Be a Wise Donkey

Critical Brake Failure

Less than 24 hours ago, I died a thousand deaths.

Just before Marrakech, we pull over. Our driver, apparently a devout Muslim, needs to do his evening prayer. Afterwards, when he starts the engine, "Critical Brake Failure. Stop Engine immediately" appears on the dashboard. Our driver laughs, tries to shift into reverse — no luck. Engine off. Engine on. "Have you tried turning it off and on again?" shoots through my head. That's exactly what he does. And voila: no more brake failure, reverse works, and shortly after we're flying down the mountains at 160 km/h, weaving through the traffic chaos in Marrakech towards Beni Mellal. Our driver seems to have found God, and we, after more than 6 hours, have found the starting point of our 1,100 km journey through the Atlas Mountains.

Hamburg airport before the flight to Morocco

Early morning view from the window in Beni Mellal

I wake up to the muezzin's call. For the next eleven days, thankfully, I won't need to get in a car again.

The Three of Us

Jasper Jan Katharina

Building up the bikes before the bikepacking trip in Morocco

The first kilometres on the bike in Morocco

We — that's Jan, Katharina, and me. Jan and Katharina already have ultra-distance experience. I'm a road racer at heart, but wanted to try my hand at bikepacking.

Katharina on day one in front of a reservoir near Beni Mellal

The plan: a big loop from Beni Mellal to Agadir, where our return flight awaits. 10 stages, 11 days. No hotels — with one exception — just Berber huts and small guesthouses run by locals in villages that don't appear on any tourist map. We always booked the night before.

Why Beni Mellal? That's also where the Atlas Mountain Race starts, one of the most famous ultra races with breathtaking scenery off Morocco's main roads. The AMR route was a bit much for our first go — so we planned our own, easier tour. Easier. Or so we thought.

The three of us restocking water and snacks in the middle of nowhere

View route on Komoot →

The Mud Hut

On the very first day, we fell behind schedule. Foreign country, knee pain, and lingering illness kept us from hitting our planned pace. Planning a tour on a computer 3,000 kilometres away with zero local knowledge — that works about as well as you'd expect. We'd miscalculated by four hours.

It got dark. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, a small light appeared — an accommodation. We went to reception, said we had a reservation for three, and were met with confused looks.

The mud huts of our first accommodation in the mountains

The actual accommodation was three kilometres further. With 200 metres of climbing.

3 KM 200 M ELEV. 35 MIN Pitch Black

View of a small village in the Atlas Mountains

We rode the three slowest kilometres of our lives, cursing ourselves for 35 minutes straight, constantly weighing whether to just roll back down and check in below. Pitch black, loose gravel, no moonlight. Just three headlamp beams and a climb that seemed to never end.

But when we reached the top, there was a hut on a hill with a view of the mountains. We didn't sleep inside — instead, in self-built mud huts. The mattresses were perfect, the food was plentiful, and we had company from Moroccan motorcyclists.

Atlas

In the Atlas, the entire landscape changes behind every ridge. The rock is yellow, then orange, then red, then purple, then black. The houses look different to match — simple mud huts, built from whatever stone the mountain provides. The vegetation changes, and the deeper you go into the mountains, the less grows. In one village they use cars for transport; in the next, donkeys. You can hear them braying morning and evening.

A stranger pushing his bicycle uphill in the Atlas Mountains

Hardly any cars out here. The ones you see look like they're from another era. No new cars — it's too remote for tourists. An old VW Golf Mk1 overtakes us, occasionally an old Mercedes. And the deeper you get into the mountains, the higher they become. Cross one peak and the next one is already waiting right behind it. The first days feel like there's only one direction: uphill.

Above a certain altitude, only scattered shrubs grow. And when you stop, it's so quiet you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. Nothing but the road and a few cell towers hinting at civilisation.

Bicycle at a road sign on a summit in the Atlas, Kodak film

3,005 Metres

–3°C

135 KM

3,200 M ELEV.

10 HRS

Day 4. Setting off at –3°C. Katharina has to continue by taxi because of her knee — we ride. We slept at 1,800 metres and need to get up to 3,005m today. 135 km, 3,200 m of climbing in total.

The first climb is brutal. The air is too thin, too cold. Jan and I glance at each other now and then, barely speaking. When our eyes meet, we both smile through the pain. "We have to do this all day" — two idiots, one thought. My Wahoo reads +12% gradient almost continuously. The air is too thin and too cold to breathe properly, and I keep confusing my heart rate with my watts.

Jan and Jasper at the summit of Tizi al Hmed, 3,005 metres

"Confusing my heart rate with my watts"

And yet we're loving it. That we can't get enough air. That our hearts are pounding out of our chests. That our legs are gone. And when we reach the top of the Tizi al Hmed, at 3,005 metres, a panorama of snow-covered peaks opens up that nearly knocks us off our bikes.

In that moment, on day 4, at –3°C, I had truly arrived in Morocco.

A dog that followed us for 15 kilometres through the mountains

For the last 15 kilometres, a stray dog followed us. He appeared out of nowhere and trotted behind us at a constant distance of four to ten metres. He didn't bark, he didn't growl. He looked happy. When he arrived at the summit with us, he lay down in the sun and fell asleep.

After the summit, it was endlessly downhill. Luckily, the road was being freshly paved — though there were still large excavators parked in the middle of the road here and there. Locals in their cars honked at us, cheered, gave thumbs up. We wondered what they must have been thinking. At some point, a massive rock gorge appeared with an aqueduct running along the right side.

Massive rock gorge with aqueduct on the descent after the king stage

At the foot of the mountain, there were still 40 kilometres to Kalaat M'Gouna. Along a dried-up riverbed, into the evening sun. That road felt like it would never end, and I just wanted to arrive.

At the end of the day: 135 kilometres, over 3,200 metres of climbing, ten hours in the saddle. We reach Kalaat M'Gouna, the city of roses, south of the Atlas.

Mohammed

The next day we ride on to Ouarzazate. Katharina is back, the knee holds. We'd originally planned a pure gravel stage — but we change course and take the main road instead. We were worried it would be too busy. But hardly any cars passed us. Hamburg's river dyke is busier by comparison. In the middle of nowhere, two gates suddenly appear on either side of the road — they mark the entrance to Ouarzazate.

The gate to Ouarzazate, Morocco — two gates marking the town entrance

Jan in a Berber cafe in Ouarzazate, cold in the shade

We stay at a small boutique hotel. At breakfast, Mohammed joins us — waiter and staff member for twenty years. He prepares fresh orange juice and Msemen for us, like we'd never had before. He's curious. Where our journey is heading, what drives us, why anyone would voluntarily ride a bicycle through the mountains.

After some back and forth, the conversation turns to him. Because Mohammed speaks seven languages fluently — Arabic, Berber, French, German, Dutch, Italian, English. Now we're the curious ones.

As a little boy, he always got in trouble because he wasn't good at school. He was angry — not because learning didn't interest him, but because he couldn't understand their way of teaching. What frustrated him most: when strangers came to the village and he couldn't exchange a single word with them. So he taught himself. Over the years, language by language. Seven languages, all fluent.

We ask him about his family. He has two daughters. He actually wanted a third — in Islam, it increases your chances of heaven. Raise three daughters and three doors open for you. But his wife didn't want another child. And Mohammed says it without regret — quite the opposite. He leans back and talks about his wife as if he were talking about something sacred. His wife, above all, is the heart of everything. Without her, nothing would work — not him, not the family, not life.

For twenty years, Mohammed has served the best breakfast in town. Rich guests come and go. He stays. His salary barely covers the essentials. Everything he earns goes to his family — so his daughters can have a better life than his.

At some point, Jan asks him how he endures it. Twenty years in the same hotel, giving his best, getting barely anything back. Mohammed pauses for a moment.

"You know the donkey? Donkey carry the fruit, but only eat the hay. He knows his place."

— Mohammed, Ouarzazate

Every now and then, guests like us come along, he says. Guests who have stories to tell, who show appreciation, and from whom he can learn something.

"I am a wise donkey"

Food

Katharina and Jan at a mobile roadside cafe truck

Small roadside stop with Omelette de Berber in the mountains

Omelette de Berber with turmeric and cumin, Moroccan bread

Anti-Atlas

In the Anti-Atlas, the changes are more gradual. The landscape is shaped by what I call oyster mountains — round, layered, almost sculptural. Hardly anything grows here, maybe shrubs and the occasional tree.

Baby camel eating from a roadside tree in the Anti-Atlas

Southern Anti-Atlas near the edge of the Sahara

You come across oases more often, where water once flowed — countless palm trees, and then nothing again for kilometres. Camels on the open road. Hardly any cars. The houses are more modern, built from concrete and steel, but most are unfinished and still inhabited.

We stay overnight in one of these unfinished houses, at Karim's place. His wife washes our clothes — "free of charge," she says with a smile, and the next morning 100 Dirham appear on the bill. As a parting gift, she gives us two kilos of dates from their own garden. Karim regularly hosts Atlas Mountain Race riders — his house sits right at the entrance to the old colonial route, the last place to rest for the next 100 kilometres.

View from Karim's rooftop over the Anti-Atlas mountains

On a day when we've ridden through nothing but rocky desert, Le Paradis suddenly appears — a nearly life-threatening descent, and then: thousands of palm trees. An entire day of nothing but rocks and heat, and then you're standing in front of an oasis that lives up to its name.

Le Paradis — palm oasis after a dangerous descent

The steep descent to Le Paradis in the Anti-Atlas

Rough gravel road through the Anti-Atlas

Jan on an endlessly winding road in the Anti-Atlas

Homesick

A lone telephone mast in the solitude of the Atlas Mountains

On day 9, something happens that I recognise from every long trip.

The first days, I hardly think about home. Everything is new, everything is exciting. New smells, new surroundings, new people.

But at some point, routine creeps in — even on holiday. Habits form and you realise that not everything around you is perfect — and how good you actually have it at home.

Morocco 2025

Endless mountains to the horizon — silence in the Anti-Atlas

          It's not a sad feeling. Quite the opposite — for me, it's one of the most beautiful ones. Because it means I love my home. That I know what I have.
        

The Last Day

Shit road, stench, dead animals, loads of rubbish, and some unfriendly people.

Jan in a small gite in Taroudant on the last evening

The final stage from Taroudant to Agadir. 95 kilometres that feel like 200. Fences everywhere, overcrowded roads, dogs chasing after us. The contrast to the ten days before couldn't be greater.

Looking back, it was still a good day, in its own weird way. Because it's just as much part of the trip as all the other days — and it only underlined once more how beautiful this country can be. And how lucky we were to have had all those beautiful days before. With great food, hospitality, and spectacular landscapes.

Katharina and Jan with the Anti-Atlas mountains in the background

Gear

Bike

I brought my Rose Backroad FF — technically a race gravel bike, but with an extra spacer under the stem I was comfortable enough to sit on it all day. Instead of the 48/31 chainrings, I got a 44/28 from The Mechanic Parts, paired with an 11-36 cassette. The only right call — because Komoot "komooted" us more than once, and climbs listed at 7% regularly exceeded 15%.

The Mechanic Parts chainrings 44/28 — the right gearing for Morocco

Bags

Tailfin CargoPack + 3.8L Framebag, Fidlock Top Tube, AliExpress handlebar bag. No compromises on the Tailfin — worth every penny.

Tailfin frame bag on the Rose Backroad FF

Light

Gloworm CX. Very bright, good spread, large battery for theoretically 10 hours of night riding. For emergencies — which happened twice.

Tyres

Schwalbe Overland. Robust, decent rolling resistance, good grip in dry conditions. In hindsight, the G-One RX Pro would have been better in the wet.

Luxury Item

Small pillow and earplugs. For good sleep, I always need the same feeling around my head and absolute silence.

Quoc GT XC Lace shoes — light and comfortable for long days

Camera

iPhone 17 Pro and Olympus mju II with Kodak Vision3 250D. The big digital camera stayed home — I wanted to ride, not shoot.

Clothing is where you save the most space. Merino is an absolute game changer — it takes much longer to start smelling. Or maybe I just went nose-blind. Who cares.

Would I go back to Morocco? Absolutely. But with a mountain bike instead of gravel — you can reach even more remote places that way. Every metre you have to work for is worth it. The views and the silence are priceless.

The people there are understated but warm and incredibly hospitable. You should know some French — English won't get you far.

Our three bikes in Agadir — arrived after 1,000 kilometres

Shoes drying on the windowsill in Agadir

And most importantly: do it with good friends, to share all those impressions. It's an experience you won't forget. All the people you meet along the way are so warm — if you ride with an open heart.

Be a wise donkey.