Morocco

It was 2021, and we were still very much living in the world of COVID tests and masks on airplanes when Vuong found a tour of Morocco for around $1,000 per person. It covered an almost ridiculous amount of the country, and we decided to add a few days of our own before the formal tour began.

And somehow, I packed the entire trip in a carry-on, which may actually be one of the accomplishments I'm most proud of. My Adventure Travel Packing Guide is basically the system I use for trips like this—when I need to pack for everything from cities to mountains without hauling my entire closet across a country.

Our first taste of Morocco was Marrakech, and it was sensory overload.

It was blazing hot. We stayed in a traditional riad and plunged into the medina, where the streets seemed to operate according to rules I never quite understood. In the main square, women descended on me offering henna before I had quite agreed to anything.

At one point, some questionable men whisked us onto the backs of scooters and tore through the narrow passageways of the medina while pedestrians somehow scattered just before we reached them.

They took us to the tanneries, where leather was being dyed using traditional methods involving substances I probably would have preferred not to know about. The smell was so overwhelming that they handed us what they referred to as the Berber gas mask—a bundle of fresh mint to hold under our noses while we walked around.

Mint would become a recurring theme in Morocco, mostly in the much more pleasant form of mint tea. It was everywhere: sweet, hot, and poured from elaborate pots, sometimes jokingly referred to as Berber whiskey.

At night, the medina transformed again. Hundreds of food vendors competed for customers while people squeezed around communal tables and men wandered between them selling tissues, candy, and anything else someone might conceivably buy. Monkeys on leashes broke my heart.

Before meeting our tour group, Vuong and I escaped the chaos of Marrakech for a few days in Essaouira on the Atlantic coast.

We surfed, watched camels wandering along the beach, and ate fresh seafood picked directly from the day's selection at little stalls and grilled for us on the spot. It was breezy and relaxed and felt like a completely different Morocco.

Then we returned to meet our group and headed for the mountains.

Our group turned out to be one of the unexpected gifts of the trip. There was Bruce, an orthopedic surgeon who seemed to know every star in the sky and would later become particularly useful; Cassie and Nate; a beautiful but seriously tough dentist; a wonderfully kooky older doctor; Kelly, who we spent a lot of time with and still talk to; and Lou, in his seventies, who somehow seemed capable of running the entire operation.

And there was Omar, our guide, who was simply wonderful and somehow managed to shepherd all of us—and our assorted personalities—around Morocco.

Then came Jebel Toubkal.

We spent two days hiking toward the base of the highest peak in North Africa, staying in communal mountain accommodations along the way.

The first day was long and hot. At one point, we were walking along an exposed stretch of trail on the side of the mountain with almost no shade anywhere. Eventually I spotted what seemed to be the only tree in Morocco and made straight for it.

I collapsed underneath it, seeking shade like a camel spider.

I was exhausted, convinced vultures were circling overhead, and briefly wondered whether this tree might actually be where I died.

It wasn't.

We kept going.

There were precisely 92 switchbacks involved in reaching one of our lodges. I know this because I counted every single one of them.

One night, we sat outside drinking mint tea beneath an enormous mountain sky while Bruce taught us about the stars. It was one of those quiet moments that stays with you—the group together, far from home, surrounded by mountains and darkness.

Eventually we reached the base camp for our summit attempt.

The climb began in the middle of the night.

And then I sprained my ankle.

I have never been so happy to be injured.

I had been exhausted and increasingly terrified by the prospect of the summit, so while Vuong and the others continued up Jebel Toubkal, I stayed behind. I had a second breakfast and sat writing in my journal while everyone else climbed the mountain.

Frankly, I was having a lovely morning.

Vuong summited Jebel Toubkal and, somewhat annoyingly, they were all back by around 11 a.m.

Unfortunately, my injury did not mean I was finished hiking. I still had to walk roughly eight miles out on that ankle.

From the mountains, Morocco kept changing around us.

We saw goats standing improbably in argan trees and visited a women's cooperative where argan oil was made by hand. Apparently argan oil is good for essentially everything.

We traveled toward the desert, with long van rides—sometimes eight or ten hours—giving us plenty of time to watch the landscape change. We visited Ouarzazate, famous for its film industry, and the extraordinary earthen village of Aït Ben Haddou rising from the landscape nearby.

Then came the edge of the Sahara.

We stayed in a Berber-style camp, rode camels, walked over dunes that seemed designed specifically for photographs, and joined a drum circle at night. The frantic energy of Marrakech felt very far away.

Toward the end of the trip, we returned to Essaouira—this time with our new friends.

My birthday fell during that second visit. We celebrated at a restaurant overlooking the Atlantic while a film crew worked on the shore below. I remember rough seas, actors in armor, and what appeared to be a storm scene being filmed. I still have no idea what movie it was.

Omar arranged for the band to sing to me and put a wonderfully ridiculous swirly hat on my head. We climbed to the top of a little building with Kelly for views over the city and ate fresh seafood at the fish market.

By then, the people who had begun the trip as strangers didn't really feel like strangers anymore.

Some of my favorite memories of Morocco are simply of our group gathered around enormous tables filled with food—tagines, couscous, fresh bread, and pastilla, that wonderful combination of flaky pastry, savory filling, almonds, spices, and powdered sugar that somehow works—talking about travel and whatever adventure was coming next.

Morocco was noisy and quiet, exhausting and luxurious, chaotic and beautiful. There were frantic medinas and silent dunes, communal mountain lodging and lovely riads, enormous meals and endless glasses of mint tea.

And it gave us something I hadn't expected: friends. Years later, we still keep in touch with people who started that trip as strangers around a dinner table.

I went to Morocco expecting markets, deserts, camels and mountains. I got all of those—and a sprained ankle, 92 switchbacks, a ridiculous birthday hat, and a group of people who became part of the story.

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