Morocco: The post colonial jewel in northern Africa, made famous by Hollywood’s Casablanca, as George Orwell and Yves Saint Laurent set up outpost in the rose hued Marrakech. How fascinating to fly just two hours from Europe to land in such an exotic place, the hues of the crimson and azul dyes of the market, the sounds of the calls to prayer mixed with the engines of two stroke scooters, and the scent of the donkey carts side by side the SUVs as even a place as special as this cannot evade the brutalism of modernity.

Our Riad hotel, nestled deep into the old town offered an oasis of calm from the calamity of the bustling streets, yet the hotel walls were no break to the sounds of chaos of life happening outside. Waking to the warm air, deep blue tiled stairs led us to the rooftop breakfast lounge where I enjoyed my first taste of the country. Spices and rich flavours are never neglected, not even in the morning. With our final sips of mint tea and the freshest orange juice on earth, we ventured by bike into the unknown. Traffic which makes Naples feel a safe training road, we persisted, to eventually find the outskirts of the city. Whilst chaotic, the drivers were all very welcoming, with wide berths and a friendly beep of the horn. As we pulled off the main thoroughfare, the traffic slowed to a pace aligned with a sustenance culture. Carts held the days goods, reaped from arid patches of vast expanse. Goats roamed freely, a key part of the protected argan oil industry. There is a simplicity in the magic of being connected to the sandy soil, a simplicity we would learn to embrace over the four days of racing in it.

FOOTNOTES
Words: Nathan Haas | Photos: Steve Smith