A Moroccan dream: From glamping in the Sahara to chaos in the souks
I sabbatum at the very meridian of a giant sand dune, soaking in the magnificence that surrounded me. The lord's day was setting over Erg Chebbi in the Sahara desert, and I watched in awe as humongous mounds of sand – reddish-brown in the light of 24-hour interval – turned into a glorious shade of gilt I had only seen in postcards and movies.
Information technology had taken my friend and I nearly ii days, by car and then by camel, to get to this point in our journeying to the Sahara. We had set off from Marrakech in western Morocco, a city that derives its amuse from chaos, with its humming souks featuring annihilation and everything from argan oil facial products to snake charmers and monkey handlers.
Our road trip, thankfully, was all most placidity contemplation. Even between naps in our 4x4, I woke upward to vastly different landscapes, from the snowy peaks of the Tizi n'Tichka mountain pass through the Loftier Atlas mountains, to rows of traditional mud brick houses in Ouarzazate, to the stunning river canyons of Todgha Gorge. I was fascinated by the sight of nomads who lived in the mountains, riding their donkeys, their goats and sheep and camels grazing nearby.
And then, almost out of nowhere, the sand dunes suddenly came into view, their ruby-red mounds gleaming in the sunday, looking more sublime than words or even photographs could limited.
SLEEPING IN Way IN THE DESERT
Ane bumpy, 30-minute camel ride later, we arrived at our lodgings for our dark's stay among the dunes. Before our trip to Morocco, I had contacted over a dozen bout operators, merely to discover that "luxury camp" could mean anything from camps with running water and electricity, to camps where a toilet meant a hole in the sand somewhere nearby.
Since I had no intention of baring my bottom in the freezing wintry air, I was relieved to discover that my camp was as as luxurious as advertised, with comfortable beds, western-mode toilets and fifty-fifty hot showers. (We ended upwardly paying 840 Euros, or about S$1280, for a iv-twenty-four hours-three-night tour for ii.)
Tempting though it was to remain in our cushy army camp, my friend and I left immediately to explore the dunes. Nosotros huffed and puffed our style up a small sand dune by our camp, marvelling at the mode our boots sank with each step.
At the very summit, I took a fistful of sand, rubbing information technology betwixt my fingers, feeling its fine and silky texture, looking in wonder every bit it fell similar molten golden from my hands. I followed with interest the intricate tracks of a small scarab beetle, every bit it made its way across the sand. When night fell, equally the only two guests at our army camp, we sabbatum beneath the starry skies and counted shooting stars. I was utterly thrilled to become acquainted with a whole new function of the world I had just read and dreamed of.
NAVIGATING THE STREETS OF FES
The sand dunes may have been an oasis of peace and quiet discovery, merely the rest of Morocco was annihilation but. After another night'southward stay in a small-scale town almost the border of the dunes, our commuter dropped us off in Fes, a lively, nearly disorienting urban center in northeastern Morocco.
We spent a day exploring the city'due south old medina – well, not and so much exploring equally getting lost. Despite being armed with both (the rather unreliable) Google Maps and a physical map, we got lost on our manner to the city's famed traditional leather tanneries. We ended upwards wandering effectually the medina's maze-similar array of big streets and small, unsettlingly quiet alleyways – there are said to be thousands of them – until my friend wisely suggested we followed someone who looked similar a tour guide back to the busier streets, which felt safer.
The experience, while exhilarating, was somewhat dampened by the presence of rather persistent men who positioned themselves at every street corner, repeatedly offer unsolicited advice and directions – for a fee of grade – adding to the confusion and chaos.
While I never felt like I was in danger, I was overwhelmed at times by the sheer number of people trying to become our attention or invite us into their shops. There was likewise just too much to see and have in, including live chickens on auction in the middle of the street, men and donkeys carrying heavy loads, shouting at u.s.a. to get out of the mode, and rows and rows of shops selling trinkets of every mensurate.
SHARPEN YOUR BARGAINING SKILLS
It was at 1 of these shops where I got my first real lesson in bargaining. I was feeling rather pleased with myself for purchasing a pretty satchel fabricated of camel leather for almost 50 percent of the seller'due south initial offer. But I quickly learned that I had probably paid also much anyhow, when, at a shop selling handwoven appurtenances, I got abroad with paying only about 25 percent of the asking price for a cashmere scarf and a lovely throw blanket made of cactus silk.
The trick, I learned, was to determine early the maximum corporeality I was willing to pay and, more importantly, not experience embarrassed when sellers looked upon my offer with false dismay.
As it turned out, this was a lesson we could utilize everywhere, since virtually every transaction in Kingdom of morocco required a niggling bargaining. We did our enquiry by searching online or asking locals for a rough sense of what we needed to pay for annihilation – especially after a human being looking after an official telco shop tried to charge usa double for SIM cards, and a taxi commuter charged united states of america five times more than we needed to pay for a ride in Casablanca.
Autumn IN LOVE WITH THE BLUE Metropolis
Fes was so intense, that it was a huge relief when we finally arrived in Chefchaouen, located about a 4-hour bus ride abroad. The small town is well-known for its picturesque, Instagram-friendly blue buildings in its old medina, and I far preferred its tranquil temper to Fes or Marrakech. Nosotros spent a lovely afternoon exploring its nooks and crannies, taking hundreds of photos in the medina. At about 7pm, we fabricated our way upwards a colina to the Castilian mosque, which offered some stunning views of Chefchaouen at dusk.
Food in Kingdom of morocco was generally succulent and nonetheless inexpensive, even in the most touristy areas. We had tiffin at a lovely restaurant called Bab Ssour in Chefchaouen, which served the most delicious squid tagine I had ever tasted – all for merely 45 dirhams (Southward$6.40) a serving. A regular three-grade repast at a restaurant nigh the iconic Blue Gate in Fes comprising a soup or a salad, a main (typically meat skewers, couscous or a tagine) and fruit cost about 70 dirhams (Southward$14), and we loved sitting there sipping on Moroccan mint tea after dinner, enjoying some respite from the madness.
But my all-time nutrient-related memory was that of a modest, rundown restaurant located in the capital city Rabat, which appeared to be run past friendly, middle-aged women. Nosotros had walked in but because we had been also hungry to walk whatsoever further. Despite my initial concerns about food hygiene, I was delighted to observe that they served a lovely chicken and spud tagine. It was simple, homely goodness, and I could easily have believed that it had been prepared by my grandmother – that is, if my grandmother were Moroccan, still alive, and knew how to cook chicken tagine.
And hither, almost in the middle of nowhere, was to me the very essence of Morocco. Subsequently all, if I had learned annihilation at all, it was that in this dizzying, fascinating country, the next surprise was always just around the corner – in the tiniest of restaurants, or at the elevation of a sand dune.
Source: https://cnalifestyle.channelnewsasia.com/travel/moroccan-dream-from-glamping-in-the-sahara-to-chaos-in-the-city-254591
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