Tarmac bled into dust beyond Fez. The High Atlas stood sentinel as our van threaded the Ziz Gorge—crimson cliffs sharp as over‑grips, rock spires like frozen serves. Roseann passed oranges sprinkled with cinnamon. “Breathe the silence,” she whispered. “It’s the first drill.”
We paused in Midelt for lamb tagine served in chipped clay bowls. Mustapha nodded toward a shepherd guiding goats across scree. “Footwork tutorial,” he grinned. Cameras stayed pocketed; some truths taste better than they photograph.
See every stop on our Morocco Grand Desert Itinerary.
Arrival | When Dunes Became Our Court
Merzouga didn’t greet us—it absorbed us.
Ivory tents crouched between waves of Erg Chebbi. Mint tea steamed in fluted glasses. Camels groaned like vintage string beds. Mo slung a Wilson over a wool saddle. “For the real match‑point,” he winked.
We rode into a sunset that set sand ablaze. No phones, no chatter—only creaking leather and wind etching patterns deserts remember. At the crest, Lina gasped:
“It’s not the edge of the world … it’s the center.”
We let sand fill our shoes. Nobody brushed it off.
Night | Drums, Shakira & Soul Sparks
Dinner perfumed the dark—saffron couscous, lamb falling from bone, smoky eggplant. Then fire erupted.
A Gnawa trio appeared. Bendir drums thudded against sternums; qraqeb cymbals hissed like sneakers on Har‑Tru. When the flute sliced the night, James yelled, “Waka Waka!” The band grinned and launched into Shakira using Moroccan instruments. Chaos. Glory. Footwork turned dancework.
Roseann laughed, “Tennis taught timing—desert teaches rhythm.”
Learn more about Gnawa Music Heritage.
Dawn | Yoga, Berber Pizza & The Space Between Shots
4:47 AM. Barefoot on cool sand as horizon blushed. Lamyaa guided sunrise yoga: Warrior II facing dunes, Tree Pose under fading constellations. Balance wobbled—no judgment.
After breakfast we rolled to Rissani souk—leather smelling of tannin and time, cinnamon sticks stacked like trophies, vendors flipping Berber pizza with calloused hands. Paprika stained our fingers; perfection stayed home.
Poolside Peace & Quiet Goodbyes
A boutique kasbah pool shimmered turquoise against terracotta walls. Adult beverages clinked. Mo napped, racquet beside him like a loyal dog. Kabira delivered fig smoothies.
Night returned; embers popped like net cords. Lina drew rally diagrams in the sand—part prayer, part placement chart. No one said “I’ll miss this.” Our sun‑cracked skin said it for us.
Why Sahara Tennis Changes You
| Traditional Tennis | Desert Tennis |
|---|---|
| Chilled towels | Sand‑scrubbed skin |
| Line judges | Infinite horizons |
| Pace clocks | Sun‑dial time |
| Perfect form | Sacred wobble |
Morocco didn’t give us rallies; it gave us resonance.
Ready to trade match‑points for dune crests? Where camels carry your kit and silence coaches your soul
