A Mirage of Morocco
Walking through the clay labyrinth of a Moroccan city is an assault on the senses.
There's a kaleidoscope of colours from ornate tiles and psychedelic rugs set against the red earthen clay. Sweet perfumes and the scent of fragrant spices spill out from the bustling market stalls. The narrow streets overflow with chaotic activity: donkey carts rattling by, shopkeepers calling out with practiced charm or pushy insistence, children weaving through crowds, and the persistent symphony of hammering, bargaining, and distant drums.
After the initial sensory overload subsides, you find yourself balancing between caution and curiosity. In Marrakesh and Fes, everyone has a story to sell along with their wares. Everyone has a history, a hustle and a glint in their eye.
The mountains tell a different story entirely. While preparing to summit Mount Toubkal at dawn, our guide pulled an unexpected disappearing act, vanishing as we strapped on our crampons at 4:30 AM. "He's known for this," another local shrugged. "Probably smoking hashish somewhere up there." As the dark icy night glowed blue before morning, we wondered if our guide had found enlightenment while we sat freezing and wishing to be back in our beds. When he eventually materialised, his intimate knowledge of the mountain made our belated ascent not just possible, but memorable. Some guides, it seems, operate on Moroccan Mountain Time, no adventure is rushed, and the summit is scheduled around the morning hashish.
Only days after ice crunched beneath our boots in the Atlas mountains, we found our shoes filled with sand as we arrived at the edge of the Sahara. Our first glimpse of the desert came at Aït Benhaddou, a fortified village established in the 11th century, once a strategic outpost on the trans-Saharan trade route of a Berber Muslim empire that once stretched from north Africa into southern Spain. From across the valley, this ancient village rose like a mirage, a honeycomb of ochre mud-brick buildings lined with palm trees. It’s easy to image scenes from Lawrence of Arabia, Gladiator or Game of Thrones, that were all filmed here. Even during our visit, we could only see the city from the outside, it remained off-limits, cordoned off for the filming of Christopher Nolan’s forthcoming film, The Odyssey.
Our guide, a Berber wrapped in flowing robes, spoke with the authority and deliberate, regal gestures of one accustomed to commanding attention. Among his well practiced monologue of history, culture and film facts, he shared how the relentless advance of climate change had rendered farming increasingly precarious, reducing once fertile lands into barren plots struggling beneath the relentless sun. Agriculture here was becoming a fading art, threatened by each rising degree.
He led us out of the blaring sun into his grandmother's home, a structure built traditionally from mud and straw, which was shockingly cool inside. His grandmother, a gentle, elderly woman, welcomed us with an abiding patience, gracefully navigating the routine of receiving endless waves of tourists. While grateful for the hospitality and insights shared, I also understood that this was a curated tourist experience. The village itself now seemed to function more as a living film set, staged meticulously for film productions and passing crowds, rather than preserving a traditional way of life for locals. I felt my own my complicity in this process. Busloads of tourists like us are undeniably a mixed blessing, providing crucial income yet inevitably reshaping the fabric of local culture. Between these structured encounters, smaller, more authentic moments could only be glimpsed, obscured behind language barriers and cultural subtleties, just beyond reach.
Morocco exists at a fascinating intersection of influences - Middle Eastern hospitality and decorum melds with Southern European expression and appreciation for life, set against the wild, complex African rhythms of the continent beneath. This creates not just beautiful architecture and cuisine, but a particular mindset. The multilingualism alone, with French, Spanish, Arabic, and Berber languages flowing easily from shopkeepers and guides, speaks to generations of adaptation to a tumultuous past.
Moving through Morocco, as much as finding new and thrilling experiences, we were reacquainted with our own limitations. In chaotic city markets, restless activity met us at every turn. Ascending a mountain cloaked by darkness, we confronted the physical challenge of navigating uncertain terrain with guides who moved at their own pace. And in desert sands that shift constantly, covering and uncovering the past, and where the ground moves with every step, we sensed how culture and history themselves are never fully stable or complete. It has left us intrigued and, in the best way, a little unsure of our footing.
