Travel Photography, Writing and Photoblog from Matt Feldman

A fter the insanity of Marrakesh, our first stop is the village of Imlil. Because, when in a hot, desert country, what better a thing to do than climb a mountain without any of the appropriate equipment? Jebel Toubkal, at 4165 m (13,665 ft), is the highest mountain in North Africa, replete with snow, hail, sleet, more snow and freezing temperatures — facts we simply choose to ignore and trudge ahead in our sandals.

Getting there is a struggle by Western standards of travel, yet it seems completely ordinary to the locals around us. From the taxi stand outside Bab er-Rob, one of the 18 gates into the city of Marrakesh, we wait for a shared van to Asni. And we wait. And wait. Schedules for shared transportation are fluid, with the driver delaying departure until every available seat is full, or in the case of a shared taxi, paid for. And like the food vendors, the drivers know how to make the sales pitch.

In total, the 60 km trip to Asni takes two and a half hours: an hour and a half of waiting and honking and driving laps around the taxi lot announcing the van's destination in a loud, staccato "AsniAsniAsniAsniAsniAsniAsni!" until every seat (and even a place beside the door that isn't really a seat) is filled, and an hour of actually driving.

Still 20 km from our ultimate destination of Imlil, the base for mountain excursions, our transportation options in the mountain village of Asni have narrowed. As the day winds down, all the taxis appear to be heading back toward Marrakesh rather than further into the mountains. Sitting on the ground at the side of a parking lot, we wait for cars to pass that might take us to Imlil. Literally a captive audience from the second our feet hit the ground in Asni, we are prime targets for every imaginable sales pitch, but when it's clear we wanted only to go to Imlil, they give us some space. Mainly because they keep insisting there is no more service to Imlil. Transport can be arranged, one man says, but it will be expensive. How expensive? About $25 — more than five times the price we paid for the 60 km journey from Marrakesh. We stay put.

Ten minutes pass with no traffic to Imlil. We began to wonder if the locals are giving us the straight story and we do in fact need to jump on whatever we can find that's headed our way. A man approaches with a duffel bag and says hello — he's American. On "vacation" from his "post" in Casablanca, he had just come from the mountains. He appeared to speak flawless Arabic. How long had he been working in Morocco? He's been "in country" a little over a year, using the term typically employed by military types. A short, well-built American, speaking Arabic with a curious duffel bag, "on vacation" from Casablanca. There is likely more to his story than we are going to find out. With a curt nod, he gets into a van headed for Marrakesh. But before he leaves, says that the word around the taxi lot was likely correct — we should take whatever we can find to Imlil.

An old man in a full, black robe approaches next. His hood is up and he looks different than the other Moroccan men we've encountered. He can arrange a ride, he says, and for a genuinely good price. "I am Berber people," he explains with a forward hand gesture like he was coaxing the words out. "Berber people. Desert. Not like the others." On it goes, with the Berber man making his pitch that he is giving us the best price, something he is certain the others will not do. Yet as we wait, the Berber price drops. $25 becomes $20, which becomes $15 which becomes $10.We wait for the punch line: his special offer. We say we'll figure out our options, not knowing any better but wanting to sound convincing as if we actually have a clue now. "No, no taxi," he countered. And on it goes, with the Berber man making his pitch that he is giving us the best price, something he is certain the others will not do. Yet as we wait, the Berber price drops. $25 becomes $20, which becomes $15 which becomes $10. We take it. A half hour later, our taxi drops us at the Imlil hotel we hope it will be empty. We are in luck.

The High Atlas mountain air is crisp and cool. By the time we're settled in our room, it is almost dark but the silhouettes of distant mountains remain tangible. A stream flows by the terrace of the hotel where we eat a tajine dinner with an American couple from Chicago, about to begin their second year of Peace Corps service in Mauritania. Stuffed, content and exhausted from our first experience with the rigors of rural Moroccan travel, we crash. Tomorrow we climb.

Having acquired some kind of cold virus in Marrakesh, I've started to cough. I hoped that good food and the warm air would snuff it out before it (and I) became a nuisance. No such luck. I awake today to begin a two-day mountain trek with a full-blown hacking cough.

From the hotel at the mouth of a gauntlet of vendors (it's especially nice to see those $2 Mars bars in a country where the median annual income is $2000), we depart at 9 am. Our 10 km route into the hills — a slow climb made more arduous for Joe because of my pathetic illness-induced pace — takes us through amazing valleys, across river beds, past families living in tiny, isolated mountain villages, through isolated outposts existing as souvenir shops for climbers on their way down (unless some actually take beautiful, heavy rocks up the mountain with them...) and finally to a base camp lodge. Set on a rocky plain cradled on all sides by massive peaks, we've moved 10 km from where we began in Imlil to an elevation of 3200 m, through the snow and assorted sundry conditions, where the mountain refuge — surprise! — has no heat. Comfort is at a premium. Layers of clothes are applied. We suffer. Sleep comes not because of tranquility but because of exhaustion. Before leaving Imlil, a deep search of my backpack yielded a tiny pair of knit gloves that had somehow escaped my car's roadside emergency kit. I have no idea how the gloves ended up in that pocket on this trip, but I vow to have nice words for my car, and my Dad who bought me the kit, upon my return.

Seconds away from burning furniture for survival, we set out at 5 am for the 6 km ascent. The only other option is to remain in our sleeping bags, too cold to sleep. I have deep respect for those, the American couple included, camped outside in tents. Yet even at this hour of the morning, a large group of hikers is already far ahead of us.

Five punishing hours later, Morocco's biggest feels like just a bump. But that might be because of a mighty, altitude-assisted hit from the flask of one of the Israeli climbers who reached the peak ahead of us.

In the snow and slush and ice at the stunning summit of the highest peak in North Africa, we opt for the quick route down: sliding down a few thousand vertical feet on our asses. The return time to the lodge is 45 minutes.

About halfway back on our 16 km departure hike to Imlil, a surprise downpour punishes us. In the snow and slush and ice at the stunning summit of the highest peak in North Africa, we opt for the quick route down: sliding down a few thousand vertical feet on our asses.Without rain gear, we huddle under the boulders of a tiny mountainside overhang and employ small plastic bags to protect valuable camera equipment. There is no escaping the torrents of rain and waiting only brings us closer to dark. We push on to our hotel in Imlil and deal with the biohazard waste that has become our shoes. The next morning, fed, rested and dry, a grand taxi brings us directly to Marrakesh. And we just keep going for a few hundred kilometers until we land on the beach in Agadir. Temperature: 40^oC (104^oF).

Agadir is Aga-dead and so is Tagahzout, despite the expansive beaches and camel rides. In a hotel with 20 rooms, we are the only occupants. Which makes us wonder why we are assigned the room with the view (and earful) of the early morning departure of a massive fishing fleet of motorboats, but at least it is warm.

We move on and move north, despite Tagahzout's premiere attraction of $5 calamari dinners with incredible hunks of squid the diameter of large onion rings. Note to future travelers: yes, they do To-Go bags. Maybe the motor boat tyrants aren't so bad after all.

Set against the crashing waves of the Atlantic, the walled city of Essaouira is a fascinating look at a fishing and hashish (need there be more?), but we arrive just ahead of the international jazz festival.

With a bag of dates the size of my head, we head north again, passing through Marrakesh and returning to train travel, to Casablanca, where we figure a day on the beach means golden sands, a refreshing surf and eye candy. Or not. The entire day on the beach yielded the sight of precisely three women. In public, at least, Morocco is a country of dudes.

Larger than any other in the world outside of Saudi Arabia, the Al Hassan II Mosque, is nothing short of colossal. Its doors are several stories high, its minaret is the height of a medium city's skyscraper, its plaza the size of many city blocks. And the views, from its perch at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, stretch up and down the coast and far out to the busy shipping lanes on the horizon. The Hassan II Mosque is not simply impressive because of its commanding presence of scale, its ubiquitous, impossibly detailed artwork or its premiere location. Irrespective of the religious preferences of most visitors, the Hassan II mosque is impressive in its harmonious integration of all its elements and the sense of tranquility that comes not in spite of the magnitude of everything here but because of it.

Yet for the remarkable impression that the exterior leaves, a tour of the mosque's perimeter is as close as we get — it's closed on Fridays. A brief peek inside as cleaners carried supplies through a side door is our only glimpse of the interior.

We hail a taxi to the beach where we relax in the sun and treat ourselves to a Moroccan McDonalds, where burgers made from Halal meat qualify as genuine food and are genuinely good.

The relative calm of the past week means that reports of nefarious doings and diplomatic upsets are rare, I'm afraid. But we're not done yet.

From our base in Meknes, a comfortable hostel with a walled compound and apricot trees in an affluent part of town, a day trip to Fes has only one target: the leather tanneries. Leather goods are ubiquitous in Morocco, with bags and clothes and shoes in a vast spectrum of colours. And most of them are crafted with leather produced in Fes.

A 45 minute train ride brings us to the city. We're traveling today with Steve, another Australian on another massive world tour. Much of his travel is funded by, amongst several other things, publishing stories of his time on the road — what an interesting idea...

At the walls of the Medina at Bab Bou Jeloud, one of the oldest city gates in Morocco, we enter the maze that is reported to define the souqs of Fes. The guidebook cites almost 10,000 tiny streets and alleys and ensures a hassle-laden trip with a never ending parade of "guides," young and old. The peddling is especially intense. Joe turns the tables and tries asking them if he can sell them his stuff. "Let me guide you!" he tells one. Repeating a frequently received offer, "I have a magic box... with hashish inside," he tells another. "You want? Best quality!" When all we get are looks of befuddlement, Joe tries responses in Spanish. Except that the first guy speaks Spanish better than Joe.

I try responding in Japanese: when a young boy asks if I want a guide, I start counting "Ichi, ni, san, shi, go..."(One, two, three, four, five) but I don't get to six before he shouts that I'm crazy and runs away, laughing with his friends. Not two minutes later, when the next kid to offers me a tour, I use my Japanese to recite Isshin-Ryu Karate basic technique number five. "Gedan barai seiken gyak tsuki," I say, enthusiastically describing a downward block and reverse punch. Bewildered by the disconnect between my face and the language coming from my mouth, he, too, turns and runs. Here on the mean streets of Fes, all those years of martial arts training really pay off when you least expect it.When the next kid to offers me a tour, I use my Japanese to recite Isshin-Ryu Karate basic technique number five. "Gedan barai seiken gyak tsuki," I say, enthusiastically describing a downward block and reverse punch.

The only trouble with refusing guides in Fes is that after an hour of wandering the streets in search of the tanneries, we actually needed a guide. In the labyrinthine corners of this ancient city, there is simply no way for us to navigate successfully. We're lost. Our maps useless (or our ability to decipher them is useless, rather), we decide to take the plunge and pull out some coins in preparation for the next kid who approaches us. We don't wait long.

He looks too young, probably no older than seven. Does he really know the route to the tanneries? We have no idea, but the odds are more in his favour than in ours. So we give him three Dirham ($0.30) and he's thrilled. Promising us amazing and otherwise unavailable views of the tanning operation we follow behind. His pace quickens and we have a suspicion he's trying to ditch us. We round another corner and he's waiting right there, quietly telling us that he needs to be careful — the police in Fes are on guard against unlicensed guides and his penalty for our tour is probably severe. He tells us that he's going to walk ahead of us and we're to continue taking the straightest path we can walk — there is no truly straight path here but we understand his meaning — and he'll rejoin us when it's clear. We don't figure we'll be seeing him again, but we press on. A hundred meters later, he whispers at us from an open door of a narrow stairway. We look up to see a sign to a leather shop. But it says there are views of the tanneries, so we figure he's delivered us. Mustering all our ant-haggling skills to rebuff the onslaught that surely awaits us in this store, we climb the stairs.

The third floor shop is beautiful. It smells like pristine leather. And it's got an incredible view of the tanneries below. The dense residential area has opened a hole of production in its center, with terraces and rooftops overlooking the scene like they are skyboxes in a stadium of manufacturing. The guidebooks warn us of the tanneries' noxious smell of sulphur, but despite seemingly full production, we don't smell a thing. In a sea of large concrete tubs, with dyes and acids to impart colour to the hides, boys drag the hides from one tub to the next. There are rich reds and oranges in one section and a distinct zone that contains only white tubs. The process looks complicated and in our zeal to take pictures and escape before being pressed to take home an entire large animal worth of leather goods, we don't seek the details of production. We do look around, however, and everything looks great. But none of us are in need of yellow purses or green duffel bags, and while they'd make great gifts, none of them are light and our backpacks are heavy enough. We explain our predicament to the shopkeeper and offer him 10 Dirham apiece for letting us take in the view. He seems very grateful and offers us a heartfelt welcome. No sales pitch, no haggling. We're thrilled.

Back in Meknes, we celebrate our day with a trip to a bar. In the Muslim world of Morocco, bars are typically off-limits for Moroccans. Regarded as the sole domain of drug dealers and whores plying amoral customers with blasphemous contraband (also known as beer), there are not many bars to be found and the ones we have seen have been rather unwelcoming and almost empty. But Steve has made a comprehensive investigation and promised beer and popcorn. The 1980's-vintage pinball machine is an extra surprise.

I claim no sophistication to my beer-sampling palette, but on this evaluation there is consensus amongst our group: terrible. Despite the prohibition on alcohol here, Morocco does have its own beer: Flag. I claim no sophistication to my beer-sampling palette, but on this evaluation there is consensus amongst our group: terrible. But after two weeks without a drink, it still tastes so good. The concept certainly makes for interesting marketing: "This stuff is horrid, but hey, got any other options?" We have a few, take some photos and prepare for the final stretch northward.