Marrakech to Atlas Mountains: Day Trip, Camel Ride & Berber Tea

4.82

(11760 reviews)

What’s the experience like?

Hands gripping the edge of my seat as we left Marrakech, I caught myself watching the city fade behind dusty glass. Our driver, Youssef, hummed along to a radio song I didn’t recognize — something about the way he tapped the steering wheel made it feel like we were already part of his world. The air changed as we climbed toward the Atlas Mountains; cooler, with that faint smell of wood smoke and wild herbs. I kept sticking my head out the window for photos but mostly just ended up blinking at the light.

We stopped in a village where kids ran past with schoolbooks tucked under their arms, shouting things I couldn’t catch. Our guide, Fatima, waved at an old man selling oranges — she told us he’s been there every morning for 30 years. Walking through nine Berber villages felt like flipping through someone else’s family album; each house painted in its own shade of red earth, women laughing as they kneaded dough or poured tea. At one point Fatima handed me a glass — mint tea so sweet it almost hurt my teeth (I liked it anyway). She explained how her mother used to make bread in a clay oven behind their house — “It always smells like rain when you bake,” she said, and I believed her.

The camel ride was… well, bumpier than I expected. My camel was called Zidane (like the footballer), and he seemed determined to walk slower than everyone else. The saddle creaked with every step. A little embarrassing when Zidane stopped to munch on something prickly and wouldn’t budge until our handler clucked his tongue — everyone laughed, including me. We passed argan trees and stopped at a women’s cooperative where they showed us how oil is pressed by hand; my fingers still smelled faintly nutty after trying some on my skin.

Imlil Valley surprised me — waterfalls hidden behind rocks, cold spray on my face when we got close enough. Lunch was simple: bread torn by hand, olives, something stewed with tomatoes that tasted smoky and bright at once. We sat outside with Fatima’s cousin joining us for coffee (he asked if I’d ever seen snow here — not yet). The drive back to Marrakech felt quieter somehow. Maybe it was just me thinking about all those tiny moments: Zidane’s stubbornness, Fatima’s stories, that feeling of being welcomed even when you don’t share a language. Still think about that view sometimes.