Log in
Join today

3 Months Cycling Morocco: From the Atlas Mountains to the Sahara and Everything In Between

Contributor: Vaegabond (Melli & Dani)

Our Start in Fascinating Morocco

Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, France and Germany again. Those were the countries we’d already ticked off on our bicycle world tour. Next up: Morocco.

It was early November. If you’ve seen our videos from the Netherlands or Belgium, you’ll know exactly why we’d had enough of Europe’s relentless icy rain. Day after day, we packed up a soaking wet tent with numb fingers, cooked meals in the cold, and washed up in conditions that could generously be called “character-building.” The forecast offered no relief for weeks ahead. After battling headwinds of up to 60 km/h along the Dutch North Sea coast, enduring rain that simply refused to stop in Belgium, and watching temperatures drop to 3°C in Luxembourg and France, our decision was made. We were going to Morocco.

First night, first police encounter

The flight from Baden-Baden to Fes, one of Morocco’s four royal cities, went smoothly enough. We reassembled our bikes at the airport under the curious eyes of locals, then headed into the city in the dark. We’d found a host for the first few nights, but reaching him was proving impossible — no answer on the phone, no exact address. We navigated by gestures and goodwill, showing his social media profile photo to strangers, and were honestly amazed by how far that got us. Someone always knew someone who knew someone — until eventually we were standing at the right door.

Our host, it turned out, wouldn’t be home until around 10 pm. No problem, we thought. Half an hour passed. Then another. We tried calling again. Finally, he picked up — and explained that he was in jail. He’d been caught having coffee with an Italian tourist and was suspected of being one of the unlicensed “fake guides” who show visitors around and then overcharge them. Wrong place, wrong time. Unlucky for him — and for us.

So: Plan B. By now, it was past 11 pm. A Moroccan man passing by stopped to chat, and then there were three locals gathered around us, genuinely concerned about our safety. A street watchman appeared, brought us a blanket and some water, and assured us he’d keep an eye on things overnight. We were just climbing into our sleeping bags when the police arrived. They were not impressed with our improvised setup, asked for our passports, and escorted us — by patrol car — to a hotel in the Medina.

We’d been hoping to avoid hotels entirely to keep costs down. But here we were, paying for a room on our very first night. The officer had connections, so we were forced into a “special price” of €7 per person. We made the best of it. And honestly? The Medina more than made up for it the next morning: the winding alleyways, the vivid chaos of the souks, and the famous tanneries were absolute highlights.

Two months in — mountains, coast and a total write-off

It’s hard to believe — we’ve now been cycling through Morocco for two months. The clock is ticking, and we’re making the most of every last kilometre through a country that has felt both familiar and entirely unknown. For Melli, Morocco has always been personal — her Moroccan roots mean she’s known this place since childhood, yet somehow never really known it at all. Cycling through it has changed that completely.

From Fes, we headed towards the Tazekka National Park, where we quickly noticed we were attracting a fair amount of official attention. Police checks became a regular part of our days, and we were often quietly accompanied — in tracksuits and sandals, trying to look casual — by plainclothes officers. This is, we learned, a direct response to the tragic murder of two young Scandinavian women in the Atlas Mountains in 2018. We never once felt threatened or in genuine danger — quite the opposite. The locals we met were warm, open, and welcoming everywhere we went. The security presence was simply Morocco taking the safety of its visitors seriously.

And the landscape — it took our breath away, repeatedly. We pushed each other up the High and Middle Atlas on fully loaded bikes, floated through stark, lunar terrain that felt like another planet, stared out at nothing but Saharan sand, and looked down over the Atlantic coastline from high above. Every single one of those moments was priceless. No amount of money could buy a view like that.

Then came the bad luck, right on cue as the new year arrived. We celebrated New Year’s Eve in Marrakech — and on the way there, Dani had an accident. His bike met a car in a brief but decisive encounter, and the result was a cracked frame. In Germany, that would mean a total write-off. In Morocco, everything gets “repaired.” The frame was welded back together in a workshop of sorts, and we’ve been quietly hoping ever since that both Dani and his luggage continue to get from A to B in one piece.

The second blow came on New Year’s Eve itself. One moment we were taking photos to remember the night — the next, the phone was gone. The entire venue was searched. Nothing. Somewhere out there, someone is enjoying a very nice camera. We’re trying not to think too hard about everything that was on it.

But honestly? We’re healthy. We’re still moving. And no two days here have ever been the same. But honestly? We’re healthy. We’re still moving. And no two days here have ever been the same.

And we mean that quite literally. At one point, we found ourselves unexpectedly getting married — Moroccan style. A ceremony we never planned, in a village we’d never heard of, surrounded by people we’d only just met. How exactly that happened, what came before it, and the string of equally unbelievable moments that followed — that’s a story that deserves more than a few lines. It’s all in our book Gone, Chased, Married — the full, unfiltered account of everything Morocco threw at us, written exactly the way we lived it.

You’ll find the link below.

No day is like the last. One adventure follows another. Remarkable people keep crossing our path. And then there’s the food — so varied, so fresh, so colourful, and so incredibly good that we genuinely look forward to every meal. It’s no wonder we savour every day we get to spend here. The only real limiting factor are the 90 days we are allowed to stay in Morocco. 90 days sounds like plenty — until you’re here, and you realise that even five months wouldn’t be enough to truly understand this country, its culture, and the warmth of its people.

Recent Posts