Morocco Unplugged: Sand, Strings, and Ancient Cities
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I’ll be honest—I thought I was prepared for the Sahara. I was not prepared for the Sahara.
Our camel caravan set off at golden hour, a wobbly line of tourists trying very hard to look graceful atop animals that clearly knew we had no idea what we were doing. My camel, who I named Gerald, had opinions about the pace and expressed them frequently.
But then the dunes opened up before us, endless waves of amber sand rippling toward the horizon, and suddenly the slightly uncomfortable saddle situation didn’t matter anymore. We crested a particularly massive dune just as the sun began its descent, painting everything in shades of honey and rust. The guide standing silhouetted on the ridge looked like he’d stepped out of a postcard, which I suppose was rather the point.
The Musician Who Made Me Stay Longer
In a dusty village between the desert and the mountains, I met a musician in vibrant blue robes who played what I later learned was a sintir—a three-stringed instrument that sounded like the desert itself had a voice. He stood against an ancient earthen wall, his fingers dancing across the strings, and for a few minutes, the whole world felt smaller and somehow more connected.
We couldn’t really communicate beyond smiles and hand gestures, but music needs no translation. He played, I listened, and a small crowd gathered. Someone brought mint tea. This, I decided, was what travel was supposed to feel like.
Aït Benhaddou: A City Made of Stories
My final stop was Aït Benhaddou, the fortified village that’s launched a thousand film sets (seriously, if you’ve watched Game of Thrones or Gladiator, you’ve seen this place). The kasbah rises from the landscape like it grew there naturally, all terracotta towers and geometric patterns reflected perfectly in the waters below.
I climbed to the top as the afternoon light turned everything golden, and looked out over the kasbahs, palm trees, and the river creating mirror images of it all. A local guide told me some families have lived in these walls for generations, and suddenly the Hollywood connection felt almost secondary to the real, ongoing story of the place.
Morocco, you’ve ruined me for normal vacations. Where else can I ride a camel named Gerald?
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