Glance at a map of Morocco and your eyes are drawn from the mountains, deserts and cities of the north to a stretch of land in the southwest; few roads and habitations and tentatively separated from the rest of Morocco with a faint dotted line. This is Western Sahara.

Few tourists venture this far south, whispers amongst the campervan masses were that it’s “all the same” and “there’s nothing there”. But there is beauty in bleak and barren; 360° of arresting, monotonous landscape stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction. Standing surrounded by such a huge expanse of ‘nothingness’ creates a humbling feeling of being such a small dot on a huge planet. In a place where camels outnumber cars you feel as if you have the whole vastness to yourself.

Historically, this area of the coastal Sahara was controlled by the Spanish but by the late sixties pressure from the native Saharans, the Saharawi tribes, had increased. In 1973 a campaign for independence was initiated by a newly-formed militant group ‘Polisario’. Spain reluctantly pulled out of Western Sahara in 1976, facilitating a division of the territory between Morocco in the North and Mauritania in the South. Polisario fought on, thousands of Saharawi’s fled to neighbouring Algeria and eventually Mauritania withdrew and the Moroccans occupied 80% of the area, forcing Polisario to retreat to marginal areas in the East.

Polisario directed a guerrilla war against Moroccan forces until 1991 when the UN negotiated a ceasefire with the aim of allowing Saharawis the choice between independence or Moroccan rule. This referendum never happened due to voting eligibility problems, Morocco dug it’s heels in deep and refused to compromise; subsequent talks of a referendum have failed with increasing concern over human right’s issues in the territory. Approximately half of the Saharawis still live in refugee camps just across the border in Algeria.

We visited the capital Laayoune, coastal towns of Boujdour and Tarfaya, venturing as far south as Dahkla then inland to the dusty desert town of Smara. Morocco has encouraged migration of people from the North to these areas through tax-free incentives and a lowering of the cost of fuel by around 30%. The huge amounts of money desperately pumped into the region by Morocco is evident; unnecessarily grand entrances to towns with several lanes of new tarmac, ornate street lights and ostentatious gateways displaying giant painted Ostriches, Camels and Gazelle. Urban infrastructure has been rapidly constructed, suburban road systems, electricity and water but no houses and empty streets. The red Moroccan flag with its central green star flies defiantly over every official building.

Information from the region is fiercely controlled by Morocco; we were frequently stopped at police checkpoints and questioned about our occupations (journalists are not allowed in the region), where we had come from and were going; they closely monitor the whereabouts of all tourists. The UN and the military had a strong presence wherever we travelled.

Despite international pressure, the future for the Saharawi people looks unpromising; the question as to why the situation continues could be answered by the rich natural resources under the surface of both the land and sea. Offshore coastal waters team with abundant fisheries; the area is one of the worlds largest producers of Sardines and fleets of hundreds of fishing boats tirelessly unload tonnes of fish from Saharan ports every day. The land is phosphate rich (75% of the worlds phosphate reserves are in Morocco and Western Sahara); we saw huge conveyor belts transporting phosphates from desert mines to waiting ships. Despite no legal claim to the territory, in 2001, Morocco gave coastal oil exploration rights to France and the US.

Western Sahara glaringly lacked one thing; its people. We found no evidence of their culture or heritage; no Saharawi restaurants or craft shops, no local music playing, native dress or traditions. A land in limbo, polluted by indiscriminate landmines and devoid of its people; a country whose future is currently as bleak as it’s landscape. 


Emma

Morocco, a short hop from Spain and not requiring a Carnet, has long been a favoured overlanding destination for many Europeans. During our time here we have spotted overland vehicles from Holland, Germany, Czech Republic, Poland, Italy, England and of course it is incredibly popular with the French, whose native language (along with Arabic) is spoken throughout. The 3-month visa, year round sun (at least in the south), varied landscape and friendly people also help seal the deal.

Our first real taste of off-road driving came as we decided to pass the High Atlas mountains for a third time. After crossing twice on two stunning paved roads we decided to opt for a more challenging route on our third pass. Heading north from the small town of Timesgadiouine we had planned on doing a 1 day north-easterly circuit passing over the 3205m tall Djebal Tabgourt. With our 1:1,000,000 Reise Know-How map in hand we set off, after about an hours drive it became blatantly apparent that all our map was good for was toilet paper if we got caught short. Relying on our GPS compass for direction we carried on regardless to try and navigate the barely wider than Bee-bee tracks. 

The route we took was scarcely driven, rocky and featured a few hair-raising cliff drops. After a full days drive it dawned on us that we were not going to get off the mountain before sunset. We drove until the light dropped and soon our situation became the start of one of those ‘When Things Go Bad’ TV programs as we found ourselves setting up camp on a precipitous edge in -2°C at the top of the windblown mountain. 

The next days driving was equally as challenging and featured several slightly daunting drop-offs. The descent was steep and involved rock crawling that was so heavy on the brakes they literally stopped working, requiring us to pause in a little village to let them cool down. After nearly two full days of driving we arrived in a small settlement where we had to pass between two buildings; thankfully the gap was about 20cm wider than Bee-bee. Travelling these tracks in anything bigger than us would have caused problems; on our entire route we rarely encountered places wide enough to pass on-coming vehicles, let alone turn around. Luckily we didn’t have to do either, emphasising just how little traffic passes along these routes.

Located on the coast just south of Sidi Ifni is Fort Bou Jerif, a clichéd French Legion fort, the kind you’d see in a Sunday afternoon movie. It is also right next to the site of a rather trendy boutique campsite of the same name. After a couple of nights of wild camping we owed it to each other to have a hot shower and so heading off-road we attempted to follow the rather useless signs (foolishly failing to make a note of the GPS co-ordinates that were written on the first sign).  After approximately 18km of piste and a few wrong turns we finally got our first view of the rather impressive fort. Driving closer we realised that the previous 3 days heavy rain had resulted in a flooded wadi flowing rapidly between us and a hot shower.

Whilst in Mongolia river crossings were part of the daily routine, but in Morocco we were not really expecting any, let alone one over 1m deep and flowing. Whilst wading in, thigh deep, to check the riverbed a French Landcruiser arrived behind us and watched on amused at my underwear paddling antics. After evaluating the situation we decided the crossing was do-able despite the French surrendering to overland defeat. With a little gas and a carefully planned route Bee-bee took the crossing in her stride as the water washed over her bonnet. We watched on, smugly, from the far riverbank as the French turned around and drove the 50km detour to the nearest bridge.

A trip to Morocco would not be complete without driving some stereotypical Saharan sand dunes. A real highlight for me was driving out to the 300m tall dunes at Chegaga. Other than a few sandy tracks (where we got stuck) and getting bogged down in soft sand on the shores of Lake Baikal we’d never really driven Bee-bee in the soft yellow stuff. Apprehensively we headed west out of the town of M’hamid; after about 3km the stony track gave way to undefined tracks in the sand. This time we wisely aired down the tyres to 14psi and cracked on; given our previous track record for driving in soft-sand we were amazed at the difference airing down made. Bee-bee, despite her hefty load, handled impeccably and we smoothly drove the 120km (with a camp in the middle) without a hitch.

After 2 months in Morocco it is obvious why we have met so many other overlanders. Morocco is essentially an off-road playground for Europeans and it is often used as a testing ground before embarking on longer trips or as a gateway to Africa. It offers all kinds of challenging terrain for every kind of overlander from Motorcyclists to the largest of off-road trucks. The people are friendly, the fuel is cheap and weather is excellent; it is essentially overland heaven and it’s only a short ferry trip away!


Andy

Across the valleys of South Western Morocco we camped amongst vast plains of dark, twisted, prickly trees extending from arid soil and bearing hard, oval, bright green fruit. These fruits contain a nut, at the centre of which is a small, hard kernel that produces a rich, nutty oil when crushed. Argan oil is one of the world’s rarest oils as a result of the small area in which the trees are found. Extraction of the oil is still carried out arduously by hand, traditionally the nuts were collected after being consumed by goats but the current method now avoids this processing step. The kernels are roasted if the oil is to be used in cooking, first producing a brown paste similar to peanut butter, then a finer oil which bread is dipped into. 

Over the last few years the use of Argan oil in the cosmetics industry has soared, hairdressers are swearing by this new ‘Moroccan oil’ and beauticians are raving about its skincare gains. Here in Morocco the benefits run further than skin deep; the production and sale of Argan is largely controlled by government-supported women’s cooperatives, now so successful that other areas of agriculture are looking to adopt the model. We visited one such cooperative in the Ourika Valley, where the women explained that many of the employees were either divorced or widowed, therefore giving them an opportunity to be self-sufficient and independent. Many women are able to afford to educate themselves and their children with the income resulting in a positive impact on the socio-economics of many rural communities. From an environmental perspective, the trees are now so valuable they are protected countrywide; consequently protecting the surrounding desert habitat and wildlife.

Emma

Leaving the pasta and noodles in Bee-bee, I was invited to join a Moroccan chef in his restaurant kitchen to learn how to prepare two classic Moroccan dishes; Tagine and Couscous. ‘Tagine’ is actually the name of the conical-shaped earthenware dish that the meal is served in, similar to a ‘Casserole’. The fish tagine is made with red mullet, potatoes and olives with a tomato based sauce prepared with cumin, parsley, paprika, garlic and pepper. The lamb tagine has a ‘sweet’ sauce created with ginger, cinnamon and saffron and presented with caramelised prunes topped with toasted sesame seeds. Nothing is measured exactly; olive oil is glugged and water splashed into the pan with rough handfuls and pinches of spices thrown in; the importance is to taste throughout the cooking and adjust the ingredients to your liking. There is no ‘leave to simmer for an hour’ while you put your feet up; constant stirring, adding water, tasting and seasoning is only interrupted by a quick mint tea break.

Forget your Ainsley Harriet ‘add boiling water and stand for 4 minutes couscous’; the authentic version takes around 2 and a half hours. The couscous is steamed slowly in the top part of a ‘Kaskas’ pan as the vegetables cook underneath. The traditional couscous which families share on Fridays contains 7 vegetables and is beautifully presented in a circular, symmetrical pattern on a    huge shared plate with chickpeas in tomato sauce sprinkled over and topped with a mouth-watering caramelised onion and sultana ‘T’fia’.

Drive through any village at meal times and Tagine stalls flank the street, the decorated terracotta pots lined up on charcoal grills along the counter. Those with a tomato placed on the top have been ‘reserved’ earlier in the day. Couscous is eaten in the tiniest hole-in-the-wall cafes to the swankiest 5 star restaurants across the whole of Morocco. A huge “Shukran” to executive chef Younes and his chef Sommaya from Hapimag Marrakech for their expertise and teaching in Moroccan cuisine. To have a go at Moroccan cooking we have attached some home made PDF recipes below. Bon Appetit! 

Emma

Lamb Tagine
Fish Tagine
Couscous Royale

If the lanes and alleys of the souk and Kasbah are the arteries of Marrakech, then Djemaa el Fna is its heart- a central square pulsating with life.

During the day it’s a comparatively sedate scene although still impossible to cross without being intercepted by trinket hawkers, water sellers, snake charmers and orange juice vendors. Horse-drawn carriages lug tourists around its periphery while those on foot vigilantly dodge having snakes around their necks or monkeys on their shoulders. Water peddlers dressed elaborately in coloured robes rotate tassels on their hats are more about a posed tourist opportunity than quenching your thirst. Squeaking, oboe-like instruments warn of a huddle of basket-covered snakes; wander too close or feign interest and a shiny black cobra will sway erect from under the basket next to a thick, coiled, motionless viper. Traditional herbalists sick cross-legged under the shade of parasols, attracting a gathering of curious onlookers and patients hopeful that the concoction of ground herbs and animal parts will cure their ailments.

By late afternoon the food stalls begin to set up; rows of temporary eateries consisting of central preparation and grilling area surrounded by a few tables and benches. Fiercely vying for business, menus are eagerly waved in your face accompanied to chants to remember their food stall “117, taste of heaven!” Smoke wafts from these makeshift restaurants that serve up Tagines, spicy sausages and grilled kebabs, cous cous, steamed snails, whole sheep’s head and brains, sweet chicken pastilla, salads and bowls of steaming Harira soup.

As the sun sets, storytellers and acrobats attract crowds encircling their animated performances. Impromptu music sessions start up with amateur musicians perched on wooden stools around lamps illuminating their faces nodding to the hypnotic drum-beat.

Emma

The transition from European familiar to African unfamiliar is only a 90-minute sail across the Straits of Gibraltar. As with the arrival to any foreign country for the first time, there is always the excitement, yet slight trepidation of the unknown; language, money, people, food, culture, roads and everyday life.

Our initial route in Morocco took us down the Atlantic coast; after a very chilly drive through France and Spain the days were now warmer but by sunset the temperature fell sharply. A wild coastline worshipped by windsurfers, big waves crash along rocky shores and small towns nestle in sheltered bays. Our first stop, Asilah, was our introduction to a Moroccan town; the medina (the walled part of an Arabic town) is a labyrinth of narrow lanes and alleys dotted with doorways encircled by intricate, colourful tiled mosaics. 

Tiny, wobbly, wrought iron balconies overlook streets so confined you could reach across and shake your opposite neighbours hand. Flowerpots bursting with vibrant geraniums adorn the small windowsills. Revving scooters veering perilously through the alleyways break the silence along with a chattering group of neatly uniformed children rushing to the cramped grocery shop to buy sweets after school.

Outside this enclosed, peaceful hive of habitation, you step onto the main street and are met with an immediate sensory onslaught. Donkey carts, cars, bikes, horses and people jostle rowdily for position on the road. Men wearing the traditional wizard-like overcoat, complete with pointed hood, congregate noisily in busy cafes lining the streets drinking mint tea and playing dominoes and backgammon. Women barter for fruit and vegetables from piled-high, rickety market stalls while chickens peck blissfully unaware of their fate on poultry ‘death row’. Distorted Arabic hip-hop blares from the stereo of a make-shift stall selling pirate CD’s, inharmoniously clashing with the Muezzin call to prayer of several nearby mosques. Locals clamour round snack stalls selling hot fried sardines, snails, smoking charcoal-cooked kebabs, sizzling, oily flatbread and sweet sticky doughnuts.

As the sun sets over the harbour, the medina walls glow varying shades of red in the fading light and we settle down into our roof tent… we’re going to like it here.

*Welcome

Emma