Moroccan Ramble

Morocco is where the Middle Ages and the 21st century meet, from the exotic smells and sounds of the medina, or marketplace, of Marrakech to the undulating and seemingly endless sand dunes of the Sahara.

What’s the best way to get a taste of it? I chose to bike through the country, riding a hybrid with a group of compatriots, two guides and a couple of drivers in SUVs, who helped us reach further into the country than our two-wheeled vehicles could.

We rendezvoused in Casablanca, a city that justifies its indelible romantic reputation. There was no riding here, but there was time for sightseeing at the Hassan II, one of the world’s largest mosques, and wandering through the old Art Deco quarters, redolent of the classic Bogart-and-Bergman movie that has made the city’s name a synonym for passion doomed by an endangered world.

The trip began in earnest with a flight to Ouarzazate in the High Atlas Mountains, the jumping-off point for our exploration of the Draa Valley. The striking architectural centerpiece of the city is Taourirt Kasbah, a 19th-century, earthenwalled terracotta palace. You may have never set foot in Ouarzazate but you’ve seen it many times, because it’s a favorite of Hollywood location scouts. Its mountainous desert landscape is the home of Atlas Studios and has appeared in Lawrence of Arabia, Gladiator and Kundun, among many other films.

This first day of riding set the stage for much of the rest of the trip. We pedaled through a landscape of palm trees and villages, donkeys and goat herds. The simple houses were made of stone with ornately carved wooden doors, with veiled women and men in djellabas, the traditional hooded robes, watching our progress. Dusty plains gave way to a backdrop of arid, snow-capped mountains. Our route was punctuated by towns that were as vibrant and lively and exotic as any Hollywood screenwriter could have dreamed up, as if the rug merchants and the spice sellers and the street magicians came out of central casting. The riding could be hot and was very often dusty, but the distances were manageable.

When we arrived in Zagora, I saw a mural that announced “Tombouctou 52 days,” telling you that it would take 52 days to make the journey by camel to Timbuktu, Mali. We ate delicious tagine with chicken and lamb, and I awoke just before dawn with the call to prayer reverberating from loudspeakers in towering minarets.

This page: Cyclists who endure the ups and downs of Morocco’s dusty and varied terrain are rewarded with breathtaking vistas—and delicious chicken, lamb and other food when they reach their destinations. Opposite page: After a long day of bike riding, unwinding with mint tea at Cafe Arabe in Marrakech is a treat. Once riders have dined, they can prop up their feet and enjoy luxurious accommodations offered at many first-rate resorts.

The next day, we rode to the eastern edge of the country, where the Sahara begins, and swapped our hybrid bikes for camels. It was a good thing that we weren’t planning to spend the next 52 days heading to Timbuktu, because I was perched precariously atop the temperamental beast on a rough saddle made of wood and carpets. But as we set off, the promised magic and mystery of the desert revealed themselves quite quickly. We were invited to wrap our heads in the traditional Tuareg tagelmust, the headscarves that made us all resemble the supporting cast of Lawrence of Arabia. They did offer remarkable protection from the blazing desert sun as we rode through a landscape of rolling dunes and blue skies. There was a small oasis on the horizon, with a healthy stand of date palms, and we arrived at our desert camp for the night, with tents furnished with raised beds and Berber carpets. After a dinner, a million stars emerged, and I walked barefoot through the cold sand back to the tent.

In the morning, we drove back into the High Atlas and stopped in a high pass for an impromptu snowball fight, just for the bragging rights. Later on, we mounted our bikes and spent the night in the High Atlas at Kasbah Tamadot, settling into the lap of Moroccan luxury in this 28-room property owned by Sir Richard Branson.

We carried on the next morning on the road to Essaouira, riding our bikes past argan trees with thick, thorny branches on which goats perched. The sight is surreal, but the nimble goats climb up to eat the fruit of the trees, now aided and abetted by farmers eagerly seeking tips from passing tourists.

As the very hot day began to wane, we saw buildings on the horizon and got a scent of the ocean and realized that we had arrived in Essaouira. This was easily my favorite city on the trip, a place that dates to at least the 5th century B.C., with massive stone ramparts overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, narrow streets and alleyways, as well as a broad beach, that stretch far south of the city. In the 1950s, famed director Orson Welles shot his version of Othello here. By the late 1960s, the place had

become a hippie haven, and musicians such as Cat Stevens and Jimi Hendrix spent time there. As I walked the beach south of the city, I met a few wetsuit-clad surfers from France who had been coming for years to what they had nicknamed “Wind City Afrika,” as the Atlantic winds blow nonstop on this corner of the continent.

Yet it was the city itself, with its densely packed stone buildings, crumbling palaces and a slightly ramshackle charm that was so evocative. Buildings are mostly white, the doors mostly blue, and the medina is jammed with spice sellers and wood-carving shops, diminutive cafes and fruit sellers. Little wonder that it’s a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Our final destination was Marrakech, which is the soul of all things Moroccan. With the snow-capped High Atlas Mountains in the distance, it’s a hot, densely packed oasis, a paradise of lush gardens and a maze-like medina. It’s also a chic getaway for the Euro-fashion crowd, many of whom stay in converted riads, walled houses that have become stylish hotels in the heart of the city. We stayed in the most famous hotel in the country, La Mamounia, a near century-old indulgence of luxury, boasting an Olympic-size pool surrounded by the most glamorous crowd this side of the French Riviera.

I wandered the labyrinth lanes of Marrakech, where Berber carpets, silver teapots, pottery and acres of rugs were for sale. I wandered through the dreamy Jardin Majorelle, a garden designed in the 1920s that was later bought and restored by the late fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent.

For the final last meal, we went to an elevated open-air restaurant that had been reserved for us. It overlooked the Jma el-Fna, the center of Marrakech, a vast open square that’s a remnant of the Middle Ages. It’s where snake charmers serenade cobras, touts carry monkeys on their shoulders and dancers do cartwheels. There are fortune tellers with henna-patterned hands, and the oft-photographed water sellers, dressed as court jesters. As one companion had her hand decorated in a henna tattoo, a fortune teller took my hand and offered to read my palm, telling me that I would have 13 children. As fortunes go, this one was wildly inaccurate, but it did nothing to diminish the magic of this remarkable country.

This page: Moroccan design is a trend spotted around the world, and there’s no shortage of it in the country’s architecture. Examples shown here include the Tin Mal Mosque in the High Atlas Mountains, a palace in Fes and Ait-Ben-Haddou in Ouarzazate. Opposite page: Marrakech is the soul of all things Moroccan. It’s filled with history, including the Koutoubia Mosque, as well as lively markets that feature carpets, teapots, pottery and more for sale.