A landscape of rugged mountains, desert expanses & stunning coastlines makes for exciting but difficult travel. Public transportation not always an option for women travelling alone, Morocco being an Islamic country.

Going solo, logistic support was essential. Four wheel drive – driver/ guide. Long haul, three weeks across varied terrain where mode of transport could only be donkey, camel or car. Casablanca – Fes – Merzouga – Skoura -Marrakesh.

Desert beats on the go, Sayyid at the wheel practising limited English language skills. ‘My friend’….. is how he always began. Curious about life & times he once explained why being allowed four wives was a practical idea. “One wife………she is pregnant/ill, who cook – clean?

Casablanca to Fes (3 hours). Fes – Merzouga (7 hours) via the Middle Atlas Mountains, home to aromatic Atlas Cedar & tailless Barbary Macaque. Past panoramic views & traditional caravan routes. Ifrane’s Swiss style chalets – ski slopes, the Ziz valley’s Date Palm groves. Any wonder that the scheduled seven hours stretched to nine?

Merzouga to Skoura (5 hours), desert to oasis saw us in the Dades – river, cliff, picturesque villages. And, the Grand Todra Gorge.

It was another 4-5 hours, across the High Atlas from Skoura to Marrakech. Winding roads, remote Berber settlements & Quarzazate, the studio there known for big banner productions like ‘Gladiator,’ ‘Lawrence of Arabia.’ Onward to ‘Ait Ben Haddou’ the wondrous mud brick Kasbah on steep mountain slopes & Tiz n Tichka Pass where we stopped for cold press Argan oil.

Together for over a fortnight it was ‘goodbye Sayyid’ at Marrakech. True, straight talking Berber, a better Man Friday impossible to find.

Less than 48 hours after the devastating earthquake, most sites in Marrakech were closed. Shops too, owners returning to their homes in the mountain to enquire about their families. With nothing of major interest I contented myself walking the alleys of the old Medina to get a feel of this darling of tourist destinations.

The country’s road – rail network’s pretty sorted. ‘Al Atlas’ category of trains connect major towns & cities. Fast, frequent & on time they are comfortable except for ‘hole in the floor’ toilets. The big job a strict no-no naturally. High speed ‘Al Boraq’ linking Casablanca to Rabat & Tangier is as good as France’s TGV. Affordable, it has a lounge for first class travellers. Equally reliable & efficient, buses connect remote towns & villages. All the above of little or no consequence if travelling into the desert or mountain.

A unique destination, Morocco’s geographical location has allowed for cross cultural interaction.

Having been a French protectorate (1912-1956) there’s a tangible French influence in everything from language to food. Breaking for siesta, the country follows French work hours. There’s a great love for bread & roadside cafés are full of people sipping mint tea – not coffee – all day.

The Hamam’s a one of a kind experience having little in common with it’s Turkish counterpart. More like a public bath, women gather to catch up & meet. Old world, authentic, one fourth the cost, it’s approach completely ‘No Nonsensical’. You enter a steam bath, squat on a mat & have hot water slapped over you. A rigorous application of black Moroccan soap follows. Left to sweat & stew in your juices, onto a raised platform thereafter where the actual scrubbing begins. Loofah in hand it is scrub a dub – drub. Dirt unseen, unbeknown. Watch the layers peel off. More scrub followed by intermittent splashes of hot – cold water, rounded with a generous dollop of cream. The body feels bruised. It’s not, of course. You come out shining new.

Misconceptions about the country abound, perpetuated on blogging sites mainly.

There is no preferred dress code. Wear what you will without anyone batting an eye, keeping legs (knee downwards) & shoulder covered – inside places of worship alone.

As for pickpockets & scams, worry not. The big three – Paris, Rome, Barcelona – continue to hold sway. Just be wary & watchful.

That women dislike being photographed isn’t entirely true but it’s polite to ask. A nomad I ran into was thrilled at being clicked but forbade posting it on Facebook. Hilariously cute, considering she was unschooled & without access to anything. Not even the basics. (Her husband traveled miles to ferry home water on a donkey) Rootless, the family roamed the wilds striking home wherever they fancied.

It is not uncommon to see women driving or sitting by themselves in cafés or parks. This Islamic country makes wine & beer, ‘Casablanca’ a beer you will like. No restrictions on drinking either. The problem’s that of easy availability.

Intrinsic to Moroccan life & culture is ‘Kasbah,’ ‘Medina,’ ‘Riad’. A word about each.

The Kasbah’s a fort/citadel. Found all over the country, ‘Ait Ben Haddou’ in the High Atlas, it’s finest example.

Medina’s the city centre. A labyrinthine of lanes – alleys where locals can also get lost. In this maze no gps works. Best to explore, allow oneself to be lost & find the way again. The 9th century Medina at Fès a perfect example. Spread across 540 acres, a world in itself, it has everything from souks, eating places, shops, living quarters, mosque – medrasa, the oldest university in the world, Mellah (Jewish Quarter) & 1000 year tanneries. Every trade adequately represented – weavers, potters, coppersmiths……. A corner for cheap Chinese goods too. With more than 18 gates, 300 mosques & ten thousand cobbled alleyways, some as narrow as 60 cms, it is the largest car free zone in the world.

The Riad is a traditional Moroccan home built around an interior garden. It has open balconies, terraces & inward facing rooms with exquisite Zelig (mosaic) & intricate wood carving. Large or small these are beautiful living spaces where one should spend at least a night. High walled (for privacy) & high domed with a clear view of the Heavens, each has a water body in the central courtyard, a fountain or pool. Water being the source of life.

Casablanca’s Moorish architecture & Corniche – the lively beach front district – calls for a stopover. Most flights land here in any case. The other ‘Casablanca’ (1942), Ingrid Bergman – Humphrey Bogart starrer continues to fuel dreams. Watch visitors queue up outside ‘Ricks’ mythical gin joint. Entering as if searching, for someone – something. Looking around, sipping a Negroni ‘as time goes by’ is played & replayed, several times upon request.

Neither Marrakech nor Casablanca – Fes being in a league of its own – Tangier’s my favourite. For the atmospherics primarily & for the fact that Ibn Batuta belonged here (14th century). A 19th century lighthouse at the entrance to the Mediterranean the landmark. At the crossroad of cultures & civilisations Tangier is a heady mix. It’s charm precisely what is often said in denigration – ‘a den of rogues, writers, spies & sleaze balls’.

The Kasbah has Batutas’ mausoleum – museum & offers fantastic across the Bay views of the Rock of Gibraltar & Spain. Cafe Hafa (1921) popularised by the Beatles & Rolling Stones offers similar views along with wonderful ambience & food. Graceful boulevards, sleek modern buildings & many many cafés.

More enjoyable than ‘Mamounia’s’ (1960) excellent Couscous was it’s aged guitarist singing ‘Mustafa,’ his tinny voice taking me down memory lane.

Ranked among the fifty best in the world ‘Cafe Gran de Paris’, (95 years) indulgence extends to letting guests lounge around as long as they please even as countless others wait. A business mantra that seemingly works. Sip fresh orange juice in elegant tall glasses, watch the world go by. No rush, no hurry.

Tangier to Asilah or Tetouan could be day trips but Chefchaouen deserves a night. This charming little place in the Rif mountains is Morocco’s blue pearl, the entire town a soothing Mediterranean blue. Hike up to the Spanish church for a bird’s eye view. Traipse its cobblestone streets. Rue El Asri for Sawa (chicken Moroccan noodles) and Instagram moments, Morocco’s feline beauties lying curled or stretched, sure to sneak into the frame.

(I was drowsy eyed 24×7, was there hash in the air?)

Separating desert from ocean, the Atlas cuts diagonally across. Jagged peaks & cliffs, the effect of centuries of weathering. Rivers, canyons – gorges, passes. Incredible views. The mountain changing mood & colour, flitting from dark to grey, blue – pink, depending upon the sun.

Closed for summer, Erg Chebbi reopened early September making me the first, the only guest beginning of season. Like a tiny speck, in a vast space in the middle of nowhere, not for a moment did I feel alone. Timeless, immemorial, the desert sands shimmered & stretched. Everything around silent & still. Venus like a lamp across the firmament, the night sky streaming with stars. Shooting stars. If only wishes were horses. An experience as intense as the heat, a Berber saying came readily to mind, “God made water & land for man to live & the desert to find his soul.”

The Sahara was harsh. Solar power & water but no fan or air conditioning. Height of sustainable living. The mornings were magical as were the evenings, the day heating up fast. Hotter than hell, heating everything around from body to electronic devices that refused to charge. Unbearable within enclosed confines, sitting out in the open a better option especially as the wind picked up, even if it was hot & searing & even if it blew sand into the eyes, hair & face – tasting gritty between the teeth.

The reason perhaps why many prefer to stay in nearby Merzouga. Officially ‘gateway’ to the Sahara, Merzouga has luxury hotels with air conditioning & pools.

But it is soulless.

Those who come do so for a single night alone. Arriving in the cool of the evening, leaving before noon next day.

The two nights spent here were so out of the ordinary. Surprised to find working wifi & astonished at its speed – as fast as light – I’d scamper up the nearest dune to make video calls to friends back home, excited at sharing what I was seeing.

“Look …..not mountains, mounds or hills but dunes……. “

“Excuse my clothes. It’s bloody hot……”

“Here, have a look, that’s the Morning Star”

If there’s any regret it’s not sleeping under the stars. Why didn’t I think of it?

The one big takeaway without a doubt, was the love & respect shown everywhere I went. Due in no small measure to Shahrukh & Bollywood. Of that I’m certain. Make no mistake. India’s’ soft power is real and it is neither IT nor cricket but Bollywood.