Waiters weave like hummingbirds between the crowded tables, dressed in white collared shirts and thin black pants. Plates land in front of us, stacked precariously with fried calamari and grilled shrimp, bowls of bubbling split pea soup and a whole grouper smothered in herbs. We're at Vista Mar, a small seaside restaurant in El Jebha, a port town in northern Morocco nestled between two hills and facing the Mediterranean Sea. From our table, we look out over the water, where a group of lanky teenagers dive off the bow of one of the larger boats and race to shore. Wooden fishing boats are moored along the seawall, while small launches with pink and orange umbrellas ferry bathers and sunbathers to the small coves along the coast. The sounds, the sights, the smells; it takes a minute to remember that we are in Morocco.
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Once our plates are cleared and the lunch crowd dies down, a strong coffee sweetened with honey arrives, and we pull out our card. My friend Anouar Akrouh and I have already driven three and a half hours east of Tangier - past the white city of Tetouan and the glitzy beach resorts of Cabo Negro, past the small beach towns of Ouad Lao and Steha. We follow the N16 road for a week-long trip to a part of the country known as the Rif, a strip of northeastern Morocco loosely bounded by Tangier to the west, the Mediterranean to the north, the Moulouya Valley near the Moroccan-Algerian border to the east, and the Ouergha River to the south. The region is a surprising mix of mountainous, coastal and desert landscapes.
My fascination with this part of my adopted country - where I've spent about six months a year for nearly a decade - comes as much from what I don't know as from what I do know. The Rif doesn't have the sprawling medinas of Fez, the surf scene of Essaouira, or the bustling spice and craft markets of Marrakech. If you ask around, most western Moroccans will vaguely describe it as wild and untamed. They might mention its famous tendency toward independence, which has led to rebellions against French, Spanish, and Arab colonizers over the centuries. But if pushed, most of them will admit that they have never been there.
It wasn't until I met Anouar in Tangier two years ago that I began to get a clearer picture of the region. Anouar, who was born in the port city of Al Hoceima, told me stories about the incredible beauty of the Rif, about the quiet coves and mountain gorges where majestic cedar forests glisten with snow in winter and bloom with rockrose and wild lavender in summer. He now runs an architectural firm in Tangier, but returns to the Rif with his camera whenever he has a break from his work.
Years of isolation - due to the rugged mountains of the Rif - have allowed the region to retain its unique Berber heritage. Unlike the rest of the country, its colonial imprint is more Spanish than French, and its dominant language, Tarifit, is different from the Moroccan Arabic spoken in the rest of the country. While the western part of the country grows a variety of fruits and vegetables, the main crop here has long been cannabis. Anouar explains that there is a persistent local belief that the previous king, Hassan II, actively ignored the Rif in retaliation for his earlier attempts at independence. However, the current king, Mohammed VI, has worked to eliminate this mutual distrust by investing heavily in the region. As a result, modern infrastructure has begun to arrive in recent years, making part of the unspoiled coastline easily accessible for the first time.
After sitting down with Anouar and looking at his photos, I realized that I had to make the trip myself. With the new paved roads and small hotels popping up, it seemed like the right time to discover this often neglected part of Morocco. So we decided to do it, armed with my curiosity, Anouar's expertise and camera, and a solid Land Rover.
We leave the highway and follow a dirt road towards the sea. Farms dot the landscape, and as I roll down my window, I can hear families in the fields harvesting wheat, chatting over the sound of their sickles. We park the car and walk to a small cliff overlooking the village of Cala Iris, about 40 miles east of El Jebha, and watch the setting sun paint the sky pink, then purple.
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It is dark when we reach Al Hoceima, Anouar's hometown. The city has been hit by three major earthquakes in the last three decades, which destroyed most of the old traditional adobe houses and stores. New buildings have sprung up in their place, including several apartment towers overlooking the bay, where a Spanish fortress stands on a small island off the coast. After dropping off our bags at the Mercure Quemado Resort Hotel, we buy fresh shrimp and some mullet from a fishmonger. At one of the lively restaurants on the pier, we hand the seafood to a waiter, and 15 minutes later it comes out, grilled to perfection and served with tangy beets and a white bean salad.
At daybreak, the cafes are filled with locals enjoying cumin omelets and small loaves of bread in the shape of a disc. Anouar and I meet Mohammed, a childhood friend who has returned to Al Hoceima to work as a guide. For a short time, Mohammed worked as a fisherman in the south and as a barista in Tangier, but the lure of the region's beaches and nature brought him back home. We hop in his car to explore Al Hoceima's national park and wildlife refuge, which spans 185 square miles.
Lunch in the small village of Adouz is the highlight of our day. In a long, narrow room, we gather around a low table, alongside several villagers Mohammed knows, digging into a large tagine of slow-roasted chicken with our hands. We sip glasses of leben, a lightly fermented buttermilk, cool and rich. After lunch, a six-year-old child, the son of one of the villagers, leads us through the town's paths. "We call him the mayor," his father laughs as the boy walks through Adouz repeating local gossip and pointing to the large mosque that Islamic scholars built in the 14th century.
There are few things more enjoyable than a late afternoon swim in the Mediterranean. Mohammed takes us to Badis Beach, one of his favorite beaches. It's famous for a massive fort, the Peñón de Vélez de la Gomera, which appears to rise out of the sea but is actually connected to the shore by a narrow isthmus. "This is Spain," Anouar tells me, pointing to the fort, "and it's the shortest international border in the world." This small acre of rock, along with a few small islands and the contested cities of Ceuta and Melilla, are the last European territories in mainland Africa. As the three of us head to the beach, I see a Spanish flag draped over one of the turrets and a few armed soldiers. The border is marked by a navy blue fishing line stretched across the small spit of sand that connects the two countries. As the day comes to an end, we dive into the cool water and swim under the imposing fortress.
Then we bid farewell to the Mediterranean Sea and the N16 highway and drive southeast towards the Algerian border. Our next stop is to visit Younès Ismaili, an architect and old friend of Anouar's family, who has promised us a glimpse of his new ecolodge, L'Écogîte Arnane, which is located just outside the town of Tafoughalt, in the province of Berkane. We arrive in a wide valley, filled with terraced olive trees, that looks nothing like the coastal farms and salty breezes of yesterday. The air here is dry and fragrant.
"Almost all the ingredients come from my farm," says Younès. We sit on low benches around a small wooden table. Outside, there are orchards and miles of hiking and horseback riding trails. He brings us chopped vegetables simmered with raisins and spices and a tender chicken tagine. It's real home cooking, balanced and delicious.
After a breakfast of fried eggs and rghaif, a flaky Moroccan pancake topped with local honey and jam, we return to pick up Younès. The road takes us through cork and pine forests before descending into the valley of Zegzel, in the Beni Snassen mountains. We soon see a one-story farmhouse, built of smooth slate blocks of an almost indigo color. Younès has taken us to visit Nordine, a farmer he met years ago while hiking in these mountains, who invites us to lunch of tender artichoke hearts filled with spices and roasted lamb falling off the bone. Afterwards, we walk through the countryside, discovering open cisterns that collect and distribute spring water through a series of rills, or channels. Younès sees my fascination. "Are you interested in water?" he asks with a smile. As if answering a riddle, he adds, "Then maybe you should go to the desert. Maybe you should go to Figuig."
Only one road leads to Figuig. It's a flat stretch of highway that runs along the Algerian border, cutting through desert scrub and past nomads herding their cattle. This is the border, with a military checkpoint about every 50 miles; the officers, seeing that we are tourists, wave us through. About 350 miles south of the Mediterranean coast, Figuig was once a famous crossroads where caravans loaded up before heading into the Sahara. Today, the town is best known for its dates and as part of a Moroccan expression: Foug Figuig, which means "to go beyond the great".
At dawn, a sea of dense palm trees stretches before us. From our vantage point above the oasis, we can see the mountain ridges that surround the city, protecting it from the relentless desert. As the sun rises, it illuminates the clusters of sand buildings and emerald pools between the trees. The frogs croak their morning song, joined by a single solitary howl.
By mid-morning, Anouar and I are having tea with a farmer who has invited us to see his fields. What looked like a dense palm grove from above is actually a lush network of plots of wheat, zucchini, mint and tomatoes fed by a network of streams that carry water from a natural basin to the crops below. Oasis towns like this one have largely disappeared. With paved roads, refrigerated trucks and airplanes, the old trade routes and resting places are no longer needed. As we walk around Figuig, we hear the sound of cyclists navigating the narrow, ancient streets of the city and pass men and women still wearing the traditional white robes.
Over lunch at the Oasis Inn, an airy bed-and-breakfast in a traditional adobe riad, we chat with Fatima and her sister, the women who run it. They emphatically explain that they don't get many visitors, and even fewer since the pandemic, but those who do come are curious and respectful and have made an extra effort to visit this fragile desert ecosystem. When the temperature rises above 100 degrees, Anouar and I follow the directions of the farmer we met earlier and head for a swimming spot. Two young men are already there, slowly kicking their feet against the flow of the constantly running water. We are five days away and over 600 miles from Tangier. "I didn't expect to find this," Anouar says with a smile. I know he's talking about this unlikely swimming hole in the middle of a fading oasis town surrounded by desert, but he could be referring to the whole trip. I nod in agreement.
