6. Morocco 2 - Gorges and North

Day 22, May 5th.  Merzouga – Todra Gorge.  24 – 37C, sunny

We aim for a prompt ‘striking camp’ this morning, primarily to be fully packed up and in the comfort of the car’s air conditioning by 9am, before the desert heat really starts to bite. 

Laurie, who since leaving the UK has become our undisputed ‘tent monkey’ – assertively taking full control of setting up and taking down our roof tent, with simian-like confidence and flair – is particularly prone to rising temperatures whilst he’s beavering away in the tent, folding up all the sleeping bags.  Above 25C and it turns into an oven, and we’re keen not to end up with a cooked tent monkey.

In the end we fail, but we’re en-route by 9.30am, all rather sweaty, and sandy.  Two days in the Sahara have left us – and all our belongings – covered in a thick layer of fine orange sand, which continues to emerge from the car (and Ralph’s hair) for several days afterwards.  We expect that when we return to the UK and fully unpack, a fair quantity of it will have made the whole trip.

Our first stop today is Gara Medour – a vast, horseshoe-shaped rock formation that looks rather like a dormant volcano (but isn’t).  5km along a rocky track from the tarmac, it’s surrounded by flat, gravelly plains and dried up lake beds.  It was once a semi-fortified stronghold; we drive through the gateway in the still standing walls that enclose the caldera, and park under the welcome shade of an acacia tree. 

We walk to the top of the crater, immediately regretting not simply driving straight there.  It’s baking hot, and the boys are sweltering.  But it’s worth the short walk – the view from the top – even after three days of amazing desert landscapes – is magnificent.

We marvel at the massive expanse of yellow and black desert, ridges, and faraway mountains, before descending to the shade of our acacia for lunch: watermelon, yesterday’s bread, and some peanut butter that’s been lingering in our fridge since we left the UK.  The watermelon isn’t great; we eat a slice each and hand the rest over to two hungry-looking youths who have appeared out of nowhere, to watch us eat.  They accept it ravenously, cadge half a bottle of water off us as well, and vanish.

Onwards, we rejoin the main road and make haste through an empty expanse of nothingness, to Tinghir, 150km west.  The Moroccan infrastructure really is something to behold.  In two hours, we see hardly another vehicle, yet the road – like so many others in even the remotest areas of Morocco – is outstanding.

In Tinghir our first stop is the booze shop.  Nina – frustrated by my recent unsuccessful wild goose chase efforts with locals, attempting to find the solitary off-licence in any given town – has resorted to Google Maps, which identifies the ‘liquor store’ in Tinghir immediately.  It’s where it should be, is well-stocked – and open.  This time we buy a dozen ‘Casablanca’s – enough to see both of us comfortably out of the country. 

Fully stocked on booze and groceries for the night’s camping, it’s only a short hop to Todra Gorge.  Despite the sheerness of the ravines and the absence of flat space, we find a campsite – effectively a glorified car park at the back of a hotel – and park up under a date palm, amongst the German and Dutch motor-home contingent.   They really do get everywhere.  Courtesy of the hotel, the campsite has a beautiful, welcoming pool – the children manage another night in Morocco without having to set foot in a shower.

Day 23, May 6th.  Todra Gorge - Skoura.  22-33C, sunny

An excellent night’s sleep, despite the local muezzin.  We’re firmly in the camping routine now, and it feels like the roof tent is getting larger – even if Nina’s hips don’t agree.

Disappointingly, our recently acquired fresh eggs prove to be pre-hard boiled; we decide to treat ourselves to the (excellent) hotel breakfast instead. 

Camp struck, we drive five minutes’ up to the centre of the gorge, where we’ve booked to do the local Via Ferrata.  We find the climbing shop, exchange pleasantries, harness and helmet up, then realise rather tardily that we’re in the wrong place.  We take everything off again and are directed along the street, down a dusty, goat-ridden alleyway, over what appears to be a sewer, to a small guesthouse where we’ve actually booked, and repeat the experience. 

Our cheery guide, Hassan, snuggles in the back of our car and we drive through – and almost under – the gorge.  It’s 300 metres high and barely ten metres wide – the cliff walls so close they’re almost touching in the middle.  The temperature drops rapidly; this part of the gorge is almost always in the shade.  Once clipped in, we set off up a particularly vertiginous bit of cliff; Hassan, then Laurie, me, Ralph and Nina. 30 metres up I’m regretting it – technically it’s straightforward enough, but my head for heights is kicking in with a vengeance.  The boys are doing brilliantly despite having shorter arms and legs; I swallow my fear and attempt to produce authentic words of encouragement.

We climb about 100 metres up – it’s really, really high.  But even enjoying the mesmerising view from the little ridge that we finish on, we can see we’re barely a third of the way up the cliffs.

We continue our drive upstream, out of the sheer gorge itself but ever higher into the High Atlas, weaving around contoured, rocky bluffs, up to 2,500m.  We’re aiming to get to a point in the High Atlas where we can join the Dadès Gorge and drive down that – but the distance the junction is huge, so we elect to go ‘over the top’ and take a dirt track directly over the High Atlas, effectively a short cut into Dadès.

It's a worthwhile decision: the track is very rocky but passable, and far more direct.  We pass handfuls of nomadic herders, chaperoning their sheep and goats, trying to eke out an existence in the vast, barren wastelands on top of these mountains.  Without fail, every soul we pass runs towards the car, gesturing for water.  Ralph – our diligent water manager and monitor, has studiously built up an inventory of bottles of tap water for camping and emergencies – but now we’re out of the Sahara, we don’t need them.  So we offload them, one by one, to wild-eyed teenagers and children, along with a couple of oranges and a few bruised apples that haven’t yet been eaten.  Not for the first time in this country, we wonder how these people exist here.

Our off-road shortcut to the Dadès Gorge road is about 50km, and takes two hours.  A large section of the track is currently being upgraded to road, but in true practical Moroccan style, they’ve kept it open.  So we weave past graders, follow steamrollers flattening gravel until we can overtake them, and dodge great drainage gulleys in the yet to be completed ‘new road’.

The drive down through the famous Dadès Gorge is as exciting as we’d hoped – and – tip for future travellers – far better experienced going downstream.  We enter the gorge on a narrow, cliff-hugging mountain road with a 1,000m metre drop out of our left window, then descend said 1,000 metres in a rapid series of hairpin bends, almost straight down.  Full driving concentration required, especially with a right-hand drive!

Leaving the gorge, we’re south of the Atlas and back in the desert again.  A little weary now, we drive on another hour or so to Skoura, a dusty little town on the edge of the desert.  We search in vain for free-camping options, but nothing suitably private and shaded enough presents itself, so we lump for the only campsite nearby – on the edge of the town. 

Effectively another car park, but it offers shade, security and – amazingly – another swimming pool.  Despite being past six, the heat is still searing – so again our first port of call is a welcome dunking.

Day 24, May 7th.  Skoura – near Marrakesh.  24-41C, sunny

First stop today is a garage in Ouarzazate.  We’ve noticed a humming noise with our steering which is indicative of a leak, plus we’ve split one of the protective boots that cover the steering track rods and keep grease in / sand out – important in this terrain. 

Local mechanics are always the best.  Two hours’ labour by three grime-ridden lads, whilst their boss drives round town to find a suitable replacement part, some deft use of a blow torch and a hammer, and the expert addition of a couple of cable ties to make the non-Toyota replacement part actually fit, and we’re back on the road – 200 dirhams (£15) incl. parts and labour.

It's a long drive over the Atlas today, to get to a nice-looking campsite outside Marrakesh, in readiness for a cookery course in Marrakesh tomorrow.  It’s a beautiful drive – but by now stunning mountain views are two-a-penny, although Ait Benhaddou is worthy of a lunch stop.

We cover the 200km to Marrakesh in swift order and arrive, via concerningly rough and shabby looking Marrakesh suburbs, at our planned destination – a boutique French-run campsite.  It’s meant to be a bit of a treat after the last five nights or so.

It's certainly welcoming as we drive through its gates.  Its beautifully irrigated gardens are enclosed by bougainvillea-clad mud-brick walls, and the reception looks civilised and serene.  I get out and find the boss in his office.  He looks like a tanned, French version of Bill Nighy.  He’s doing his accounts, but calls for one of his staff on his mobile, and politely asks me to wait. 

His acolyte arrives shortly and sets out the prices and available plots.  We had e-mailed in the morning to ensure they had space, to avoid disappointment – there aren’t any other campsites nearby.  All looks set, when suddenly he looks in through the back windows of the car and sees the boys. 

“Ah non, nous n’acceptons pas les enfants’ he says.  His words land like a thunderbolt.

“Pourquoi?” I reply, stunned, and angry.  It’s not been our hardest day by any means, but it’s still 4pm, and we’re all tired and ready for some relative comfort.  He repeats and explains unapologetically that this is their policy.

“C’est incroyable!” I retort, angrily.  Before I can rant any further I see a family with two children, the same age as ours, walking past us and through the reception area.

“Mais il y a enfants la-bas!” I point, accusingly, at the poor family that’s just walked past, who are evidently not keen to get involved in our fracas. “Ou est le patron?”

Still unapologetic, he tries to explain that they have different rules for their rooms than for the campsite, but I interrupt him.  “That’s nonsense”.  Not bothering with French now. 

He stands aside, a little patronisingly, as I walk past him back into the boss’s office – I think he’s expecting me to reappear in 30 seconds with a flea in my ear, followed by a swift departure. 

I repeat my observations to the boss (“Guillaume Nighy” as I’ve now mentally renamed him) and we end up in a heated discussion.  “C’est un gros probleme” and “Nous avons conduit cinq heures seulement pour rester ici” and such other exaggerations, complete with much Gallic waving.  He fights fire with fire; I don’t really understand everything he says but it appears they had a problem with some campers’ children in the swimming pool last year, so now they’ve banned them, yet they are allowed to stay in the rooms. 

Eventually, he relents.  I think it’s my feigned insistence that we’ve almost driven the whole way to Morocco just to stay in this campsite that does it.  “Je ferai une exception, pour une nuit seulement”. 

I thank him profusely, ask no further questions, and leave.  His acolyte, now all sweetness and light, shows us courteously to the available spots. 

We park near the massive pool, take full advantage of the facilities, and enjoy an excellent night’s sleep – despite the barking dogs and muezzin.  Nina steals the loo-roll, on principle.

Day 25, May 8th.  near Marrakesh – near Essaouira.  28-41C, sunny

We try to go for an early swim, but are informed the pool is closed till 9am, for cleaning.  There’s no-one anywhere near it doing any cleaning.  Bloody French and their rules.

So we enjoy a swift breakfast of yoghurt and granola, take advantage of the complementary fresh bread which is inclus, bid goodbye to Guillaume Nighy and are en-route to Marrakesh by 9am, to get to our cookery course by ten.

Our cookery course takes place in a cool, beautifully tiled room on the second floor of a little town house, on a side street tucked away off one of Marrakesh’s many narrow shopping streets.  We meet Hassan in the street, along with our fellow students for the day, so we can walk the alleyways together and buy all the fresh ingredients we need, from local grocers and storeholders. 

Once inside, we’re given a lesson in how to make Moroccan tea (it’s actually a blend of Chinese green tea and fresh mint, with staggering quantities of sugar) and are then set to work peeling, chopping and dicing.   We’re making four tagines – chicken and olive, beef with prune, vegetable, and kofte (spicy meatballs) – plus a variety of side dishes.  Hassan explains that all Moroccan cooking uses only seven spices (two of which are salt and pepper!) and explains which goes with what.  Ginger with meat, for example – it overpowers everything otherwise.

Two and a half hours later and our creations are complete.  We’ve done the vast majority of the work, albeit Hassan’s team of helpers have diligently slaved away, clearing plates, washing up as we go, and tending the stove in the sweltering kitchen adjoining our room.

Perhaps it’s because we’re starving, or because we prepared it, or (more likely) because Hassan is a superb instructor – but the ten dishes that come out of the kitchen remain unsurpassed in our experience of Moroccan cuisine.

Fully sated, we leave after lunch and walk through part of the nearby medina to a perfume factory, where Laurie and I take cover from the unrelenting heat in a Moorish courtyard, beautifully shaded by lemon trees, whilst Nina and Ralph excite their olfactory senses.

It’s too hot to do much more – 41C – and Nina makes the excellent decision that we should drive on to Essaouira this afternoon.  We can be there by just after 6pm, and if we simply stop in another campsite outside Marrakesh, all we’re going to do is cook ourselves.

It’s an excellent decision and we head west with all haste.  Slightly too much haste, in fact.  I inadvertently jump a red light (in my defence, the sunlight made it almost invisible) in Marrakesh and get flagged down by a waiting policeman. 

He takes all my documents and then explains it’s a 400 dirham fine (£30).  But inexplicably, once he literally has my money in his hands, he asks “Are you a rich man?”.  To which there can only ever be one answer. “No!” I reply, emphatically – wondering how he can possibly think my response to be true (in relative terms), given we’re four foreign tourists driving a British Land Cruiser through Morocco…

But – extraordinarily and for reasons only known to him – he hands our money back, warns us to drive safely to Essaouira, and waves us on.  In the ensuing bewilderment – and distraction as Nina and I double check he’s returned all our documents – I drive through literally the next traffic light (also on red) – but thankfully no-one seems to notice.

The police presence continues all the way to Essaouira and eventually our luck runs out – we’re pulled doing 69kph in a 60kph area and despite the charming, super-friendly policeman offering us his water and enquiring animatedly about our journey, he does, in the end, fine us 150dh (£12).  Given our previous misdemeanours, this feels fair.  In our experience, the Moroccan police, whilst ever-present, are courteous, friendly, not in the least corrupt, and inclined to be strangely generous with tourists.

We reach a campsite (another French one) about 20km outside Essaouira at 6.30pm, and decide that will do for the day.  It’s a beautiful, secluded spot, nestled in olive groves and again with a welcome pool, with lovely owners who this time welcome children.

Day 26, May 9th.  Essaouira.  19-26C, sunny, cloudy

A decent night’s sleep, despite the now-normal nightly orchestra.  This time, a cow with an identity crisis (convinced it’s a donkey), a remarkably tuneful muezzin and some heavy, tent-rattling gusts of wind in the night disturb us, but only a little.

It’s a lovely spot for a super-relaxed morning – some home-schooling followed by several hours in the pool, the boys enjoying the slide and rope-swing, and catching up on some general just buggering about.

We drive into Essaouira around midday.  We’ve booked an apartment just outside the old city for a few nights and are looking forward to proper beds, a shower and a washing machine – we’ve done eight nights camping on the bounce, all in pretty dusty / sandy conditions and, despite the swimming pools getting the dust off, we – and all our clothes – are filthy.

Our apartment – at around 90 euros for two nights – is as good as can be expected.  But like every other indoor place we’ve stayed in Morocco, every piece of sanitaryware is clinging to the last vestiges of its existence, or in some places – held in place by gravity alone.  Shower heads, loo seats, bathroom door handles and other such items abandon their homes at the slightest touch.  But it’ll do – just fine – for a couple of nights.

We spend a happy afternoon on Essaouira’s enormous expanse of beach, enjoying the contended, relaxed bustle of local and foreign tourists, enjoying the town’s sea breeze and cooler temperatures – a very welcome relief from the ruthless heat of the interior.  The beach holds a wide swathe of cultures and attitudes – bikini-clad westerners, plus some Moroccans, rub shoulders with locals playing football, and more conservative types taking a dip in full burkinis, or even in burqas.

Later, we enjoy someone else cooking our supper for once in a truly excellent (despite being beer-less) little restaurant in the old town, then wander back to our apartment, content in the knowledge we’ve got a full day going nowhere tomorrow.

Day 27, May 10th.  Essaouira.  19-24C, cloudy

Today is a gentle day.  Another full morning’s beach action – the cloud meaning we don’t need to lather the children in quite so much sun cream as usual – is followed by a full tour of Essaouira’s magnificent fish market.

The fishing harbour dominates the seafront adjacent to the old town.  Hundreds of sturdy, blunt-nosed, high-sided blue fishing boats jostle up against each other, whilst further out, larger, more modern vessels fill the deeper port nearer the sea. 

All the catch from the boats is unloaded – by hand – onto the docks, where it is either traded directly through the multitude of makeshift market stalls or loaded on to lorries and vans and transported to other parts of the country.  Seagulls and cats mingle fearlessly amongst the traders, scavenging heads and guts, and avoiding the odd angry kick from a stallholder.  The smell is pungent, in the extreme.

Having carried out a brief reconnaissance trip yesterday, we’ve decided to get here early to buy some nice fresh fish for lunch, before everything starts to heat up.  Ice is in short supply here.

We arrive just after midday; the four of us set out to inspect the stalls with a keen eye for bagging our respective lunches.  Laurie (of course) sets eyes on a lobster, Ralph (again true to form) snares a big fish, Nina sensibly settles for a big bag of delicious-looking fresh prawns whilst I decide to gamble and go for a giant sea snail (the shell is eight inches long, no exaggeration).

Purchases complete, we find one of the many shanty restaurants in the vicinity which will grill one’s purchases to order, and with a bit of luck, serve them with a salad and some chips.  Our establishment – complete with bare, rammed-earth floor, open gully from the kitchen to the municipal drain, and formica tables – is perfect.  The boys watch with glee as their purchases are prepared; they’re then invited into the ‘kitchen’ to fan their respective delicacies on the charcoal grill, with ancient pieces of cardboard. 

Everything tastes as good as fresh, unadulterated fish should.  Beautifully cooked but not overcooked, the lobster and prawns are moist and flavoursome.  The giant snail doesn’t get much more appealing than when we acquired it, still alive, and has the consistency of one of our trainers.  Nevertheless, it’s surprisingly tasty. 

Whilst eating, we spy a nearby table tucking into live oysters and sea urchins.  We feel we can’t resist the oysters – and it feels rude not to try the urchins.  We order a dozen of each.  The oysters are good – not Île de Ré good but still good – whilst the sea urchins are possibly the surprise package of the day.

We’re a little unnerved at their preparation – literally sliced in two, drained of seawater, the mouth end discarded, and the remainder served on a plate, with their spines still moving.  We learn that you must scoop out the orange roe with a spoon and eat that, and leave the brown, gunky rest.  They are not for the squeamish, but surprisingly delicate and flavoursome – not unlike other fish roe.

Fully satisfied, we congratulate ourselves with a little shopping trip around the medina.  Later, for supper, we content ourselves with pizza from one of the few restaurants in Essaouira which serves beer (and also pork – the two ‘naughty’ things in Islamic culture seem to go hand in hand, unsurprisingly…)

Day 28, May 11th.  Essaouira - Casablanca.  20-24C, cloudy, sunny

Long drive north today – almost 400km to Casablanca.  We’re out promptly, after a rather a cramped breakfast round the tiny table in our apartment’s kitchen.

We re-trace our steps out of Essaouira, 20km inland, where we join the main road north.  The first 100km or so is a slow affair; one lane in either direction, smooth tarmac but super-windy, with long lines of slow moving trucks.  Overtaking is tricky, and we’re mindful of the ever-present police.

The scenery is nondescript; rolling, dry farmland, interspersed with the occasional argan orchards.  We pass through dusty town after dusty town, each with a single main street lined with bustling vegetable and animal markets, and numerous coffee shops. 

We stop at one such café and I run in to grab espressos for Nina and I.  Morocco is really good at coffee.  The place is full of men, drinking coffee, smoking, chatting, and watching football.  The only woman is behind the bar, serving and taking the money.  It’s not difficult to see who does the work round here.

Shortly after, we hit a proper, tolled motorway – and can now drive at 120kph all the way to Casablanca, without fear of police interference.  We do just that – barring a brief lunch stop at a modern, very under-utilised motorway service station, which barring three stale pain au chocolats, offers nothing to eat.

We arrive in Casablanca – a bustling commercial centre of nearly four million people, in time for our pre-booked tour of the Hassan II mosque – Morocco’s largest, and one of the very few which non-Muslims can enter.  It abuts the sea and dominates the city’s coastline.

We’re met by a security guard and ushered across its vast, marbled terrace, to meet the rest of our group and our guide.  Tours take place in groups of about 30 – that’s the deal. 

We’re led inside, through huge, arched and intricately patterned titanium doors, whilst our guide talks, effervescently.  He explains that it’s new – built between 1987 and 1993, by 10,000 artisans and 2,500 ‘helpers’.  He tells us that it’s the third largest mosque in the world (behind Mecca and Medina) and that it can fit 25,000 worshippers (20,000 men and 5,000 women) inside, and another 80,000 on its terrace. 

A quick fact check later suggests it’s actually the 14th largest in the world, and only the 3rd largest in Africa (behind Egypt and Algeria’s efforts).  I ask why it only holds 5,000 women; our guide replies effusively that all men and women are equal in Islam, but the women tend to be at home working and looking after the children, at prayer time…

Nonetheless, it’s interior is extraordinary – 20,000 square metres of beautifully carved cedarwood, sculpted plaster, polished marble, lit by enormous brass and Murano glass chandeliers.

Mosqued out, we find our accommodation, the Hotel de Paris, nestled in a buzzing coffee shop precinct in downtown.  We can park the car nearby and are shown to our 6th floor bedrooms, complete with magnificent views, balconies and – a first in Morocco – fully functioning, non-self-destructing hot and cold running water appliances in the bathroom.  We collectively celebrate these little marvels.

We head out to explore Casablanca’s ‘shabby-side-of-chic’ urban vibe – it’s a relaxed, bustling, fun city, with its litter strewn streets and undulating pavements lined with a mix of fading French grandeur, crumbling modern apartment blocks, street markets, coffee shops and pavement vendors.  It feels well-loved and well-worn, like a very old sofa that bears the rips and stains of a long and colourful life.

We eat at the ‘Bar Bistro Titan’ – another naughty place, which serves both beer and pork.  It’s a smoke-filled bar, full of westerners and locals, all enjoying things that they can’t find elsewhere, to the full.  We sit at the bar, order Casablancas and lemonades for the boys, and eat copious quantities of excellent tapas.  Heaven.

Day 29, May 12th.  Casablanca - Tangier.  20-24C, cloudy, sunny

Another big driving day, and our last full day in Morocco.  Nina’s researched and organised an excellent ‘driving tour’ of Casablanca before we leave; it’s far too big a city to explore on foot in the time we have, plus it’s a very easy place to drive around – especially on a Sunday morning.

The highlight of our tour is a visit to the ‘Habous’ – the 1930’s, French built equivalent of a medina.  It’s designed for the same little shops and community as a traditional medina, but with wider alleyways, pavements shaded with pretty stone-arched canopies, and appealing squares lined with orange trees.  We stop for coffee and second breakfasts – and agree that if we were ever going to live in Morocco, it would be Casablanca.  Replete, we hit the motorway again, heading north to Tangier.

Again, the scenery on this side of the country is unremarkable; we don’t feel guilty bombing through it. We arrive in Tangier by 3pm, in time for a welcome cup of Moroccan tea with our friend Anas, and a spot of shopping.  Ralph engages in some excellent bartering to secure a lovely, ornate brass lightshade for his bedroom, and is delighted.  We’ll have to work out later where we can fit it in the car.

Tangier – which had felt so exotic and Islamic when we arrived from Spain 15 days ago, now feels far more European, relative to the rest of the country that we’ve just driven through.

We eat our last supper in Morocco in a busy, local pavement restaurant that serves only brochettes (skewers) – quick, cheap, delicious.  Over supper, we reflect on our time in Morocco. 

We’ve been really blown away by this country.  Its diversity is staggering.  Geographically, we’ve driven from the fertile, olive-clad valleys and green peaks of the Rif Mountains, through the vast breadbasket of the rolling plains outside Fez, to the Alpine forests, high grazing plateaus and orchards of the Middle Atlas, to the huge, rocky peaks of the High Atlas mountains, rising in wave after wave.  We’ve driven through a tiny part of the Sahara – but it was still unimaginably vast, we’ve passed scenic farmland in the west, great beaches and argan forests, and marshy plains to the north-west.

Culturally and economically, it’s been just as diverse.  In much of the country, we’ve seen people ploughing fields using donkeys and mules; in Essaouira the primary form of local taxi transport was mule and cart. Equally, we’ve seen brand new combine harvesters in the prairies outside Fez, expensive Range Rovers and Mercedes everywhere, and astonishingly good roads.  We’ve seen expensive, bougainvillea clad suburbs, the endless modern apartment blocks of the middle classes, and searing, desperate poverty amongst the nomadic Berbers.

Morocco has a massive problem with litter – especially plastic.  The entire country is strewn with it, including the desert, and yet Morocco has built some of the world’s largest solar farms and aims to be carbon-neutral by 2050

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Throughout the country, we’ve been warmly welcomed.  In our experience, Moroccans are friendly, hospitable, courteous and very largely honest – albeit the odd one or two in the touristy areas can’t resist taking a few more dirhams off you than they should.

We’re not sure what we’ll find in the next leg of our north African tour, but we’ll certainly miss Morocco and its people.