Oases of Morocco

Keen to leave what was a stunning but scorching hot Merzouga, we got on the early bus out of town and towards Tinghir. The journey wasn’t too long and in each short moment that I woke up the bus became more and more busy. With every strained rise and fall of my eyelids the scenery changed from empty expanses of rocky desert, into a lush valley bursting with life. Enormous palm trees and swathes of agricultural land soon filled the river valley, allowing for more towns to thrive and indicated our proximity to Tinghir.

Tinghir

We came to Tinghir so that we could visit the Todgha Gorge, however, we weren’t prepared for how beautiful the town itself would be. Set on a hill, the earthen architecture rose in stunning monotone from the ground to gaze over the surrounding oasis.

Despite the supposed magnificence of the gorge, we decided we would head there on the next day then grab the bus onwards in the afternoon. The reason for our laziness was our long day of travel, which included being dropped 2.5km outside of town (despite asking the driver to stop), and my bank cards ceasing to work. Confident in our plan, we finally found the large hostel door down an alley and, with a sigh of impending relaxation, walked up the stairs. Unfortunately, our relaxation would have to wait because we had stumbled in on a heated argument between the small Moroccan owner and a group of Swiss girls. Half expecting weapons to be drawn within the next minute, we moulded into the dark recesses of a corner which helpfully had snacks to nibble on quietly. After the shouting had eased and we had finished off a bowl of nuts, we checked in and got on with our day.

A quick wander around town to try my bank card again led us to Supratours, where we enquired about the buses for the next day. The only one was at 5:20am. That’s not a time that people should be awake. Neither Ollie or I are morning people so this did not sit well with us, but it was our only option. After booking we realised it was getting late and we now needed to see Todgha gorge that day. So, to the taxi rank we went. But then, in this inconspicuous square, a strange feeling washed over me. There was no harassment, shouting or general hostility that I usually expect from a taxi rank. Stranger still, no one even asked if we needed a taxi. A tranquil taxi rank was an oxymoron to me, the world had truly been flipped on its head. Despite a real life miracle occurring in front of our eyes, we still had the problem of needing a taxi. Eventually a man begrudgingly got up and said he’d take us but only with a full car. And as if by magic, some women turned up, dressed in very fancy full length dresses, ready to go the same way as us. We had a full car.

The gorge was around 20 minutes outside of town, up past the mountain villages but still following the incredible oasis. Once we had arrived, we realised that today was the festival we had first heard about in Fez, where a sheep or goat is killed (Eid al-Adha). The gorge was absolutely rammed (pardon the sheep related pun). Cars were chugging out fumes and people weaved in and out of the cars trying to find a good spot along the already overcrowded river. Music was playing and people seemed to be having fun, but Ollie and I were a little underwhelmed. The sides of the gorge were undoubtedly impressive but, being two horribly misanthropic people, the crowds had put us off. So, with a steely determination to rid ourselves of humanity, we kept walking out of the narrowest part until there were no cars or people. The valley had opened up to our left and right and the deep crimson rocks soaked in the last rays of sunlight that graced their faces. We headed left for a small walk up the valley, clambering and exploring, the noise of people had gone, now only the rattle of knocking stones underfoot and the chatter of hidden birds carried through the valley.

With not too much of the day left, we headed back. We were a little deflated that we couldn’t walk further due to the encroaching darkness but we also began thinking how we were going to get back to town. No one was leaving. There were no taxis. It seemed as though everyone was in the canyon for the long haul. Hitchhiking was our only option and within a minute we were picked up. Our rescuers were two French Moroccan guys.

The driver was a maniac and I was convinced that I would die on those mountainous Moroccan roads with him at the wheel. The only thing that kept my mind off my impending and violent death was the array of veritable bangers they were playing a full volume. Admittedly, I had no idea what the French rap was saying, but the bass was heavy enough to interfere with my brainwaves and keep me from hurling myself from the car in a desperate plea for safety. Eventually, we stopped at an extremely busy layby and it turned out to be an incredible viewpoint of the oasis and town as the sun was setting.

Back in Tinghir, and now beginning to get a grasp on the importance of this festival, we decided not to wander around aimlessly looking for food like we had for lunch, and instead we went back to the same place. This establishment was a hotel that seemed completely devoid of not only guests, but also staff. But eventually, after finding someone they set up a table for us on the roof, where we ate a dinner comprised of an artery clogging heap of meat and fries. After dinner, we came out into the streets which were packed with people drinking tea and chatting. It was a great atmosphere but we went back to the hostel and unwound on the roof terrace so we were ready for the next day.

Ouarzazate

Our arrival to Ourazazate was an early one and we decided to book our bus to Marrakech immediately after getting off. This of course made no difference and to our dismay only the early bus was available again. Our hostel for the night was Cinema Riad in Tabounte which was just across the river from the main city of Ouarzazate. It was empty but accommodating, which was becoming the norm for us travelling in the off-season. Soon after settling in we decided to find a taxi and head off to Ait Ben Haddou.

Once our taxi had arrived and he’d decided to request a ridiculous price, we spent a long time arguing with him. After realising he was as stubborn and unreasonable as it was possible to be, we just got out, paid what we had decided on, and got on with our day, trying to ignore his tirade of vitriol in the background.

Ait Ben Haddou is a fortified village along a former caravan route between the Sahara and Marrakech. It is undoubtedly the largest Earthen Clay village previously used in Game of Thrones that I have ever seen and we were keen to have an explore. However, our hunger for exploration was beaten into submission by our gastronomical hunger. Food was on our minds. On this day, when there wasn’t a gust of wind and the sun was searing, we would have loved anything but a tagine, but no. Tagine, tagine or tagine for lunch. Chicken tagine it was. Despite its heat, it was actually very tasty which reinvigorated me for the struggle up ahead.

The struggle came in the form of avoiding individual swarms of tourists. They ranged in numbers from 5 to over 30 and they were everywhere. We managed to duck and weave around them in the open areas but in the ancient narrow alleyways there was no escape. They left no alleyway untouched. It was a nightmare. The only solace we found was on top of the hill opposite the village where the view was pretty incredible.

After a mediocre lunch of pizza (because we wanted anything but tagine) we looked for a way back to Ouarzazate. No taxis in sight, so we asked around if we could get on a tourist shuttle but no room at the inn. Instead, a guy offered us a lift which we ended up paying for, but we at least got a chat out of him and no arguments on the price.

That evening, still not ready to jump back on the tagine train, we had our second pizza of the day. It was small but it was the only place we could find selling food while Eid Al-Adha was taking place. It was safe to say that we missed the large cheap portions of Fes. Hungry and tired we stayed in the hostel that evening, dreaming of the foods of days gone by.

Final thoughts

Tinghir was a gem and one of the surprises of the trip and while Ait Ben Haddou had the looks, it felt like its personality and soul had been rasped away by the unceasing hordes of tourists. Back at the hostel we were looking forward to getting back into a bustling city like Fes again. We hoped Marrakech could deliver.