30.3.26

Highlights of the Day:

· Ifrane Town

· Ifrane National Park, Cèdre Gouraud & Barbary Macaques

· Azrou

· Michlifen Ski Resort

After breakfast at Riad Inaya, we head towards the Atlas Mountains. Just a short distance behind Fès, the landscape becomes greener and the road slowly winds up into the mountains.

Our first stop is Daït Aoua. At least in theory. Not much is left of the lake. Instead of water, we see a large dry area. It’s a bit disappointing, but at the same time quite impressive to see how severe the drought is here, despite the fact that it has rained only recently (and Morocco is greener than ever!).

Next, we head to Ifrane. We park at Ifrane Lac (there’s also a small clean WC hut) and walk for a few minutes through La Prairie Park. The lake is nice, but we find the town itself much more exciting. It’s no wonder that Ifrane is referred to as the

March 29, 2026

Highlights of the day:

• Medina of Fes
• Madrasa Bou Inania (old Quran school)
• Bab Chems (Gate)
• Bab Boujloud (the blue gate)
• Palais Mnebhi
• Souk
• Nejjarine Museum (craftsmanship with a great rooftop terrace)
• Tanneries de Fes (tannery)
• Cherratine Medersa (former Quran school)
• Chouara Tannery (the larger one)
• Medersa Atterine (Quran school)
• Bab Guissa

After breakfast, which Bushra serves us on the rooftop terrace, we explore the Medina of Fès. At first, I was a bit unsure whether we would find our way (one hears and reads all sorts of things...), but thanks to Marjorie's city map, which she explained to us and we could then photograph, we brave ourselves into the old town. Google Maps works

28.3.26

The day starts off relaxed with a hearty breakfast at 9 am. The selection is vast: bread, croissants, dips, honey, and even soup are ready. I opt for the sweet option and enjoy my croissant and a pancake with honey and nuts – the perfect fuel for what lies ahead today.

Our first destination is the impressive Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca, which stands majestically on the Atlantic coast. We park in the parking garage beneath the mosque and then have to completely circle the massive area to reach the entrance. At 9:55 am, we are at the ticket counter, as a guided tour is set to begin at 10 am. Without a guide, one is not allowed to visit the interior, and tourists are generally prohibited during prayer times.

The organization seems typically Moroccan – a bit chaotic; no one really knows where to wait, and countless groups wander around. Eventually, we are directed across the enormous plaza into the interior. There are signs for the different languages – and while English and French have crowds, we find ourselves completely alone at “GERMAN”! Our tour guide greets us cheerfully; we are his only guests today. He exclusively guides us through the magnificent mosque, sharing funny anecdotes and taking great photos of us along the way. We even get a glimpse into the impressive washrooms for men.

Around 11:30 am, we leave Casablanca. We quickly snap a few photos of the mosque with the sea in the foreground, and then proceed towards Rabat. On the way, we observe the adventurous hustle and bustle on the streets: we overtake numerous trucks that are so chaotic and overloaded that they would never be allowed to drive where we are.

Upon arriving in Rabat, we first head to the Hassan Tower, the unfinished minaret, and the magnificent Mausoleum of Mohammed V, from where one has a beautiful view of the surroundings. Among other views, there is a fantastic view of the futuristic building 'Mohammed VI Tower'. The 'Tower' is actually located in Salé, right next to Rabat along the Bouregreg River, and at about 250 m, it is the tallest building in Morocco and one of the tallest in Africa. It's already a major attraction and somehow reminds one of the skyscrapers in Dubai (which also houses a luxury hotel and apartments inside).

The parking spots in front of the Hassan Tower are full - and a 'parking attendant' wants money – but you can easily (and for free) park in the side street right in front of the entrance with the cavalry guard.

Next, we head to the large parking lot at the Kasbah des Oudaias and then stroll through the old town to the panoramic terrace. The view of the surfer beach and the surroundings is simply stunning! The weather is cooperating: it is sunny, but a pleasant 21 degrees.

In the souks of the old town, we treat ourselves to a “Sfenj” – a sweet yeast dough ring, fried in hot oil, for just 20 cents each.

In the afternoon, we make our way to Fès. Sadly, we leave Meknès behind, as there simply isn’t enough time today. In Fès, we park at Bab Guissa and after just a five-minute walk, we reach our home for the next while: the Riad Inaya Fès.

A very nice French couple runs this beautiful riad. We settle into our panoramic room with an amazing view of the Medina and enjoy the huge rooftop terrace. To top it all off, chef Bushra serves us an incredibly delicious dinner (20€/person). Highly recommended, and the view over the Medina is priceless.

For the statistics:

Traveled: 319 km                                                                                                        Weather: 21 degrees in Rabat, 18 degrees in Fès, dry & sunny (evening/night 6 degrees)                                                                                                                                Accommodation: Riad Inaya Fèz (panoramic room, overnight/breakfast)

In the morning, our day in Marrakech began with a visit to the Bahia Palace.

It was built around 1900 as the residence of the Grand Vizier Bou Ahmed.

He ruled in place of the young Sultan Abd El Aziz.

Parts of the palace were destroyed in the major earthquake in Morocco in 2023 and are still being restored.

Several beautifully designed rooms and courtyards are accessible.

We then continued to the Saadian Tombs, which were established at the end of the 16th century.

The later ruler Moulay Ismail destroyed the palace of the Saadian dynasty to erase the memory of previous rulers. However, he did not dare to destroy the graves and instead sealed them with a wall.

The tombs were rediscovered in 1917. Today, the mausoleums are open to the paying public.

We made another stop at a shop for natural cosmetics and remedies, where we received a very entertaining explanation of the different products along with a glass of tea.

Then we headed into the market streets of the old town, where the merchants offer all sorts of goods for the many tourists.

We initially walked through the souks with our guide until we reached the Jema El Fna square.

In the afternoon we had free time and first had a meal at a rooftop restaurant with a view of the Koutoubia Mosque's minaret. It was so windy that we ultimately decided to move indoors.

We then strolled through the market streets on our own, making a few small purchases, during which we of course bargained diligently.

We visited the Medersa Ben Youssef, which was once the largest Quran school in the Maghreb.

It reminded us of the medersa we had seen in Fès but was even larger and more richly decorated.

Surrounding the courtyard were numerous study rooms for the students that could also be visited.

To conclude the day, we strolled with our travel group over the Jema El Fna, which was getting busier.

In the meantime, the numerous food stalls had set up their stands and offered their dishes.

We watched the sunset from the rooftop terrace of the Café de France at the square.

Afterwards, we made our way back to the hotel.

At the hotel, we celebrated New Year's Eve with our very nice travel group.

In the morning, we drove to Meknes.

The city was expanded and heavily fortified by Sultan Moulay Ismail as his residence.

Several rings of city walls, totaling over 40 km long, surround the old town.

We began our tour in a market hall, where there were various spices, dried fruits, oils, and olives available for purchase.

Afterward, we visited a museum of musical instruments, located in a magnificent townhouse.

We focused more on the architecture of the house with its numerous and elaborate decorations than on the exhibition inside.

In conclusion, we went to the mausoleum of Sultan Moulay Ismail.

He was the only ruler who resided in Meknes and made it the capital. After him, it was moved back to Fès, which due to its location was harder to defend - something later rulers would experience painfully.

Our journey continued to Fès.

There today lies a vast palace grounds of the royal family, shielded by high walls.

We saw it from the outside with one of its impressive gates, before strolling through an alley of the former Jewish quarter.

The bus then took us to the old city, where we maneuvered through the crowd in a narrow street.

This was just a first impression - the proper tour through the medina was scheduled for the next day.

The alley was so narrow that donkeys were not allowed - as indicated by a street sign.

As the weather held up, we also went to an observation terrace.

From here, one could overlook the entire old town, extending to the Middle Atlas Mountains.

“Is this your first visit to a hamam?” asks the woman who will soon spend an hour scrubbing, peeling, moisturizing, and rubbing me down from head to toe. My nod apparently explains my uncertain movements to her.

I opted for a spa-hamam in Essaouira. A traditional bath, but not a public one. Hoping to be treated gently and not having to wash myself with a hundred other women from a bucket – as is practiced everywhere in Islam before Friday prayers. There, washing takes precedence over relaxation.

My hamam experience is relaxing. Just my dad and the woman for me alone. I am soaped, washed five times, and in between, I get to rest on a warm marble stone. A candle burns, and an oil fills the room with a soft, soothing scent. At first, it feels strange to do nothing on my own. Not washing myself. Giving up control.
Then I let myself be there. To the foreign hands on my body. To being taken care of. My hair is soaped, warm water is poured over me from a wooden bucket. Gently, she lays me back on the lounge. An hour passes, and I step back outside feeling slightly dazed – but unusually clean and free.

My list of things I wanted to experience on this trip is almost checked off. There’s not much left. Just the way back along the Atlantic coast to the north. A little sadly, I say goodbye a second time to Sidi Kaouki. To Ahmed and his team, the best surf instructors I could have wished for.

El Jadida lifts my spirits. Once founded by Portuguese settlers and largely ignored by tourists, the city welcomes me warmly. The medina is the cleanest and best-maintained I have seen so far. The people are unobtrusive, no intrusive sales dialogues. I am well advised, buying spices for an entire year.
Later, I tell Kadin, the guide at Casablanca’s gigantic mosque, about El Jadida. About the relaxed, pleasant atmosphere there. He furrows his brow. He has tried it three times there, he says, and each time it brought stress.
“But of course,” he adds, “as a blonde woman and tourist, you have it easy everywhere.”
It’s all a question of perspective, I think. And from where you are looking.

The Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca is the largest, tallest, and richest mosque in Africa – and one of the few that non-Muslims are allowed to enter. We are divided by languages. As the only German, I have Kadin all to myself. He showers me with superlatives: the second-largest mosque in Africa, the tallest minaret, the tallest religious building in the world. After only seven years of construction, it was inaugurated in 1993. 25,000 people can fit in the prayer hall, another 80,000 in the outdoor area. During Ramadan, every spot is filled.
“But why was such a giant mosque built at all?” I ask.
“To attract tourists to Casablanca,” Kadin says. Marrakech has the souks, Fès has the oldest university in the world – Casablanca had long had nothing. The mosque changed that. A prestige project of King Hassan II, a landmark for the city, a showcase for Morocco. Over 600 million dollars expensive. Funded by “national donations.” Everyone who could was supposed to contribute. In a time of great poverty, it created enormous social pressure – hardly anyone could escape this donation.

With every kilometer northward, it gets cooler, and Rabat suddenly feels familiar. Hardly any trash on the streets, green lawns, trams, high-rise buildings, a modern theater. The medina and the kasbah are meticulously restored. The city of government and the king must not decay. It seems like a wish image of Morocco. But just because a city sweeps its trash doesn’t mean it disappears. A few minutes further, in Salé, it returns. The closeness, the asks for donations, the crowd.

Places like Larache, Assilah, and Tangier correspond more to the Morocco I have imprinted in my mind and that I now like. The small dark shops with dusty floors, unwashed vegetables, and disorganized shelves feel familiar. The food doesn’t taste better just because it comes from a hygienically perfect supermarket. They are the same products. Just more expensive and polished.

What I liked here are the people. Who greet me with a smile, remember what I buy, and ask how I am doing. That is intimacy in the foreign. Community without many words. That’s what I will miss.

And also the muezzin. When the stores close on Fridays and the streets are empty because everyone is at prayer in the mosque. And then return together. Not hurriedly, but thoughtfully. Still in thought, hardly exchanging words. These images remain. And the feeling of humility. Humility in the face of faith, rituals, diligence, and commitment to something larger than ourselves. Faith connects. And sometimes it also separates.

Arrival in the early morning in Morocco. Visit to the Medina in Casablanca. There are many beautiful squares and monumental buildings. For example, the Hassan II Mosque.
And of course, the 8 km long promenade right by the sea.

Charlotte laughs. ‘That’s how I felt when I switched to the next level board.’ Charlotte is traveling with her friend. We meet every day at the same time in the waves. She is as persistent as I am, and we only stop when we can’t anymore – or when the waves force us to. The days in Sidi Kaouki don’t ask for much more than that from me. I can feel the slowness catching up with me here – how it wants something from me that I have almost forgotten.

Sunday is market day at the Souk El Had. El Had means Sunday in Arabic. But actually, it’s always market day. I come without expectations, yet the market surprises me again. A place for locals to buy all kinds of things in bulk. The two cookies I want are given to me with a weary smile – evidently, the accounting isn’t worth it.

The market is a choreography of vegetable stalls, household goods, fabrics, clothes, and spices. The goods are spread out on the sandy ground. Still clean, I notice as I move a little further. In the meat section, “hygienic” is broadly interpreted. Butchers roughly chop whole animals; it splatters, blood and water gather in puddles. A salty-metallic smell, heavy and dense. Right next door, what was just processed is already sizzling; grill after grill envelops the alleys in thick clouds of smoke. The sun pierces through the fog, creating a surreal image. Fascination and disgust go hand in hand. I search for the way out – towards the merchants with wickerwork, where it smells less intense.

At some point, I feel drawn further north – a gentle tug, more curiosity than farewell. Not much separates me from Europe, from the familiar routine of work. First thoughts about it arise, but I push them away. Too soon. I am still here and learning what slow travel does to me.

Safi is my next destination. The medina is part of the World Heritage, but initially, it hardly touches me: too much neon light, too much unnecessary plastic junk. Then I discover the pottery workshops, the heart of the little town. A bit hidden behind the medina, we can trace the entire production process: how the clay is taken from the earth, divided, shaped. How it transforms into a tajine under circular movements. So peaceful. A corner further, the clay is baked and painted. Everything seems tranquil, everyone has their task, every movement is precise.

I am looking forward to the next surfer village. But Oualidia is different. A lagoon, an endless coastline where we can camp. Each in their own little bay, the beach accessible through a steep climb. A dream – and yet not one that belongs to me. Fishermen walk on the cliffs all the way to the front. It looks dangerous, but seems to be an everyday occurrence. The wind lashes the sand like fine needles into my face. This isn’t suitable for surfing. It is cooler too. Beautiful, but I do not stay. I miss what I had, and I turn back.

On the way back to Sidi Kaouki, I think about the detour – and the CO₂ it has cost. A slight sting in the otherwise vast feeling of freedom these days. With a bit of guilt, I park again in my little paradise, in my bay by the sea. Omar comes by every day. He greets all the vans and campers, listens to our stories, and passes them on.

I see many people come and go. Few stay as long as I do. Rarely have I spent so long in one place. But my mission – learning to surf – is not yet complete.

I meet Kai. He has been living full-time in his van for eight years, without an apartment. In the summer months, he works in France, and for the rest of the year, he travels. More traveling than working. I ask him what he does all day. ‘Chill,’ he says. I am a bit astonished. I need movement. Setting tasks for myself and completing them gives me a good feeling. Just traveling constantly would be too little for me. Too little meaningful, too little motivating.

Perhaps my mission here also involves finding peace with the few tasks each day. Embracing slowness. Allowing the pressure to rest. If this place teaches me anything, it’s that idleness can be wonderful – when somewhere awaits the next destination. And for me, this destination is not just another place. It is a small piece of meaning that I leave behind. A trace.

Just as the waves come back time and again without haste, shaping the shore.

Proudly, Fouad tells me about his shop. He owns everything here, and for my surfing days in Sidi Kaouki, he gives me a good price: renting a surfboard and wetsuit for two hours over four days. He is happy, and while he offers me his parking space as a secure sleeping spot, I feel this natural form of hospitality that is more of an attitude than just a gesture.

Sidi Kaouki is tiny, just one street lined with a few surf shops and small restaurants. Horseback riding on the beach and quad biking are new activities, Juliette tells me while we eat tajine by the fireplace. Like me, she is traveling in a van, having been on her own journey through Morocco for four years. In Switzerland, she works with animals - milk cows and spends her days in the mountains. Six days a week from early until late. She takes three months off each year. Then she travels, just like I do.

So far, Sidi Kaouki is my favorite place. Imsouane was fancier, but also dirtier, a hotspot that young surfing tourists have discovered. I learn later from Fouad that the hotels there like to discharge their wastewater into the bay, making many surfers sick. This explains the strong smell over the village and why I felt the urge to leave. Instead, I found a beautifully pristine, lonely beach. Aside from four men who were busy doing something, there was no one else around. I dive into this almost untouched paradise for two days, framed by sunshine and blue skies.

The weather change at night comes completely unexpectedly. It flashes and thunders severely, a storm brews, bringing a lot of rain. I think of the three kilometers of sandy road that has now turned into a muddy trail. My kite can't manage that. I keep sliding back and ask the four men if they know a solution. They shake their heads, but one says, “You can stay with us. Enjoy it. It’s so nice when the rain patters on your roof.”

Hesham is a surf teacher, has curly hair, a clear gaze, and a warm presence. He wants to encourage me, speaks a little English. In Imsouane, he gives surf lessons; he is here to take a vacation. His accommodation is a small stone hut, with a tiny room inside, separated from the wind only by a rug. Later, he will collect stones to protect his roof from the rain. I stay. It rains all day and night. Hesham's words resonate: do yoga, enjoy. It takes time for me to accomplish that. Knowing that the only road is impassable makes me nervous. But I am now part of the family, as Hesham says. Someone brings tea, someone asks if I need anything. The next day, I manage to make it up.

Travel creates such experiences. Often, I find myself stuck somewhere in mud, needing to free myself from a muddy situation or getting stuck in the sand. It's never a good feeling, but there are always people there to help. People are basically good, I think then. These events give me a primal trust and change something in me.

With this regained trust, I stay a few days in Sidi Kaouki. When the waves aren’t suitable for surfing, I drive to Essaouira, the windy port city. In the seventies, old hippies gathered here; their charm remains and gives the Medina with its riads - traditional townhouses with green or blue courtyards - a dreamy atmosphere. It is the region of argan oil. One shop follows another. In between, freshly ground almond paste and spices, their colors - colorful, blue, white, earthy - make the alleys glow. The harbor, on the other hand, feels like another world: rough, drafty, pure. Huge tunas lie on the tables, seafood is stacked, and old sailors are busily crafting sardine bait.

The beauty of Morocco doesn't show itself at first glance. The facades are crumbling, the plaster is falling off, and the streets are dusty. The well-kept Europe presents itself differently. But it is far from being as relaxed, vibrant, and alive. Not as helpful, friendly, and warm-hearted. A way that infects me, which I want to take with me.

The first surfing lesson. Hundreds of surfers with me in the water. Everyone is looking for the wave that leaves us beginners standing for a moment. It has spread. Morocco is a surfer paradise. Long waves. Wide beaches. Affordable. Taghazout offers everything: hostels, surf schools, yoga, boards, and bars. The surfer vibe. On so many trips I have avoided the surf spots. Too crowded, too bustling. I prefer it quieter. And now I am right in the middle of it. I let myself be thrown off the board by waves. I have fun but find it tiring. I want to be able to do it well right away.

It is National Holiday. Schoolchildren are running through the city with flags. Families are picnicking and cooking tagine on the beach. Female surfers in bikinis. Muslim women in long swimsuits. Praying on the beach. These images seem harmonious. I wonder how naked skin affects locals. Maybe it's common here since surfing has been around since the seventies.

In the evening, I sit with Luisa from Toubkal and her friend while eating. There, where the locals also go. Unobtrusive, simple, and really good. Meat and fresh catch of the day are grilled openly, high plumes of smoke surround us. Cats and dogs beg for leftovers. It looks dirty. My stomach has tolerated it.

One place further it is quieter. Tamraght. Here we do not crash against the boards anymore. I can practice more relaxed and find my own pace. Without school. Women cook mussels on the beach. A wonderful atmosphere at sunset. Surfer bars and restaurants shine in colorful lights.

And like everywhere: Many construction sites. Hotels are being built. The road network is to be expanded to Agadir by the World Cup. Tara says, his neighboring village Tifnit has been flattened. There wasn't enough left to make it beautiful. The locals had to move. To make way for the large hotel complexes planned by foreign investors. Now he sells argan oil in Tamraght.

The rhythm of my days is now even quieter: surfing. Sunbathing. Immersing myself in the feeling of the place. The images linger. The Yogi culture with matcha latte resembles Berlin Prenzlauer Berg and does not fit into my image of Morocco. But that is my barrier in my head. People bring with them what they know. Change what they find. Is this the rhythm of this country? Constantly under construction, constantly in balance. Like the waves on the beach.

My hiking tour to Toubkal started in Imlil – over 4,000 meters high, the highest mountain in North Africa. Here, at 1,600 meters, I want to acclimatize to the altitude. It is still very uncertain who I will start the tour with. The agency sends vague messages on WhatsApp. First pay, then there will be more information. But I want to trust anyway. I realize how accustomed I am to structures that first offer trust, not demand it. I found them in Marrakech - consciously not booked online. Hoping my money would then arrive where it is needed.

Imlil is prepared for hikers. Especially for beginners like me. Sleeping bags, hiking poles, gloves, backpacks - we can borrow everything. We don't have to buy. I have almost everything with me. We quickly get to know each other. The bakers, the outdoor shops, the street vendors, and the park ranger who will look after my kite for two days. It feels safe.

Omar is supposed to take me to the group. He arrives an hour late, no greeting. “Quickly, we’re off.” I walk with him. First with Omar, then with Hassan's group. For an hour. Then I am to

My dragon demands care. The engine warning light has been glowing ominously for days. I learn: Glowing is not yet serious. Blinking would be. Still, it makes one nervous when so many kilometers lie ahead. So I give in and check what's going on. ChatGPT and two friends suspect: poor diesel quality, high temperatures, too much dust. I follow the AI's advice and head to Ilyas's workshop, a bit outside Marrakech. One of many: small, dusty, greasy, the garage door open – as often here. Ilyas shows me his phone. It displays the explanation of the error diagnosis, translated by ChatGPT: Too much exhaust in the engine. AI is also here. And again, an image that doesn't quite fit.
Ilyas gets a new valve, rides off on his moped, disappearing somewhere in the maze. Two mechanics are tinkering and searching since the moment I arrived. Six hours later, the problem is half-resolved. I should have it checked again at home. Finally, a test drive. “Do you want to drive?” I ask. “No, you. There's too much traffic here.”

With the repaired valve and feeling somewhat reassured, I drive on towards the city the next morning. Many trust taxis, leaving their campers parked. I prefer to trust myself. Red lights are ignored, mopeds and SUVs weave past me while I patiently wait for the green light. Behind me, someone honks impatiently. This is how it is in front of every city – only in Marrakech, mopeds come from all directions. What bicycles are to us, mopeds are to here. Even more impatiently.

I come across a market along the N8, a federal highway, not a small side street. A man is pulling two cows behind him. Did he just buy them? One slips, almost kicking my bus. Another balances a sheep on his moped as he approaches me. Two-lane roads become four. Animals, mopeds, people, delivery vans overtake me from left and right. And I: stay calm.
When the dog in the mountains was baring its teeth, I was more nervous than now in this wild street jumble. Because the safest thing I can do is: trust the flow. Swing along with the chaotic rhythm of this city. Like the man with a cane, who confidently paves his way.

I was warned about Marrakech. Wild, loud, overpriced. I shouldn't buy anything. The woman at the first coffee stand asks 55 Dirham for a small Moroccan coffee – almost six euros, more expensive than in Berlin. It’s only ten in the morning. Everyone is still busy, reverently arranging boxes and containers so that everything looks nice later when the tourists arrive. Others sit down for breakfast in front of their shops. The selling mode hasn't kicked in yet. I wander unnoticed through the Medina. It sparkles more than others, shines grandly where profits are expected. But just two corners away, the other Marrakech begins. Halved cows hang down, animal guts are laid out. I grimace, slightly disgusted. “Don’t you like this?” one asks.
“No.”
“Why are you photographing what you don't like?”
Not a bad question.
Yes – I am one of those who wants to capture what is different. The carpenters, the blacksmiths, the greasy little workshops next to raw meat, fish, vegetables, fabrics. Everything open to the street, all visible, real and unvarnished. I want to show it so that it is not forgotten. That’s why I photograph guts. What I don't photograph are turtles, lizards, birds, and snakes in cages waiting for their performances. Here, I don’t stop. I show my incomprehension.

There is much construction happening. Marrakech is also preparing for the World Cup 2030. Overloaded donkeys carry bags of cement from one place to another, braying loudly, looking exhausted. Like the acrobatic couple in soccer jerseys who juggle skillfully with a ball at the Djemaa el Fna. They seem as if they themselves don't know what to make of it – and on which side they actually stand. I watch them over a cup of mint tea. Everywhere, things are being demolished and space is being made for more shine. The waiter confirms: Yes, Marrakech is gearing up. For the World Cup. For tourism. High expectations. Great hopes. And critical glances. What he really thinks, he does not say. I am a tourist. Only there to make money. Yet in his smile lies something heavy.

Before me is a sea of mountains. Peaks like waves fading into the horizon. Blue sky, 25 degrees. No people. Nowhere. I encounter a herd of sheep, nothing more.

How far should I go when the path offers no destination? After eight kilometers, I arrive at an improvised mountain mine. An old truck is there, solar panels, big tires, an old jump-start cable lying around, and a device. An engine?

Surreal. I decide this is my destination. I often do this in life. I follow no fixed plan. I regard goals as suggestions that I negotiate with myself. Once, I wanted to travel and work full-time, always living in a van. Preferably traveling to Kenya right away to visit the founders from back then, about whom I have written so much. It has turned out differently. Now, I have three months a year that belong to me.

And now - here - I am just a traveler. Without work. Without rhythm. This was never planned, and it changes so much. Suddenly, I have time. For the first time, I am mentally only here. Not half in thought between appointments. I take time to see, to feel, to write. These hours, which I have never allowed myself, are a gift. Because time is the only thing that belongs to us. The most precious asset of all that no one can take from us.

As I linger on my thoughts, I hear two dogs barking loudly. They come running up to me. They are already very close and growling at me, baring their teeth. I think of my rabies vaccination and calculate which leg they should probably hit. A slight panic rises. Then, an old shepherd appears in a long brown robe, calls something out, and lifts a stone. The dogs instantly quiet down. The way is clear. I thank him. He tells me to take a stone next time and throw it at them. I will try – even though it will be hard for me.

Hours later, I see him again. He passes by my bus with his sheep. Maybe he does this every day. Did he want that? Did he set that as a goal once? Or was that simply his way? What does someone who lives with animals on a mountain all day think?

I sit there in my bus, warm, safe, free. And I think: What luxury it is to be able to choose all this. To decide when I go, where I stay, what my goal is. Perhaps that is the greatest privilege of all – not the freedom to travel anywhere, but the freedom to be able to stay still.

For me, traveling is not just moving from one place to another it’s about learning, feeling, and growing.

Welcome to my road full of colors, ideas, and little adventures. 💛
✨ Tell me in the comments: where would you love to travel one day?

In Tinghir, I want to buy vegetables and spices, then hike in the Todra Gorge. I park. Apparently wrong. A man, presumably a self-appointed park ranger, is waving his arms frantically and shouting instructions. Before I can say anything, three men are beside me, knowing better how to maneuver my car than I do. Mentally, I'm still thinking about the truck driver who nearly forced me off the road in the serpentine turns, and the landscape that has changed so much since the Sahara: red rocks, green valleys, oases filled with date palms. I just want to take a quick breath. But that’s often not possible here. As soon as I stop, I become the center of attention. Everyone wants something, asks, looks, speaks to me. It takes some getting used to.

Strenuously, but with the most beautiful vegetables in tow, I continue through the Todra Gorge. Incredibly beautiful. 400-meter-high rock walls, a narrow stream, a tight road where tour buses, tourists, vendors, and now me squeeze through. Also here: Everyone wants to earn their money.

At night it becomes quiet. I wake up with the sun that bathes the rocks in golden light. I pack my things and set off before the others are awake. Now I have it – the peace I have been searching for. I hike for three hours, looking down at palms, river, oases. Dreamlike. And while I walk, I think about giving.

Up here, among the earthen villages of the nomads, much is still traditional. Two children are herding their goats over the mountain. I wave. I am happy about their wave in return – and then comes the hand gesture. Give, give. Give money. Something to eat. I hand over the cookies I have with me and think: down in the valley, it's no different. There, it’s adults asking for donations, here, it’s children. They have learned early that asking is rewarded. Is that wrong? Or simply human?

I think of the founders of technology startups in Kenya I once interviewed. They preferred to be supported by friends and family rather than European investors. They wanted to stay independent, free from what they could not control. These children here cannot rely on tourists passing by whenever they are hungry. Direct help seems intuitively good but often only has a short-term effect. It is more sustainable to strengthen structures, not to create dependencies.

In the evening, I stop at a lake. It’s Saturday. Families are picnicking, fathers are fishing with their children. Two kids curiously climb into my bus. They discover my favorite spot on the couch and relax. They watch me cook, curiously inspecting every corner. We pick up some trash together. A principle of those living in the bus: Leave every place cleaner than you found it. The mother brings tea and cookies, inviting me to stay overnight with them. “So you’re not so alone,” she says. She doesn’t want anything more. I stay. And I smile at the transformation of the day: Giving has many forms. Sometimes it's money, sometimes cookies, sometimes simply time.

Hassan reaches me on his moped before I've taken five steps from the bus, ready to start my first Sahara exploration. "Ah, from Berlin! Do you want to camp, yes? Are you looking for a place to stay? Do you know about park4night?" He knows exactly what I need. "I'll show you a place where you can feel safe as a woman alone, see the sunset, and not be disturbed." It's a sophisticated system. The Berbers have turned camping into a business. They speak four, sometimes five languages – English, French, Spanish, German, Italian. Just to help us better. They bring Tajine and couscous, tea, and rolls in the morning. They organize quad and camel rides.

I've always found my own places over the years. I think I don't need Hassan – and I look at the red dragon without four-wheel drive and all the sandy holes around. "Alright, Hassan, take me there." He takes me to exactly the spot he described. At sunset, I walk up the dunes. Surrounded by quads whose engines roar and camels leaving their tracks. It's an incredibly beautiful place. The yellow Sahara landscape casts shadows, turning into magnificent red in the evening sun. Beautiful. Actually. I'm enveloped in deafening noise. It annoys me. I feel out of place – part of something I don't want to belong to.

Later I read: Many Berber families live from tourism. Camels are a means of transport, milk suppliers, livelihood. But where tourism becomes the main source of income, the animals often suffer. Big agencies and middlemen are behind it, not just local families. The guides, like Hassan and his friends, rarely receive a fair share. And the quads – as harmless as they seem – destroy vegetation, promote erosion, and scare away wildlife.

I wonder why I'm here. How much better is what I'm doing? I don't want to judge. I'm not better than those who come in groups, let themselves be guided, see the same sun, the same desert. Maybe the only difference is the pace. They travel fast; I travel slowly. But we all seek the same: the feeling of finding something real somewhere.

And perhaps that's the contradiction of these places: They attract us because they seem untouched, and yet they change because we come. It's a silent exchange – between longing and destruction, between encounter and loss. I see the sun disappear behind the dunes in the distance, and for a moment, everything goes quiet. Only the wind remains.

My path to Merzouga, to the Sahara, is breathtaking. Once again, it's a canyon landscape like that in the northern Spanish desert – the one with the forgotten Western. Nature is painted sandstone red, the Atlas Mountains rise on the horizon. Magical. Also the camaraderie on the road: I regularly get warned by flashing headlights before the next police checkpoint. There are many of those. Well-dressed policemen measure speed and mercilessly wave people over. I received my first ticket with so much kindness and respect that I couldn't even get angry.

I rarely pass by places. Usually, it is just road, sand, mountains. In Midelt, a place in the middle of nowhere, I suddenly find myself in an organic supermarket. I buy twelve liters of oat milk for thirty euros and vegetables in paper bags. I'm speechless. I look to see what else might be found here. Perhaps someone who can fix my broken screen – which fell without protection a few days ago? I walk to the mobile phone shop. “No, not me,” says the man. “But he, over there, can do it.” And so I am passed along, from shop to shop, from hand to hand. A great togetherness, a network of helpful people. What one cannot do, the next can. One hand washes the other.

Finally, I find what I need. In a dusty shop, a friendly man pulls the right screen from a drawer. His daughter is just coming home from school. She is to show me where I can get it repaired. Together we walk down the street. The little girl carefully and attentively carries the packaging with the screen in front of her, still wearing her backpack. It feels light to walk beside her – this pretty girl in her flowing dress and headscarf, completely serious in her task. We dutifully line up. Surely she has been instructed to hand everything over herself and to only leave when it is done. She hands over the screen as soon as it is our turn. I give her ten dirhams, one euro. She beams. “Shukran, shukran,” she trills in a soft child’s voice.

“Ready in 30 minutes!” says the man. Good. I let myself drift, finding warm flatbreads, almonds, and figs again. I check for my camera every few minutes – but there is none. No phone. No messages. No one wanting anything. No one I have to respond to. If I had a GPS in my head, I could very likely live without it for a few weeks.

For the repair, I pay 400 dirhams, about 40 euros. I'm happy. The sandstone landscape is changing. Palms appear, a river winds through the valley. I cross the Ziz Valley – the largest oasis in Africa. I have to stop every few minutes. I can hardly believe my eyes; how beautiful this green band is that stretches through the evening sun, framed by the red Atlas Mountains.

Between this vastness and the dust, between the laughter of a child and the quiet trust of the people, I feel what is different. The camaraderie here does not arise from plans or perfection but from closeness. From the knowledge that somehow we help each other. And that it goes on – always – even when nothing seems certain. Perhaps that is the essence of this journey: to experience how light the world can sometimes be when we simply trust it a little.

I am in the Medina of Meknes early. By ten o'clock, most shop doors are still closed. The first bread is being baked. I buy a small flatbread for five cents – still warm, delicious. The people here take it slowly. Only around noon does the Medina fill up, especially with women shopping for groceries.

One points to a chicken, one of many. It is still alive. The vendor grabs it by the neck, weighs it. A loud scream. Then slaughterhouse, plastic bag, everyday life. I am so stunned that I can’t take a picture. Instead, I go to the vegetable stand, buy something more out of motion than appetite.

An old man approaches me: “Are you from Germany?” Yes. “I worked in Stuttgart,” he says. “I am an artist, come, I will show you my shop.” He leads me to a forge and hands me over to his son. The usual sales routine starts. I can watch as he forges jewelry, get tea, and of course, I buy something. “Just for the help, just for the help,” says the old man. I smile and leave. 70 Dirhams, around seven euros. Not much for me. But here the average pension is 200 euros a month. You need three times that to live. So it can't be that wrong. I pay four euros for my vegetables – and can eat from that for two days.

This time I don’t get lost and continue on. I search for peace. The National Park Ifrane is ahead of me. There are supposed to be monkeys there. And yes, there are monkeys. At the entrance, vendors with horses offer peanuts and fruit for the Barbary macaques. The animals are trained to be around people. Fun for children – but not sensible. They are fed without hesitation, even at the roadside, where the monkeys cross the road. Dangerous. Nobody thinks about that.

The park itself: cedar and oak forests. Beautiful. Quiet. And dirty. Trash everywhere. Campfires still smoldering in the dry woods. I can hardly comprehend this. I, from clean Europe, with its many trash cans, regulations, order. There is none here. No trash cans. Not to mention waste separation. The Barbary macaques leap between the trees, pull empty soda bottles from the bushes, balance on branches – so lively, so out of place in this scenery. An ambivalent image. Like so much here.

Lost in the Medina

Tradition: Berber and Tanner

Fes is the oldest of Morocco's four imperial cities. City of the Berbers. City of leather. Here, leather is tanned using ancient traditions. In a pungent smell, men dip the pelts in a mixture of cow urine, pigeon droppings, water, lime, and salt. They stand right in the middle of it, without gloves. Mint is offered to us visitors – for the nose. I am prepared: essential oil, FFP2 mask. Still, it makes me shudder.

Work Smells of Body

And while I stand there, I think of the other end of this journey – of orderly Europe. This ordered, wealthy, insured life, where everything has its place, its rules, its security. And how far that suddenly seems from this world here, where work still smells of body, and life costs something. Nothing here is sterile. No motion is invisible. Everything happens before your eyes.

Souks

In the Medina, leather is sold as colorful bags and shoes at high prices. I retreat to the most beautiful souks: spices, vegetables, baked goods – baklava! – and garments.

Days in the Medina are exhausting. Narrow, winding, loud, smelly. The sun hardly penetrates. Everything is close. Everything screams. And everywhere are people, like me, trying to capture it all. In pictures.
But be cautious: always ask. Many Muslims do not like to be photographed.

Alone, Dangerous?

Later, a police officer shines a light into my bus. Am I alone? Want to spend the night here? Yes, I do. No, he says. Too dangerous. He gives me his phone number in case something happens. I drive on. I end up in the next city, in a parking lot next to the next Medina of Meknes. It’s enough for a day.

Many people travel to Chefchaouen just for the photos, Coralie shares. Girls in short skirts, dressed lightly, pose on the blue steps of the blue-and-white city. Coralie shakes her head. And this! Among all the Muslims. And she's right. The city – beautiful, each house painted in blue and white – is overrun by tourists. Many also from Morocco itself. They take photos with parrots while influencers pose for their selfies.

Border Cetua - Morocco

At the border, the drug dog gets into my car. Everything is searched. Incredulous head shakes at the sight of me traveling alone as a woman. Am I seeking company? No. The Moroccan family in the car in front of me is checked thoroughly, right down to their last suitcase. They have to unpack everything.
Later, when we buy the SIM card, we meet again. We talk about racism in Spain and that it's better in England. There, they say, they leave you alone. But it rains too much. They now want to move to Gibraltar. There, they have the best of both worlds.

Tétouan

Tétouan has seven gates and seven medinas. Each with its own hammam, a school, a bakery, a souk. Moah has declared himself my tour guide and shows me around his city for hours. I'm torn between gratitude for so much knowledge and the desire to discover it all on my own.

Everything is here: scents of spices, blood from slaughtered chickens, overflowing trash cans. It's Friday. The muezzin calls. Everyone rushes to pray. The streets are briefly cleared, then awaken in the afternoon as the third prayer begins.
Is it like this every day? Yes, says Moah, five prayers every day. But on Fridays, they wash first. And then there’s couscous.

Within me rises the desire to cover myself, even my hair. As soon as I'm alone, the stares become intrusive, the words too close. It's exhausting. But I will get used to it. That will happen.

English: the following is a personal report by Hajar from Morocco:

The day began with an engaging environmental workshop, held at the local primary school. The team participated in tree planting activities, contributing to a green and healthier environment. Alongside the ecological efforts, we spent joyful moments interacting with the children, we were playing games, sharing laughter, and distributing small gifts including sweets, books and coloring materials. The initiative not only brought smiles to the children’s faces but also environmental awareness from a young age.

After lunch, we resumed our work at the ceramic atelier, focusing on the burning phase of the ceramic pieces we had previously crafted. This hands-on experience allowed us to deepen our understanding of traditional ceramic techniques and continue our own creative journey.

The evening was filled with music and joy as we gathered to sing and enjoy dinner together. Later, I found some quiet time for myself, which I used to read and practice embroidery - a peaceful and fulfilling end to a productive day.

The day was a beautiful blend of community service, artistic expression, and personal growth. Each activity contributed to a sense of purpose and connection - with nature, with others and with myself.