Rough ride through the Atlas to Ouzoud

It’s early in the morning. Outside, the air is still cool, the sky above the campsite at Ben Smim a pale, washed-out blue. Today we have a 275-kilometre drive ahead of us. Over breakfast, we go over the route one more time. Google will no doubt call the shots, but the final stretch through the Atlas to Ouzoud looks promising on the map — in the way that only a thin, winding line through mountain terrain can look promising. Narrow, twisting, and far from everything.

Our route follows the N8, a road that threads through the heart of Morocco past villages still rubbing the sleep from their eyes as we pass through. The tarmac is generally decent, but the moment we enter a village, the story changes. Potholes, speed bumps, asphalt that hasn’t seen a repair crew in years.

Khenifra: market day, mayhem and donkeys

Mid-morning, we roll into Khenifra — and immediately understand that today is market day. Tents everywhere. People, stalls, donkey carts piled high with vegetables and goods whose purpose we can only guess at. The traffic inches through the chaos. So do we.

Navigating the mayhem demands full concentration, but it’s a feast for the eyes at the same time. This is Morocco at its most alive: loud, colourful, gloriously chaotic.

Something else catches our attention: the main roads cutting through each village are surprisingly wide. French influence, we suspect. In the decades France held sway here, straight, broad boulevards were laid out across the country — a colonial blueprint still legible in the tarmac today.

Into the mountains towards Ouzoud

Just past Beni-Mellal, we leave the N8 behind. With it goes the comfort of a proper through road. Just over fifty kilometres remain to Ouzoud, but they promise to be a serious challenge.

After more than two hundred kilometres on the clock, this is no gentle encore. We pass through a small village, then the road begins to climb — narrowing, roughening, testing our suspension on stretches that seem to have been forgotten by every road maintenance crew in living memory. But the scenery. The scenery makes up for all of it.

Deep gorges yawn beside the road. Sheer drops — we try not to look too long. Then, where the road briefly straightens, we catch them: the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas, white against grey rock. Sometimes hidden behind the ridges we’re threading through, then suddenly reappearing on the horizon like an old acquaintance stepping back into view.

Barely any traffic. Occasionally a couple of children on a donkey who watch us pass. The higher we climb, the lonelier the landscape becomes. After countless hairpin bends we drop into a valley — but almost immediately, just as we think the climbing is behind us, the road heads upward again.

Gorges de el-Abid: nerve-wracking

Leaving the valley, we drive straight into a painting the artist made too large for its frame. The Gorges de el-Abid spread out below us in all their raw, magnificent wildness. The sun sits lower in the sky now, and that light does things to the rugged red rock walls — setting them ablaze in colours that would make any photographer stop breathing, sharp against an impossibly blue sky.

We pull over and let the silence do its work. Between the mountains and along the ravines, we feel very small. Raw beauty and complete solitude rule here in equal measure. It feels almost presumptuous to be passing through in a campervan.

Then it gets tense

Around a bend, a narrow bridge over the gorge appears. Do we really have to cross that? Will we fit? The tarmac on the edge of the drop has crumbled away. And the bridge itself — will it hold us? The moment our front wheels touch the decking, the rattling starts. A hollow, dry sound that travels straight up through the floor of the van. We ease forward, plank by plank, metre by metre.

On the other side, we breathe again. Made it. A few kilometres to go — though the road immediately after the bridge offers little encouragement. Potholes, bumps, barely wide enough. Still, the final stretch goes better than feared, and we pull into Ouzoud with something close to relief.

Ouzoud: chaos and a tajine

It’s busy. Chaotic, as we’ve come to expect in Moroccan villages — but we hadn’t anticipated this level of activity in somewhere so remote. Traffic is gridlocked, people stream in every direction, mopeds weave through the gaps, and the occasional stubborn donkey refuses to acknowledge that any of this is its problem. Chaotic in a way that never stops surprising us, and never stops fascinating us either.

Then it clicks: Ramadan. The sun sets in under an hour, and everyone is making a last dash for fresh bread and groceries before the fast breaks.

Deep in the middle of all this, a man approaches. “You looking for the campsite?” With a campervan in a village like Ouzoud, it’s not exactly a difficult guess. “I’ll take you there.” We thank him warmly and decline — after a day like today, we can manage this last bit ourselves.

Warm welcome at Camping Auberge Zebra

And we do. Once we leave the bustle behind, the entrance to Camping Auberge Zebra appears. The welcome is warm. “I have a beautiful place for you,” says the manager. He isn’t wrong: at the far end of the site, we park up on a quiet spot with a sweeping view across the valley.

At check-in, the menu board beside the reception catches our eye. Tajine kefta — meatballs in sauce with a egg in the centre. We don’t hesitate for a second. Can we order during Ramadan? “No problem, but om zes uur aan tafel, please,” says the manager, who turns out to also be the cook. “Because at seven I have to go to the mosque.”

Tomorrow: the waterfalls

Back at the van, we watch the sun slip behind the mountains. One by one, the lights come on in the handful of houses scattered across the valley below. Then the muezzin’s voice rises from the mosque — a short, slightly crackling call to prayer that drifts across the valley and fades into the evening air. Relieved that this long, eventful drive has brought us safely here, we let the quiet of this place settle around us.

Tomorrow we head to the waterfalls — Les Cascades d’Ouzoud, one of the most photogenic spots in all of Morocco. But that story is for our next post. Follow along, or sign up for the free NOMAS newsletter so you don’t miss a thing.