Suz's thoughts and musings

Gazing out the window as the bus leaves maddening Marrakech, tension hits me; I have no idea where I’m going to sleep tonight.

Rugged and boisterous Berber men approach as I alight the bus, offering transport and accommodation. It’s a softly spoken, moustached, short, yet strong looking man who I’m drawn to. Hassan offers his home for me to stay. My gut gives me the ok, and a deal is made. 100 Dirhams a night is a winner is my book.

Hassan is a mountain guide – like most of the men in Imlil, Morocco. Tourism grows every year; the town only got electricity and hot water recently – lucky for me!

We meander through town, local shop owners and children on the street wave at us excitedly. A strong aroma of fresh baked bread teases my nostrils, and stomach roars angrily with hunger.

Hassan’s house is a modest, cemented structure that backs on to a high rocky mountain face. I feel like we’re in the Flintstones. The view from his balcony, draped with hand woven carpets, stretches for miles over the valley.

Fatima, Hassan’s wife, greets us with a warm hug and a colourful display of tagine and bread. It’s well received by my ravenous appetite. Joy jolts through my body. The Moroccan way of eating is with the hands and without cutlery. It feels ritualistic; sharing this meal gives me as much pleasure as eating it.

The ochre sunset melts into night. We’re entertained with the glowing night sky and erratic dancing fire. I don’t get this experience under the light polluted skies of London.

Hassan’s son Sayed, plays the gimbri, similar to a banjo but fretless. The upbeat tempo has us all on our feet, giggling and laughing, our own music festival under the stars. Mint tea is poured, “made with Chinese tea!” Hassan winks as he passes me a glass. The sweet brew lifts my soul.

My sleep is deep, as if I’m in my own bed. It might also be the mountain air and all the dancing. My only regret is I’m not here for longer. Having to say goodbye to everyone overwhelms me with emotion, I hope to see them again.

Staying with a local family is the best way to experience Imlil; you can find similar places on AirBnb, in the BnB section on Tripadvisor, or keep an eye out for Hassan on your arrival.

A few months later, back in London, I switch on the TV, and head straight to the travel channel. And there he is: Hassan is in my home, dancing by a fire with his friends and family. I know I’ll return to Imlil one day. This time I’ll know where to stay.