Marrakesh Mama: From the Atlantic to the High Atlas

I am living in an outdoor sun-seeking girl’s paradise (yes, Mom, I am wearing my sunblock). Sunday and Monday found us basking in the warm glow of the big yellow orb next to the Atlantic Ocean in sunny Essaouira. And, just four days later, we were soaking up golden rays against a back drop of snow-covered peaks in the High Atlas Mountains. Fret not, in between I did do some teaching. But this week’s highlights were all about the sea and the mountains.

Essaouira, about three hours west of Marrakech by bus, is a sweet seaside city with a white-washed medina, an active fishing port, and a long, sandy beach best known for its wind. It attracts surfers, kite-boarders, wind-surfers, and people like us – just looking for a sunny break from the city. As COP22 excitement reached a frenzy in Marrakech, we hit the road for the coast. The bus logistics were remarkably straightforward and hassle-free. Three hours after we boarded in Marrakech, we were deposited just outside the medina walls in Essaouira. A two-minute walk put us into the heart of the medina with beautiful white plaster buildings mixed with traditional Moroccan doors. We wound our way down a quiet alley to find a place to stay. Andy, who was incredibly excited about the prospect of staying in a riad, a traditional Moroccan house set around an open-air courtyard, readily agreed to check out the Riad Nakhla. We arrived to an eerily dim lobby, where we were told they could happily give us rooms a bit later when the “small problem” with the power was resolved. We decided to cross our fingers and trust the universe to take care of this “small problem.” We deposited our bags and said we be back in a couple of hours to check in.

We got busy exploring the medina in the best way possible – completely lost. The good news is, now that we have been hardened by the Marrakech medina, there is nothing left to intimidate us about medina exploration anywhere. The merchants in Essaouira were remarkably friendly and low-key. The alleys were uncrowded. We wandered happily for hours. We remarked at the size and number of cats everywhere. The feline DNA strand being shared in Essaouira is on the verge of creating some kind of abnormal super cat. We saw well-fattened cats that looked to be a mix between house cats and bobcats. With a never-ending supply of fresh fish provided by the fishing port and the local restaurants, Essaouira is the ultimate choice in stray cat living. In a way it was a nice break from our usual Moroccan cat scavenger hunt which typically ends with us feeling guilty for not adopting a scrawny cat or ten. We felt confident that every stray cat in Essaouira was better cared for than any house cat would be chez-Borch.

Not sure what this guy was looking at, but
it was a little creepy.

Apart from the cats, we enjoyed delicious food, gallery after gallery of Moroccan artwork, and the frenetic activity of the fishing port with fish sellers gutting their just-caught supply and setting it out for sale. In addition to the world’s biggest cats, Essaouira also sports an impressive collection of enormous sea gulls which spend the afternoon hovering attentively over the port just waiting for the leftovers. We spent some time strolling along the beachside promenade and soaking up some sun. The beach itself wasn’t anything to write home about – needing a good green-up day before I would be tempted to enjoy the sand. But, the wind and the waves attracted their share of water sports enthusiasts.

Weird child with beautiful plates

Hats on a wall

The universe took care of us as we had hoped, and, when we returned to our riad, we found two traditionally-decorated Moroccan rooms with functioning electricity waiting for us. Our window provided a great view of the mosque directly in front of us (which, by the way is not a bonus when the call to prayer at 5:30 a.m. pipes directly into your room) as well as a peek of the ocean with just a little neck-craning. The roof-top terrace was the real gem, though. It was super moon night, and, as we took in the moonrise over the city and the sunset over the Atlantic, I felt incredibly grateful, once again, for this amazing opportunity.

Rooftop views from Riad Nakhla

And, as if that were not enough, we followed that sunshine to the Atlas Mountains at the end of the week. November 18^th is Moroccan Independence Day, so it’s an official holiday weekend here. We headed for Imlil, the jumping-off point for local hikes into the mountains, on a “grand taxi,” which is really an over-stuffed minibus. Andy, having done this once already last week, oversaw getting us to the bus parking lot at a reasonable hour. We ran/walked to the lot so that we could find a bus, negotiate a price, and sit and wait for 45 minutes for it to fill up and for the driver to eat a leisurely breakfast at the stand on the curb. We knew that this was part of the deal in choosing to take budget-friendly transport. So, we tried to sit back and enjoy the local color and tell our own stories about the people on the bus while we waited. Brianna and I decided that the little lady sitting directly in front of us was definitely the ringleader, and we vowed to stick with her. After we had been waiting to depart for what seemed like an eternity, she marched off the bus and had a few loud words with the driver, who promptly started the bus and left it to idle while he ate his breakfast. She continued to harass him through the window until we eventually pulled out. She kept repeating, “Imlil,” so we decided she would make sure that we made it to our destination.

We pulled out of the lot with a full bus by U.S. standards (meaning every seat was full), but, as we drove out of town, the bus really started to fill up. We picked up people and baskets and bags wherever we saw them waiting on the road. Eventually there were people packed into every nook and cranny of the bus with children wedged on laps and the money-collector hanging off the bumper. As we started up the mountain with its switchbacks, hugging the edges of drops into oblivion, the little boy squashed in the aisle next to me started turning green. Ladies began fanning him and unzipping his jacket. A plastic bag came out, and I looked away – selfishly praying that this packed can of sardines was not about to start smelling like a bag of vomit. I breathed deeply and attempted to find the positive in the situation. I decided I was thankful for all the warm bodies surrounding me. I figured they would provide extra padding if the bus should just roll off the edge of the road. Just as I had come to terms with the realization that my fate was completely out of my own hands, and I had decided to let the universe (and that feisty little lady) take care of me, we came to a halt in the town of Asni. This was not Imlil.

Imlil street

The bus driver told everyone to get out. This was the end of the line. The feisty lady got feistier, got some money back, and disappeared. We shuffled off the bus and onto another that was allegedly going to take us the rest of the way to Imlil. First, however, we needed to idle for another 15 minutes next to the exhaust pipe of neighboring bus. Just as I was about to keel over from a carbon monoxide headache, someone decided it was time to get on the road. The next part of the journey was similar to the first. We packed people in at every turn. Brianna and I sat awkwardly squashed across from a woman with an adorable little girl. We shared some homemade cookies, and, lacking any vocabulary to warn them that they contained peanut butter, I watched anxiously to make sure no one stopped breathing. They both seemed content, and we happily smiled at each other until we, at last, arrived in Imlil and unfolded ourselves from the seat and stumbled into the fresh air.

The mountains were right there – hovering over us with their snow-capped peaks and rugged rocks. Imlil is a little mountain town where you can get a last meal and rent climbing gear before you take off on your adventure. It’s the starting point for the trek up Toubkal, North Africa’s highest peak at 14,000 feet. We were just out for a day hike, so we simply enjoyed lunch on a rooftop terrace, where we could take in the views, before setting off up a steep path past donkeys and carpet vendors – looking for our own bit of mountain peace.

Odd child found along the trail

The views were fabulous from the start. First, we enjoyed the contrast of the towns tucked into the desert brown and red colors of the hills with the stark white snow and the clear blue sky. Eventually the towns disappeared, and the river bed down below became a lush green oasis. We could see goats grazing in the patches of green. Sure-footed donkeys and their drivers lumbered past at remarkably fast speeds. We followed the sun in the direction of the looming peak of Toubkal. We stopped for a Coke at a mountainside shack, where cold water from the spring cooled the drinks. We climbed for nearly three hours, finally reaching our first patch of ice, before deciding it was time to head back down and beat the sunset. Surrounded by high peaks, the sun goes down early, and darkness and cold arrive quickly. We covered the last of the steep downhill before losing the warmth of the sun, and we were serenaded on our hike through the river bed by a couple of girls singing happily as they followed the same path.

Our singing companions

Dusk arrived as we made it back into town, and we opted for a cushier shared taxi van with four other hikers to take us back to Marrakech (fearing we may have missed the last bus of the day). Chilly and tired, we all conked out in the taxi and remained blissfully oblivious to whatever kind of dark-mountain driving antics that may have taken place. We arrived back in Marrakech unscathed and were soon absorbed by the throngs of people crowding into the main square for Moroccan Independence Day celebrations. The mountains were but a fading memory. There was nothing to do, but embrace the energy and the crowd, eat ice cream, and get swept up in the celebration. Happy Independence Day indeed.