Morocco

Morocco wasn't part of the plan. A friend had a 48-hour stopover in Casablanca, and I decided to join him almost on a whim.

I'd always been curious about the country, not just for its culture and people, but for the landscapes beyond its cities.

Our first evening took us through the narrow streets of Casablanca's old medina and toward the enormous mosque overlooking the Atlantic.

The following day, we explored the capital, moving between ancient ruins, painted streets and crowded markets. Along the harbour, children were jumping into the water, seemingly unconcerned by the world around them.

It was a brief introduction to Morocco, but enough to make me want to discover more.

While my friend returned to Montréal, I continued south toward Marrakech. I had no real plan beyond spending a night in the city before heading into the mountains.

I spent the day wandering through the medina, photographing merchants, architecture, and whatever caught my attention along the way.

There was movement everywhere, and every turn seemed to lead into another crowded street.

The following morning, I arrived at a garden just as it opened. For a few moments, I had the place almost entirely to myself.

After the noise of the previous day, the quiet felt particularly welcome. I wandered through the gardens and admired the architecture before the crowds began to arrive.

Then it was time to meet my driver. Finding each other in the middle of hundreds of people, when all he knew was my name, proved more difficult than expected.

As we drove toward the mountains, the cities gradually gave way to small villages and wide, open valleys.

We stopped beside the road overlooking a Berber village, where a friend of my driver had set up a coffee machine in the trunk of his car. Not quite the roadside café I had expected.

By the time I reached Imlil, I was struck by the scale of the mountains surrounding the valley. Hassan welcomed me into his home and introduced me to a friend who would guide me for the next two days.

We set off after a traditional breakfast under clear skies and cool mountain air. It wasn't long before the trails became difficult to follow, sometimes disappearing completely beneath the snow or cutting across steep mountainsides.

By midday, we had reached our first pass, with an entirely new landscape opening on the other side.

As we descended toward the village where we would spend the night, the red buildings slowly came into view beneath the snow-covered mountains. The contrast was striking, with Toubkal rising in the distance.

Some of the surrounding villages still carried the damage of a recent earthquake. It was a reminder that life in these mountains could be difficult, far beyond the challenges of hiking through them.

That evening, I climbed above the village to watch the sunset. Two young boys came over, curious about my camera but not particularly comfortable being photographed. Their father was tending his sheep farther down the slope.

Despite the language barrier, we spent a long time together. Their father eventually joined us, and the four of us watched the last light disappear over the valley.

After sharing a few candies, the boys led me back to the house where I was staying, running ahead through the narrow paths of the village.

The following day took us farther into the mountains, toward Toubkal's base camp.

Behind the refuge, we followed a snow-filled canyon, walking along a frozen river toward a waterfall that disappeared directly beneath the snow.

I'd come to Morocco in February hoping to find a little warmth. Instead, I spent much of the day walking through snow that sometimes reached my waist.

On the way back, the weather began to change. The wind picked up, the sky turned grey, and the mountains took on an entirely different character.

We eventually reached our final pass at 2,900 metres. Far below us, Imlil was visible at the bottom of the valley.

After two days in the mountains, it was time to head down before the weather got any worse.

The following morning, I left the mountains behind and made my way toward the coast.

By the time I reached Essaouira, everything felt different. The cold mountain air had been replaced by the damp, salty wind coming off the Atlantic.

I spent my final days wandering through the narrow streets of the medina, along the old fortifications and through the fishing harbour, where rows of small blue boats filled the docks.

Only a week earlier, I'd arrived in Morocco without much of a plan. In just a few days, I'd gone from crowded cities to remote mountain villages, deep snow, and the Atlantic coast.

There was barely time to take it all in. Two days later, I would be leaving for Guatemala.