break free from its allure once I reach the end of the final valley, where the city of Boulemane Dades emerges on the other side of the river. It appears like a hill adorned with a multitude of eyes, gazing out at the world. The density of the buildings, blending harmoniously with the earth-toned facades, creates a remarkable camouflage within the surroundings. Only the hundreds of small square windows punctuate this seamless integration. It is within one of those windows that I will find respite for the night, after the extraordinary day I have experienced.
Under normal circumstances, I would have continued cycling all the way to the top of the renowned Dades Gorge. However, since I am heading in the opposite direction, I decide to break away from my usual routine and embark on a refreshing change. I leave my bike behind in my room and embark on a 28-kilometer expedition on foot. Whether or not I'll be able to make it there and back in a single day remains uncertain, but that's precisely the beauty of my nomadic journey around the world—I seek adventure rather than certainties. Setting off early in the morning, I embrace a leisurely pace without any rush or stress, carrying nothing more than my trusty camera slung over my shoulder. My feet are adorned with the same Keen knock-offs I bought in Pokhara three years ago for a mere $15, which have been diligently repaired countless times by the skillful shoemakers I've encountered in African markets. Judging by their worn-out state, I might as well embrace the barefoot experience.
Just after crossing the familiar bridge that led me into Dades yesterday on my bike, I find myself at the mouth of the canyon. The gradual ascent begins immediately, and I stroll along the only available road, blending in with the other passersby. On my right, there's the bustling traffic, while on my left, the stream of the Dades river descends into the valley. Even at my leisurely walking pace, I can sense the increasing drama of the scenery. The mountains soar higher as the valley narrows, intensifying the verticality and depth of the surroundings. As the small towns come into view, consisting mostly of two or three-story houses, their facades form the very walls that line the route. If tour buses were to make a stop here, passengers could easily engage in a face-to-face conversation with someone leaning out the window of their house. In contrast, the rear part of these towns merges seamlessly with the slope of the mountain.
Several hours pass before the sun is finally high enough to light the base of the canyon. It takes me five to reach the base of the pass, where the gorge gets its most dizzying views. From there, I persevere for another 40 minutes walking uphill with a considered effort, winding over and over again the curves and counter-curves perforated on the slope. I finally make it to the top shortly after noon. In front of me I see the rocky slopes break with reckless verticality hundreds of meters below. The stream that had accompanied me is still intact there, barely visible from where I am standing. The views amaze me.
Several hours pass before the sun is finally high enough to light the base of the canyon. It takes me five hours to reach the base of the pass, where the gorge unveils its most breathtaking vistas. From this point onward, I persevere for another 40 minutes walking uphill with considerable effort. The road twists and turns, carving its way up the slope with countless curves and switchbacks. Finally, shortly after noon, I make it to the top. Before me, the rugged slopes plunge down with daring verticality, hundreds of meters down below. The stream that had accompanied me throughout my journey remains, barely visible from where I’m standing. The views are nothing short of astounding, capturing my awe and wonder.
I surrender myself completely to the act of contemplation, allowing the beauty of the scene to wash over me. Occasionally, my reverie is interrupted by the arrival of tour buses. They pull up to the side of the viewing deck, spitting out a swarm of tourists who seem more preoccupied with capturing the photo for the record than immersing themselves in the breathtaking vista. After a mere ten minutes, they hastily return to their bus, which had never ceased its engine's hum, and depart, leaving this place once again entirely to my solitary enjoyment.
Content and fulfilled, only the descent awaits me, but my feet hurt and the dwindling daylight suggest that I won't reach my destination before nightfall. With no need to prove anything, considering the success of this incredible day off walking, I decide to make my way down to the base of the pass and try hitchhiking. It doesn't take long before a friendly trucker stops to give me a lift. Our conversation is limited due to his limited French, but the journey is brief. Within half an hour, I spot from the truck the familiar bridge, standing at the gateway of Boulemane Dades just before sunset. It's the perfect time to satiate my ravenous appetite with a delectable tagine, and shortly thereafter, retreat to my bed, ready for a well-deserved rest.
The next morning, I wake up brimming with energy, eager to get back on my bike. Morocco continues to deliver day after day, surprising me with its incredible diversity. It's impossible not to notice the stark contrast of being in a more developed country. No matter how tough the challenges I face, there's always a rewarding treat awaiting me – whether it's a handful of dates, a refreshing glass of mint tea, a mouth-watering dinner, or a cozy bed to rest in. While I have always cherished the extreme outdoor life and embraced scarcity, at this stage of my journey, I am grateful for the added comfort that comes with development. Having experienced the full spectrum of challenges between pleasure and pain, I now relish in the adventure enhanced by this higher level of comfort. Everything hurts less in this country. The roads in the High Atlas Mountains are paved, and the traffic poses no bother. The gentle touch of the spring weather in May caresses my senses daily. Vibrant colours dazzle my sight, the fragrance of date palms and roses intoxicate my sense of smell, the echoes within the gorges delight my ears, and the rugged texture of the terrain stimulates my touch. These are reflected in the ease with which I smile and laugh in the dialogues that I hold with myself.
As the clock barely strikes noon and I have covered a mere 50 km since my departure, I find myself entering the Tinghir valley. Towering on either side are slopes of ocher-colored rock, ranging from shades of orange to pink and brown. Amidst this breathtaking landscape, a vibrant sea of date palms sways, enveloping the Berber kasbahs with their earthen walls. The remnants of ancient citadels surround them, their minarets pointing to the sky, as if whispering tales of the past. In harmony with the rest of the Atlas, every structure seamlessly blends with the natural hues, merging effortlessly into the mountains. In an instant, I am transported back to the era of caravans. Women wash their garments along the rocky banks of crystal-clear rivers, while men traverse the valley atop donkeys carrying bundles of fodder. In the distance, the resonant call to prayer from a mosque's loudspeaker fills the valley, adding a melodic touch to this timeless scene.
The road twists and turns, zigzagging along the mountainside. The short climbs reward me with breathtaking vistas, overlooking the lush tops of the date palm trees. Up and down, left and right, I continue my journey until I reach the northernmost point, where it feels as if I've stumbled into a narrow funnel. In just a few short kilometres, the once spacious valley shrinks to the width of a tunnel. The sun, once bathing expansive landscapes, now struggles to cast its light upon even a fraction of this corridor. Similar to my experience in the Dades gorge yesterday, I find myself in a space that gradually constricted without my realisation.
Green fields slip between the two towering walls that surround me as I navigate through. The road narrows to a mere strip, where houses squeeze to fit within the confines dictated by the geography. The space is barely wide enough for two vehicles and two pedestrians to pass. A single misstep could result in a collision with a car or a bus. Likewise, a small error by a driver could mean crashing into the façades of the houses. In these moments, I witness drivers showcasing their skill as they manoeuvre their vehicles through this needle-eye passage. Needless to say, one thing is to admire their skills from a distance. A very different one is when it is me lining up with a car, a bus, and a pedestrian and my survival hinges on each thread passing perfectly through its designated hole.
With each passing vehicle, my jaw clenches, grinding my teeth together. To avoid needing an excessive amount of dental implants by the end of the day, I choose to embrace irrational faith. I place my trust in the Moroccan drivers behind the wheel, hoping that they possess the aptitude and precision of Luke Skywalker as he pilots his ship toward the Death Star.
At last, I make it to the other end of this narrow valley, just before the Todra gorge, and by some stroke of luck, I'm still alive. The afternoon sun has already dipped below the horizon, leaving the valley floor cloaked in shadows. I find refuge for the night in a small hotel, half of which is carved into the vertical rock face. As the night draws to a close, I recline on the vibrant cushions of the terrace, situated on the hotel's fourth floor. Behind me, the solid rock looms, while in front of me, a narrow strip of green valley stretches out, illuminated by the soft glow of the street lamps. With a cup of mint tea in hand, I soak in the warmth needed to stay outside a little longer, gazing up at the stars. Above, the towering walls of the valley frame a slice of the night sky, as black as the depths of space. I lie there, fighting off sleep, wanting to savour this moment for just a little while longer.
The following morning, I step out of my room, layered up in three garments, only to find the valley still engulfed in darkness. The sun sits too low on the horizon, its feeble rays unable to reach us just yet. I embrace the unhurried pace of the morning and decide to wait on the terrace, sipping on a cup of mint tea, until the first rays of light finally make their appearance. Over breakfast, the tantalising flavours of the food are matched by the mesmerising display of colours, lights, and shadows dancing across the rugged slopes. As the sun ascends, I witness the landscape transform, unveiling its intricate beauty in new and captivating ways. I take my time, fully immersing myself in these sublime moments that deserve to be savoured slowly. In fact, I've made up my mind to devote the entire day to this enchanting place.
As I step outside, the gentle touch of the sun's warmth allows me to shed my layers and comfortably stroll in a t-shirt. Following the same road by which I arrived yesterday, I walk a few hundred meters until a curve that signals the end of the valley. As I turn the corner, a rock wall gradually unfolds before my eyes. I continue my leisurely pace, relishing the anticipation of what lies beyond. Step by step, the walls tower higher and higher until, at the completion of the turn, I find myself engulfed between two imposing cliffs, their tops concealed unless I look upwards to the sky. The intense hue of blue above confirms that the sun still shines brightly, but within this abyss, its rays find no way in. Down here at the dimly lit bottom, a turbulent breeze that rebounds off the rocky surfaces, send shivers down my spine. The road, accompanied by a stony riverbed, winds through the base of the gorge, which, were it not for the echoing sound of flowing water, would appear desolate and dry. Interestingly, the grandeur of the Todra Gorge evokes memories of Victoria Falls—a place seemingly carved into the earth with a single mighty blow. Unsurprisingly, this awe-inspiring location is indeed a very touristy place. Fairly enough, it's hard to resist the allure of this place, and as is often the case, mass tourism is the usual tradeoff one needs to concedes to get to marvel at these natural wonders.
While the Dades Gorge was remarkable in its own right, I made the right decision in prioritising and including this breathtaking gorge in my route to spend a day here before moving forward across the Atlas.
