Morocco has changed a lot since my last visit 15 years ago. It’s even younger now. In some places and at certain times, you can hear Bollywood techno just as loud as the “Allah u akbar” from the tops of the minarets. Worlds are merging. Last time, all the women were veiled. Not any more, especially the young ones, some of whom are almost dressed up like Turkish women in Cologne on a Saturday night.

Legs of mutton hang in the sun. A thousand sacks of spices shine on the roadside. Housewives bargain for the best price for Nana mint. Beggars sit outside the entrance to the mosque. Essaouira is like a time machine. Incredibly old, new, smelly and fragrant, narrow and spacious. Medieval marketplace in the here and now. (more…)

Tough day, another long journey. First stop: Agdz. A large group of young Moroccans are demonstrating loudly against food taxation. Now that the poor Americans have had enough of speculating in precious metals, gold and uranium, they are ruining the lives of the poorest of the poor with their greed. I hope it will strike back one day.

There is a waterfall on the way to Ouarzazate. I quickly find the sign for the Cacades de Tizguin, the track is rough gravel through volcanic rock. Then it goes through large holes and coarser gravel. A few deep washovers, narrow hairpin bends descending at 30% into a narrow valley. At the bottom, for the first time in a long time, I am ready to admit to myself that perhaps that was too much. (more…)

Motorhead don’t play directly after Marianne and Michael. Nor does the last green before the Sahara turn directly into pure sand dunes. After the green comes the stony desert. The first islands of sand spread out in it. The last rivers run out into nothingness. Two more mountain ridges, then all I can see in the distance are shimmering sand dunes. 52 days to Timbuktu.

For the Touareg, even this is part of the Sahara. Large kasbahs bear witness to ancient caravan history. The temperature rises to just under 40 degrees. That’s quite low, explains a tar round in the shade of a kasbah. It soon gets up to 55 degrees here. A car passes by every half hour, almost exclusively jeeps, hardly any tourists. (more…)

Five days of permanent calm is more than a kitesurfer has to endure. I hire a car and set off before dawn. The road to Marrakech leads from hazy Mad Max via Tuscany without cypresses to the green granary in front of the high Atlas. Because of the bomb attack in Marrakech, the police checkpoints are as dense as in the Golden Triangle – only the armoury is a little more discreet.

After only an hour’s drive, a policeman shoots me down with a laser pistol. 20km/h too fast. My German driving licence saves me from punishment, as it did in the USA. Apparently we have worldwide freedom from fools when it comes to speeding. A little later, the police follow me with blue lights, and this time my stomach gets queasy. They overtake. For free. (more…)

Nothing is worse for kiters than a lull. Everyone gets grumpy, some get scabies. A pitiable radical splinter group smashes the skulls of surfers. I make plans to go to the Sahara. 750km oneway, cars are only available from local hire companies and expensive. However, after a broken boot lid on my last trip 15 years ago, my confidence is a little shaken.

I feel like I’m in a book by Garcia Marquez. I’ve forgotten which one exactly. It’s hot and humid. My glasses fog up during the nightly revelry in the pirate’s den when it rains outside. My six-hamster cage has been converted into a cage and I’m now alone in it. I’m working and waiting for the wind from hell, which will hopefully arrive in six days’ time. (more…)

Essaouira is an old Portuguese trading post. Clouds push the sultriness down, intensified by the complete absence of wind. Anyone who says that the most important ingredient of 1001 Nights is heroes is a bulimic. The only important things are the stench and the scent of the sky. In the morning I wake up in a windowless 12m² six-bed room. When I return from the bathroom, I’m green with envy: I’ll never be able to stink like this on my own.

The roof terrace on the fourth floor offers a view of hundreds of courtyard houses. The outside, and especially the top, is pretty run-down, but the inside is whitewashed. Cats lie on piles of rubbish. The medina is an incredible labyrinth. I count 202 corners and find two right angles. Open manhole, deadly stench. Nana mint on the next corner, then a fish market and mountains of spices. (more…)

Some things just don’t go together: George Bush and intelligence tests. Dieter Bohlen and groove. Heroes in tights. Sea and calm. Others are absolute dream teams: chips and ketchup, white wine and water, Ray Liotta and broken mafia characters or travelling and smoking.

I always smoke a lot when travelling. Maintaining an age-old tradition. Back then, on the Eurasian steppe: a biped smells smoke. Even back then, smoke meant: “Go travelling or your balls will burn!” So quickly reduce the take-off weight and set off for new destinations. I’m standing on the observation deck of Nuremberg Airport. The smoke trails behind the jets. (more…)