Tangier to Chefchaouen

Considering we were in a sweltering 4 bunk cabin with an elderly Mohammed beneath us continuously attempting to clear his throat, sleep endured till dawn.

I awoke feeling like the wrong end of a camel and decided to get up and get some fresh air from the small slit in the corridor window. It had no effect in pulling me back into full consciousness. Even the strange tea I bought from the small cart onboard, proved ineffective. It’s effervescent chemically lemon tang still lingering on my tongue as the heavy metal wheels came screeching into Tangier station.

The station was very new and clean, mimicked by the road and new builds outside. We were hassled by a few taxi drivers, all providing us different information on how to get Chefchaouen. Eventually we went with the cheapest option. A taxi ride into the port area where we could book a bus to Chefchaouen leaving in a few hours at midday. On the way the very expressive taxi driver kept trying to convince us to take his tour of the amazing Tangier to see the ‘Lighthouse and big cave of Hercules’. This obviously involved a handful of dirham and no guarantee of making it back in time for the bus. So we politely declined. He dropped us off at what looked like his friends shop but apparently an actual bus stop…. It was closed. Losing faith in this guys reliability, we said our goodbyes and wandered off for a mint tea to collect our thoughts.

We decided that Tangier was not a place to hang around it for too long. I can’t comment on the city as a whole but the port area was seedy and seemed dangerous, reminiscent of a tired, weary European settlement.

We decided we should ‘get the hell outta dodge’ as soon as possible. Whilst realising this, we stumbled across our taxi driver from the train station and negotiations began for a taxi fare to Chefchaouen. It started high and ended up being quite reasonable, only double what the bus fare would have been for the two of us. It was off season and this guy seemed desperate so bartering was simple and it meant we would arrive just after midday, saving plenty of time. So he rang his friend who would be taking us and after a quick stop at the police station to log our travel out of town to Chefchaouen, we were off.

The driver was very friendly and we communicated in a concoction of Spanish, French and English. He also asked me to have a conversation with his 10 year old son over the phone, who spoke perfect American toned english, explaining how we wants to grow up and design cars for Mercedes. And there we were, in his father’s Mercedes that looked like it had made it out of a German factory in the last World War, speedometer wavering like an alcoholics hand and dashboard laden with all sorts of inexplicable trinkets.

Typical conversational classics that we conjured up with a limited knowledge of a handful of languages included, ‘A quantas hueres pour arrivé dans le Chefchaouen amigo’ and ‘Tu l’habite in Maroc, tu le…erm….all your life?’.

Just as we were getting to a pinnacle in the creation of a true European language, a car ahead of us just came out of a turn, began skidding and completed a full 360 degree turn as it passed us on the other side of the road, ending up in a ditch. Thank god there weren’t many cars behind us and it narrowly survived what could have become a fatal accident. Rif turns to the driver and asks whether there were many accidents on this road. Sitting in anticipation of a reassuring reply, I was stunned by his retort.

‘Beaucoup, beaucoup!’

The journey took about 3 hours and the ride was fun, but adrenaline fuelled at times. We got to stop by a lake and take some snaps but were prohibited from taking pictures of the rest of the journey due to some high profile houses in the area. Or so we were told.

The roads wound around the valley edges as we trundled along towards the Rif mountains. We were finally there. Rif had a constant smile on his face as we entered the lands of his birth name. He had a glow on his face as if he had returned to a place of his belonging. Content with the world we took a final corner and had the first glimpse at our home for 3 days. Chefchaouen. Small, old and full of character, tucked in under two looming peaks known as the ‘Two Horns’ which were steeped in an eerie mist at the time.

The trademark blue paint of it’s medina, stuck out of the green countryside like a beacon to all those weary from travel. We climbed the steep roads into the new part of the town until we reached the top western edge of the medina. Bab Souk, the gate named after the market that still has locals selling fresh fish under it’s archways. We paid the driver, said goodbye and then dodged the many locals offering hotels into the gate and into another world.

Chefchaouen (pronounced shef-shao-wen) for me, represents all that is good and honest in Morocco. As we walked through that old stone gate with it’s high arch, littered with fishmongers, we entered a world of blue, a world where time slowed and people smiled, a land of winding streets and dim glowing street lamps, bouncing deep evening turquoise off the sea washed walls.

After a steepish climb up a street to the left of the gate we found our home for the next 3 days, Casa Perleta. Beset into the side of the street down a few steps is an absolute haven. We were welcomed by the extremely friendly and invaluable link to the town, Begonia. A spanish woman who had moved and settled to this sleeping edge of Morocco and who provided us with all the hints and tips to enjoy what the town had to offer. We had mint tea and filled in the check-in forms whilst warming by a well lit fire in the hearth by reception. The Casa was an old house, renovated in the towns legendary blue with spacious rooms and a view of the town and hills beyond that set my adventurous spirit in motion.

The afternoon was spent walking the streets, taking in the smells and sounds and visiting the well recommended Casa Hasan for dinner. The food was astounding, the service by Saleem excellent and became our eatery for dinner the next few nights. Lamb tagine served bubbling hot with spiced prunes and crisp almonds, all shovelled down with freshly baked bread, olives and mint tea. Heavenly.

But as the rains came in force, we retired to our room for a well deserved nights rest. Sleep coming fast as the pitter patter of water on the tiles outside our window, washed away the fatigue from travelling across the country.

Waking early to a misty morning, we hoped for the sun to break through and warm up the day before our trek up to the unfinished mosque on the hill overlooking the town. Breakfast was served by the fire in reception. We were the only ones in the house that night so we enjoyed a quiet petit dejeuner of bread, olive oil, goats cheese and coffee. Fuel for the walking ahead of us.

On Begonia’s instruction we turned right out of the Casa and walked straight, along the highest point of the medina until we came upon the path up to the mosque. It had stopped raining and it looked liked a lot of the locals had the same idea to head up to see the view from the base of one of the ‘Two Horns’. As we walked further and further away from the town, the view behind us unfolded in a glorious array of tightly woven buildings. The tapestry that was Chefchaouen, transformed as the sun broke from behind the clouds and the blues and browns of the structures shot out from every face of this beautiful and unique place.

The walk took us by Berber trails cutting up into the sheer rock faces to our left, which slowly opened into outstretching green plains of grazing herds, watched over by Jedi like hooded shepherds.

We were joined on the trail by groups of teenagers on their spring break, guitars in hand and music playing from their phones. Our quicker pace meant we preceded most of the droves to the top and had the platform around the unfinished mosque, over looking the town, all to ourselves.

The views were amazing over the town and surrounding lowlands and as usual the customary pictures at the top were taken.

The mountain air filled our lungs as we made the walk back into town and down the eastern wall of the medina, past the women washing their clothes in the river that came down from the Rif ridge. Small restaurants and cafés added to the ambience of the walk, the sounds of clinking glasses and conversation rising above the undertone set by the flowing river. Tributaries would spring up next to the main stream and cascade down in waterfalls as locals strolled up and down, admiring the view and the slow pace of life.

Serenity is the word that came to mind that lazy afternoon.

We had lunch in the main square, under the Kasbah which gave the aged town a medieval feel, complete with the Jedi council, a group of old Berbers that hung around at the dilapidated mint tea establishment at the north end of the square.

We recuperated back at Casa Perleta, with a mint tea and refreshing conversation with one of the many Mohammed that worked in the house. With our legs recharged, we decided to explore the actual medina wall itself. We had seen it winding up around the town on a steep ascent of the hill it was built upon. There had been a small trail up to the top and like any self respecting itinerant it had to be wandered.

An hour, a bottle of water and around 347 deep breaths and we had reached the top of the wall. Tired but satisfied, we looked down on the town which now looked like a model village just within a grasp. In reality it was quite a drop back into town…

We walked along the perimeter of the wall, peering through small arrow loops at the town below. Our sight seeing tour of the world above the wall was cut short as the clouds rolled in and rain could be seen coming our way over the hills at an alarming rate…

So we cut down through an archway back into the dense thicket of streets, navigating our way south until we hit a larger street and turned right, hopefully taking us back to Bab Souk. Working in these basic right and left directions really helped us not to get lost, even know eventually it would happen, you still had an inclination towards the direction home. As sleep came, so did the thunder. The storm raged for a while and I managed to capture a shot of the lightning in the far distance over the hills in the view from our window.

The storm had cleared by morning and it seemed had cleansed the sky of the rain we had the last few days. Blue skies reigned overhead and heat baked down on our shoulders as we had breakfast on the terrace overlooking town.

I was beginning to love the simple breakfast with the olives and goats cheese full of taste and nothing like the ‘versions’ we get sold at home!

We had to book tickets to Fez for the next day and this involved a walk out of the Bab Souk into the new town and down to the limits to the south western edge. Begonia accompanied us half of the way to the post office and directed us on how to come back through the market and a place to eat fresh meat.

Tickets booked and paid for we made the steep walk back up to the new town square via the Monday market. If you are in Chefchaouen on a Monday I would definitely recommend a trip to this Riffian market that takes place to the south of the new town on a road that twists and turns back up to the Post Maroc. The mix of fruit, clothes, kettles and junk made the walk a pleasure. Watching the master barterers at work, shaving pennies off of their daily deals and necessary purchases; out of custom, enjoyment and need.

Rif walked among his people like a king would amongst his subjects. Brushing his hand along the sacks of produce from the hills of his people, a glint in his eye and an unwavering posture that exuded pride.

We had done it. Rif was in the Rif with his Riffians and all seemed right. Our brilliant smiles only grew in width when we spotted an item from our childhood, shining like a lighthouse from a pile of used shoes and broken necklaces.

We continued on through the droves of people, awash with burdened arms full of fruit and veg. The harsh climb made me wonder how precariously the market traders had propped up their stalls on the hill but by this time my stomach had exceeded us in our pursuit of language and had began reciting prose of its own.

It was time for meat. And not just any meat. We had been promised the best meat in the world. I know this might sound slightly on the homosexual side, but this was purely a homosapien drive for one of humanities oldest sources of energy. Meat.

And oh what quality meat it was. The slow cooked lamb melted in the mouth whilst the steamed minced lamb balls exploded with flavour. All accompanied by our very own display of the local lambs literally being led to the slaughter, to be dished out onto customers plates within hours.

The rest of time in Chefchaouen included:

Staring in awe at more blueness than we could ever have imagined.

Drinking the local water profusely after stupidly running up the hill.

Drinking mint tea in a woodland north of town in the foothills of the Rif.

Watching old Berbers watching….other old Berbers?

Wearing a silly amount of hats…

Leaning on a rock on the side of a cliff overlooking town, trying to get ‘that’ night shot.

Enjoying the towns transformation at night, with its lantern glow and even slower pace.

The final hours of the last day were spent in a sombre state, having a last meal at Casa Hasan with a final goodbye to Saleem, who had given us amazing service and friendly conversation during our meals there. Then a stroll through the markets at night and a final stint of people watching in the mood lit square.

Chefchaouen is an absolute gem and I hope it doesn’t experience the high amount of tourism that has spoiled other places in Morocco. It is by far the outstanding part of our trip and shall always be in our memory. The food, the people and the sights.

A definite must for anyone in Morocco. Or even in Spain, its only a boat and a bus away!

And so the last night crept up on us faster than we could have comprehended. The next day was another part of Morocco and knowing this country, a completely different experience.

Goodbye Chaouen.

On to Fes.

- U.Mirza

The High Atlas, Ouarzazate and Ait Ben Haddou

After a good nights rest it was time for another early start, a trend forming in our time in Morocco. We were dressed and packed, waiting in the small opening of the Riads reception, at 6.50am. The street noises we were used to, brimming over the high open top of the courtyard could no longer be heard, replaced by the constant chatter of small birds which dominated the early morning rooftops.

I felt refreshed by the chill in the air and tucked into one of the pastries we had bought the night before, accompanied by mineral water. Then came the knock on the front door. An old man greeted us and began leading us through the streets towards the Djmaa el Fna. We both assumed this was our driver for the day and began making small talk and offering him pastries. He declined and pushed on at a speedy rate through the empty street, unrecognisable from the night before due to the lack of swathing crowds.

We turned the corner from under the alcoved road, from shade, into the square lit by an overcast mornings sullen glow. Where stood rows of market traders before, now was home to a line of 4×4 land cruisers and scattered groups of tourists. They all seemed to be waiting for their various rides out of town.

Our escort introduced us as the English Pakistani’s to his friend who called himself Prince Naseem (who in fact did possess a strange likeness, plus a few pounds). His cockney impressions kept us amused until we were finally introduced to our actual driver for the day, Borjummah. A berber who was originally from Casablanca. He climbed aboard our silvery steed for the day, a rusting Land Cruiser Prado, and drove away from the groups who still remained, waiting. We have no idea why we were given the first car or the first driver, even after being the last to arrive at the pick up point but we shrugged it off and began getting to know our driver, who proved to be an absolute character.

The radio was broken, just like our ability to speak french, but fortunately Borjummah had a good grasp of english and a knack for breaking off into high pitched mimic singing every now and again. We had left town now and were on the lush flat plains south of town, the High Atlas looming ahead like a sleeping shepherd on the horizon. They were dark ridges, drenched in mist, much like the early morning plains we drove through, moisture in the air collecting on my face and lens as I perched my elbows on the open window of the rear left seat.

Before we knew it, the long straight flat roads of the plains became thin windy mountain roads as we began the slow windy assent up the side of one of the valleys, tearing into the side of the range like a deep wound on a fallen animal. The rocks were browns and greys, weathered in the wet by the climate that hit it from the north. The range a natural barrier, separating the desert from the lowlands approaching the sea.

We stopped for tea at a misty truck stop on the side of the road. By this time we were awake and slightly dismayed by the lack of visibility. Little did we know that it was all about to change.

Around 7 sharp bends and 3 near death overtaking manoeuvres later we came around the right side of a swooping valley wall and as we erupted onto the other side into a dazzling light from the clearing skys, we realised we were about to experience something that we would never forget. And as an intrepid nurse once said,

“None of the adjectives usually applied to scenery is adequate – indeed the very word ‘scenery’ is comically inappropriate.”

                                                                            – Dervla Murphy

The only way I feel fit in expressing this journey, this drama unfolding as we slid our way up to 2,260m and then back down the other side into the gateway of the Sahara, is through pictures.

On the Saharan side, the greys and greens of the mountain side melted away into buttery yellows and mood setting oranges. This was the side that shielded the plains from the desert. Forged thousands of years ago, standing firm against decades of assault by sand through storms. The land became flat, yellow and barren, with the lush snow capped mountains in the background as a reminder of where we had just journeyed from.

Ouarzazate was quiet due to it being the day of prayer, Jummah. The film studio museum was closed for an hour or so, which gave us time for a well needed meal of lamb tagine on rooftop of the restaurant next to it.

The film museum was small and completely random, but worth the fun of exploring it at your own pace and messing around with various props just abandoned on the floors of sets from old middle eastern based movies that we had never heard of.

We visited a local tradesman who owned a rather large shop, tucked away down an alley way. He sold locally made products ranging from jewel encrusted mirrors to expensive leather slippers, but with our hand luggage restrictions, we made our excuses and left.

Next stop, Ait Ben Haddou. You will see from the pictures that it is an old fortress, used as a film set for such motion pictures as Gladiator, The Mummy, Kingdom of Heaven and Prince of Persia. It is now a UNESCO World Heritage site but still is the home to a number of families.

Borjummah dropped us off near to the bridge on the other side of the Ounila river. It was a short walk across onto the other side which began with the steep ascent along the trader clogged streets of the old collection of buildings. Perched on a very steep hill, it made the perfect choice for any would-be smuggler or bandit to set up camp and maintain its defences. It is placed on what used to be the main caravan route from the Sahara into Marrakech and so held great importance in terms of trade and accommodation.

We meandered through the streets toward the top, feeling like we had been thrust into a movie ourselves. The peak had a single building, like a small keep, which must have had excellent foundations to ensure its safety under the high speed winds at the top. Nearly being blown off the top, we took our pictures, enjoyed the view and made a hasty retreat. For the brief minutes we spent up there, we could see beyond the yellow sands and red rocks, all the way to the white speckled mountains under a crystal clear laguna sky.

Back in the jeep, we woke Borjummah who had drifted off whilst we were away and took the same road back up into the mountains towards Marrakech.

The return journey was mesmerising, transfixed by the route we had taken in the morning, but in reverse and lacking the snow we had seen in the morning. It looked like a different landscape altogether.

As the sun died over the valleys ridges, we curled along, back onto the flat road leading into town and the train station.

The night train awaited us. We said goodbye to our host for the day, tipped generously (helping the karma side of things) and then made it into the station with plenty of time before our departure. With a serious lack of any restaurants in the area, we settled on KFC for a quick meal and then hastily boarded the train to Tangier.

It left at 9pm and would arrive at 7.30am the next day. We were bundled into our small cabin of 4 bunks, occupied both the top bunks out of a sense of safety and began the ritual process of going through the days pictures. The train trundled along like a mechanical worm and the orange lights of passing towns became streaks in the darkness outside of the window.

Another day ended and again sleep came with ease. The next day held even more as we had no idea how we were going to get from Tangier to our 3 day stop in the Rif mountains.

-U.Mirza

Marrakech

We set off at 3.15am in the dead of night. Our boiler had broken the day before so my mornings preparations involved using a kettle and bucket to shower ahead of a long day that would see us into the Kingdom of Morocco.

I glanced out of the reflective window into the black abyss to the side of the M11 as we hurtled towards the airport, Magic FM a slow lullaby in the background. Our friends were kindly dropping us off to Stansted, an hour till the gates closed, leaving things late as usual.

If I were to ever be early, where would be the excitement?

The take off was smooth as can be expected on a £100 flight. Once I could no longer feel the pull of the engines, I dozed in and out of slumber as we soared high above the carpet like clouds.

Beyond the metal wings outstretched, the white horizon vanished into a sea of deep blue. Rif had the Morocco guide firmly in his sights and seemed to be digesting it at an alarming rate, enthralled by all the Riffian references. My camera provided some entertainment at the spectacle outside my plexiglas window, giving me a perfect opportunity to become accustom with the relatively new piece of kit. Our stomachs grumbled with the pains of an early start, lack of sleep and excitement of the day to come.

The flight in was bumpy due to strong cross winds, but as the clouds parted, they gave way to the views of vast expanses of farmland. The landing was firm and abrupt with the flight attendances final address incomprehensible over the cheap Ryanair tannoy. It was raining but that didn’t stop the flood of anxiety rushing into my stomach.

It was a rather uneventful journey through immigration and we strolled past the vast queues for the bureau de change in the departure lounge to change our money outside of the terminal, providing swift and preferential rates.

Then it was the laborious task of securing a taxi ride to the train station to book our night train to Tangier for the next day. We stood around, talking to various Berber cloaked taxi touts, all asking double the acceptable rate. We finally found a man willing to bring the price closer to what we assumed as reasonable.

He spoke very little English and we spent the ride over to the train station making broken conversation in what French we knew. His name was Isham and he had a strange sense of humour by rising the price of the ride in jest (I hoped) on every turn. I waited in the cab whilst Rif went in to the train station, in the Guéliz district, to buy the tickets for the next day. Isham had kindly agreed to wait and take us on to the Djmaa el Fna where our Riad awaited. We made jokes about the fare again and I delved into the logo on his jacket, revealing his past as a Royal Guard, a job he had left for an unknown reason to become a taxi driver. Rif returned bearing the ‘billets’, only the equivalent of £25 each. As we journeyed on past the rich mansion like resorts to the main square, an elderly Berber gentleman hitched a ride at a traffic light, which we realised must be a normality. And so we were thrust face first into the crazyness of local culture.

We said our salaams, shaking Isham’s sturdy hand vigorously and followed his directions out of the square down a small side road bustling with life, under his direction.

The square itself is a large expanse, filled with snake charmers, monkey handlers, markets and food stall. A bustling area of all sorts. The sights and smells hit us immediately and we knew we were finally in the Kingdom of Morocco.

The walk down the cobbled street had us bobbing and weaving through the human traffic, narrowly avoiding the oncoming scooters, skilled in the art of pedestrian avoidance. Quick flicks of the handle bars had them meander through crowds reminiscent of Oxford Street during the Christmas rush.

We took a sharp left down the arched alley way, not quite sure if we were on the right track.

A few streets down the red clay walled street and we finally stumbled upon the old wooden door into our Medina oasis.

Marrakiss is a lovely quiet accommodation set in an old house with three floors decorated in a very Arabic manner. The ivy clad central courtyard provided a mint tea fuelled respite whilst our room was prepared. Josef provided an excellent host and informed us our 4×4 was booked for the next morning to take us into the High Atlas.

It was all hitting me in a rush of sensory overload. I was in a dream. The room was small but well decorated and it really felt like we had delved back in time to an era of wealthy inner Medina family life.

We regrouped our thoughts, packed the day sack and headed out onto the streets of Marrakech.

The square provided lunch at an excellent little joint called Toukbal, on the corner of the southern stretch . An exceptional recommendation by Josef. I had the lamb tagine which came bubbling from the kitchens and served with fresh sesame seed sprinkled bread.
I was in love. With the food, the atmosphere and the people. A salaam, a nod and a friendly hand on the shoulder from the waiter. We paid the 40 dirham total and ventured out into the cultural savannah that lay before us.

We walked and walked. And then walked some more. To the great tower to the west of the square, through to the souk markets to the north. The maze of small arched alleyways, although dimly lit by cracks in the roofing, was illuminated by the vibrant colours of dyed cloth, scented spices and candle lit lamps.

The rain gave way to sunshine and the streets were dry within minutes.

Every turn took us deeper into the souk (market) and further from any knowledge of our location.

We truly felt lost in a completely carefree kind of way and ungrudgingly submitted ourselves to the slow crawl of people through the markets tight gaps laden with wares. Each turn of the head opening up a world of trinkets, beset into shop fronts, seductive with the mysteries behind their veils.

It was everything I had dreamed of and some more. We were not hassled and drifted from market to market, artisan to tanner, Berber to Arab. The mix of the Moroccan locals really gave insight to the plethora of lineages the nations people descend from.

We finally found a goal to reach on our map. A fountain at the north end of the souk. We wound our way for over an hour through the dimly lit streets going in the direction of various people, only to find ourselves back at the entrance of the artisans market. We had no choice but to venture further into the tightly woven streets that steer haphazardly through the market stalls. You think you are being overwhelmed by the sights, smells and bustles but just as quickly as your brain in submerged in a deluge of action, you turn to your right to see a tributary of peace and tranquility. A quieter street. Dark from the boards over the thin road but illuminated by the hand crafted lanterns littering it’s sides. This was my favourite area of the whole souk. There was hardly anyone inside the light area of the market and I felt as though I had found my own little haven. Rif was having a conversation with a local salesman about Pakistan at the entrance to the small street whilst I let my camera run wild and my pupils dilate.

The market seemed to flow from tourist to local within a few streets and we noticed the drastic change from pretty useless but beautiful crafts to the everyday essentials you would find in a super market.

Alas, the fountain remained elusive. We walked much further north than expected. Into what looked like a pretty non-tourist zone. The smells of the bakery rushed out from draped curtains, kids were playing football in the street and the architecture had taken a turn for the dark ages.

After asking local after local for direction to the fountain, we had found ourselves no where near the location shown on the map and demoted the landmark to myth. This part of town was laden with mosques dating back hundreds of years. Some so small and hidden that we practically had to trip over the bicycles outside their gates to discover them.

But bicycles weren’t the only thing we were tripping up over. Medinas, especially the souks within them, are a haven for the tightrope walking, tourist book avoiding, cats of the market. These little dainty scruffs find the excitement of the markets pleasurable. Especially with the constant promise of food from the passers by. They are taken care of by the shop owners who seem to have a symbiotic relationship with their fellow street inhabitants. Food for affection.

We somehow found our way onto an arched street that we knew would lead us back to the main square. I had grown to love the architecture and the incongruent building works that make the souk such an exciting and ever-changing place.

Just as we entered the clearing of the Djmaa el Fna, Rif had a monkey thrust upon him. To my amusement photos were obviously taken and before I knew it, the heavy furry beast was on my arm and the camera in Rif’s hands.

The owner’s smile dropped to a serious stare as he demanded 100 dirhams each for the unwarranted experience. I gave my usual face of shock and shook my head, parsing him off with a 5 dirham coin which he accepted to my surprise and walked off!

We were back in the square and retired to a quiet cafe for some Moroccan mint tea and a look at our map.

Deciding to head south and see what the palace had to hold, we journeyed down more tight streets and found ourselves at the ruins of the once lush gardens of Badi. Set to the south of the Medina next to the Kasbah, the ruins house an old mosque at the back of it’s main courtyard and a view of the many storks nesting in its dilapidated walls.

The rain stopped play, seeing us take refuge in another cafe for more mint tea and by this time we had whiled away much of the afternoon. A lull in the downpour meant we could make a break for the Riad and a well deserved freshen up.

We rested our weary legs and then made our way back out. Crossing the square as dusk set in, highlighting the dusty haze that haunts the square before dark.

Another recommendation for dinner which took us to an establishment overlooking the square. As we had another tagine, the sun dropped behind the buildings and we watched the market in the Djmaa grow with onlookers and performers. As the light dimmed, candles and lanterns were lit across the square making a spectacle for our evening meal. My camera was being used to its full advantage as we sipped Moroccan tea, allowing the sounds of the market to flood into our ears. A deluge of drums, flutes and the steady boiling noise of conversation.

We paid the bill, left a generous tip for the prolonged stay and ventured beyond the well lit food stalls and into the dark large expanse of the Djmaa el Fna. The crowds huddles in tight circles around musicians lit by a single lamp. Other groups stood patiently listening to Berber stories whilst others partook in the snake charmers and monkey handlers antics. It was a feast of the senses. One which we savoured as we walked from encircled group to acrobatic animal.

Our legs began to tire and the patisserie shop for the next days breakfast was about to close so we made our way back to the Riad, picking up some French style apricot tortes.

And as the warm African raindrops fell across the rooftops, sleep came swiftly, switching off my senses that had been overloaded by the days experiences.

Tomorrow was the High Atlas and sleep was fleeting.

-U.Mirza

The Kingdom of Morocco: Travelled in a week

I have returned unscathed and culturally refuelled from what I now regard as one of the most diverse countries that I have had the pleasure to explore.

Before I reveal my experiences and photos, please enjoy a short video of the adventure.

-U.Mirza

Morocco: The Prelude

I leave on Thursday for the hopefully sunny and warm lands that are known as The Kingdom of Morocco. The north African country has always remained a mysterious place in my mind. Towns riddled with bustling markets, the sights and smells a marvel to someone from such a sterile and docile community. The tight nit streets, interwoven like the rugs and tapestries littering the streets. All this in the constant shadow of unnerving mountain ranges, a single line of defence against the sea of sand in the south, the second largest desert after Antarctica, the Sahara. It’s ever changing landscape, home to Berber tribes that haven’t changed since decades.

It has aways been a dream of mine to untwine the mystery of this beautiful country and I finally get my chance. It’s population soares at around 35 million whilst the landmass covers over 710,000 square kilometers. Rabat is the official capital but Casablanca forms it’s largest city. There are over 6 spoken languages in Morocco and the country’s full Arabic name is al-Mamlakat al-Magribiyyah which translates as The Western Kingdom.

The Kingdom itself dates back to around 110 BC when it was declared an independent state under the name of The Kingdom of Mauretania.  It wasn’t until the 7th Century that Ummayad Muslims conquered the region, spreading their language, government and  most influentially, their religion. The Berber tribesmen eventually converted and the state shifted through lineages of great Berber dynasties. They grew strong, became rulers of southern Spain and Portugal but eventually were pushed back with remnants of the North biting at their heels. In fact it wasn’t until 1956 that they took back independence from France and Spain to create what is now the Kingdom of Morocco.

But it is these influences that I believe make Morocco such a wonder in the modern world. In times where the West seems to be in constant battle with the East, Morocco has a taste of both.

I only have a week which is slightly shorter than my usual trips abroad but I think it is more than plausible to get to grips with the country during this time. The plan is to travel from South to North. Marrakech to Fes. Stopping along the way, briefly, in Tangiers and longer in what I hope to be the true heart of Morocco in the North, the Rif mountains. The choice to stop in the mountains is no coincidence though. It is to unite my friend Rif, with the lands of his name giving. Not that he was actually named after the region, just that there is some inextricable link between him and these ‘Mountains steeped in mystery’ as I first put the idea across to him!

So from conception, the plan has been to get Rif to the Rif mountains, somehow. We still aren’t quite sure exactly how we are pulling it off as yet. Flights are booked. Bags are almost packed and I hope we are ready for this Lord of the Rings-esque trip, traipsing across Morocco.

If I were to write a book...

 I will be posting about the trip once I am back, so for now it is farewell and adieu.

Or beslama as the Moroccans would say.

-U.Mirza

Travel Well: Health

I’m off to Morocco this week and I realised I was getting all my clothes and electronics packed but there was a serious ingredient missing from my list.

Good health.

Fortunately, whether it is from the grace of youth or my recent runs through the park, I find myself being in moderate physical health. Not the best, but acceptable. It gives me freedom that many people do not benefit from and I think it needs to be emphasised.

The main power behind my health is my heart. It beats around 2,838,240,000 times in an average lifetime. It weighs between 250 to 350 grams and pumps out life-giving blood at the speed of 37 centimetres a second. It is the source of my power, the delivery method of fuel to my muscles and the garbage truck for a lot of my body’s waste. Before the 1900, very few people actually died of heart disease. As the technological age took its grasp over humanity, we had to do a lot less. Less physical exertion, less training for our hearts. Without the constant challenge of exercise, the well oiled pump that is the heart begins to slow and become weaker, leading to all sorts of problems.

I’m not holding out that I take exceptional care of my heart. I can be morbidly lazy and perilously glutenous but I am aware I need to train it once in a while. I try to run during the week, I frequent the gym and have started eating more fruit. Just so that I ensure my heart keeps fuelling my muscles, feeding my brain and getting me to places that I have always dreamed of.

Each day your heart produces enough energy to drive a truck 20 miles. Make sure your heart is healthy and who knows where it could take you.

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Next up on my list has to be the legs and most importantly feet. These are our wheels. Our modes of transport.

Our legs kind of take care of themselves but it is also good practice to keep them well exercised and ready to run or climb steep ascents. In fight or flight situations, legs are the key to either of the paths. But my main emphasis and thanks needs to go to the feet. With the pleasure of good health in the feet, a lot can go horribly wrong, awfully fast.

There are 26 bones in the human foot. That is out of 206 bones in total in a human body. It is a wonderful means of transport. It exacts poise, balance and stability. We need to take care of our feet and this includes deciding what to wear on them. A good pair of shoes can save the day, know when to wear boots and look after your nails. They are make a difference when walking for long distances. Any problems you get with the feet can haunt you for days, if not weeks and so I must again be extremely thankful for the condition of my feet and their ability to again improve my freedom.

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But it is not just physical health that I ensure to pack before I travel. I also like to keep my mental health in order.

In a world where for some, it is harder to quit Facebook than it is to quit smoking, we need to take a serious look at what’s going on inside of our tickers. Too many people rely on what others think, are too self conscious and selfish to really let go of the world around them and enjoy their surrounding. I have had the misfortune of travelling with such people before and I honestly do hope that they can one day learn that there is more to life in appreciation that there is in criticism. We have become a nation, a people, a species of malleable lumps of flesh. We have lost individual self identities and many people do not have the want or need to push their horizons. Self content in their own bubbles, they become hermits in their own lives and miss out on what the world has to offer.

When travelling we need to have an open mind, be ready to appreciate anything that comes our way and welcoming to the people we meet. Forget the media stereotypes of cool and the awkward un-inquisitive nature that is supported by todays role models. Speak to all, whether prince or pauper. Share your experiences. Enjoy yourself. Ensure others enjoy your company. Sharpen your wit and the command of your language as well as others. And most of all be humble. A trait that is somewhat lost on many people but I personally hold in high regard. Lower your importance if it is above someone else’s. It is the single best way to connect with people from different backgrounds. Show a keen interest in their story and you will be surprised at the doors it can open for you.

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 There are plenty more health issues you need to ensure you contend with before any during travels. I set out to document the ones which people don’t normally immediately assume are important. There is always the obvious practical health advise like take plenty of Imodium and drink bottled water, but the underlying things that allow us to travel are rarely ever stated or appreciated.

The state our body is in, defines how much we can interact with the world around us. The state our mind is in, defines how we perceive the world around us.

Ensure both are healthy and you ensure your freedom.

Live well and until next time…

-U.Mirza

Spring begins and the sun sets

I’ve always been told that late afternoons are perfect for good photographs. The setting sun ensures a good balance of shadows and just enough light.

But it is a brief window.

You need to pick a location that has plenty to shoot in a small area so you don’t spend too much time walking between destinations. To get the most out of this window it is good to be up somewhere high and exposed. So for my spring photographs I chose a common in Buckinghamshire near the small village of Watlington.

As we arrived, the sun was already swooping low beneath the brim of trees by our side as we wound our way up a narrow country road. The red kites were making the most of the dying light and were out in force, scouring the area for food.

The common itself is a bleak windswept field on top of a ridge, overlooking a large part of Oxfordshire. The views are stunning and best captured at this time. We had about an hour before it became too dark to shoot.

Here are the shots taken, along with a couple I took at home once it had actually become dark!

As a basic shot, I used a polariser to really bring out the blues in the sky. Best used when shooting at a 90 degree angle to where the sun is.

With a zoom lens you can really close to spring details.

Black and whites can really come out well, especially with the darkened shadows created by the dyin light.

You can also get some nice shots using macro, but be careful of using lower ISO’s in windy conditions. As you can see here, the shutter speed wasn’t fast enough and the twig is now blurry. Still a nice effect though.

It looked quite autumn like, as the sun died. I make it even gloomier by changing the temperature of the shot in post-processing.

I love shooting with the sun as a backdrop, you got some of the coolest flares.

Theres always time to practice the action shots.

A zoom lens, good composure and patience helps you pull off a shot like this. A high ISO means I was pretty much guaranteed a shot but the grain is the price to pay.

As we walked around to the front of the ridge we finally got the complete view, just intime for sunset. Still good shooting time remaining.

Again the setting sun gives a yellow tint to shots as well as deep moody shadows.

And as the sun dies, taking the yellowness with it, you begin to see the cold dark blues of night creep in behind it.

This is what we were all here for.

Even when the sun dies, its not over. The moon can be a fantastic subject during clear crisp Spring evenings.

A last shot before its all over.

Thanks go out to Rif and Sham. A photography team to be reckoned with.

I’m off to Morocco soon and will be documenting the trip closely so there will be plenty more posts to come!!

Enjoy.

- U.Mirza