The vintage van struggled up a steep road on its way from Taroudant to Ouarzazate in Morocco’s Atlas Mountains. The slow pace allowed us, 16 passengers stuffed into the not-too-comfortable vehicle, plenty of time to admire the striking brown, barren, rough mountain scenery all around.

Suddenly, great clouds of gray smoke spewed from the aged Mercedes. The driver stopped. We piled out as he conducted an inspection, then restarted the engine. More smoke. It was clear we could go no farther, and we were many, many miles from a town.

This was just one of several misadventures on a three-day journey through southern Morocco last winter. But it became a delightful break from the discomforts of the trip.

While our guide, Khalil Zeguendi, called to line up alternate transportation, we took photos. Soon a crowd of women, heads wrapped in scarves, and children surrounded us. They were all smiles and motioned us to follow them into their casbah, a collection of coral-colored buildings around an open space. They ushered us into the “living room” of a home, a large room with cushioned benches and a table in the center.

They seemed elated to welcome us. They sprinkled us with rose water, a Moroccan tradition. They served us mint tea and nuts. They dressed one of our group in a fancy Moroccan headdress. They laughed when we showed them their photos on the camera screens.

We were having a joyous time when Khalil came to find us, upset that he had to look for us. A new “old” van, even smaller than the original one, had arrived. We bid our hosts farewell and piled in.

The trip began the previous day with departure from Marrakech. The first stop was Essaouira, an ancient fishing village of white buildings and bright blue boats. It’s a windy place with hundreds of sea gulls soaring above. Khalil called it a “city of celebrities,” as it was popular with musicians such as Jimi Hendrix and the Beatles in the 1960s.

We wandered through the souks, crammed with shops selling everything from carpets to ceramics, slippers to jewelry. Lunch at Chez Sam, a harbor fish restaurant, was a treat. We lingered too long over bounteous platters of fish and seafood, and were running late. Khalil announced we would take a “shorter” inland route to our next destination, Taroudant.

The trip was endless. The road, narrow and and in poor shape, was a truck route. We were caught in a procession of monstrous vehicles that crept up the long hills like a parade of snails. Passing was out of the question. It grew dark. We were hungry and I longed to stretch my legs, also out of the question: We were in the wilderness with nowhere to stop.

It was after 11 p.m. when we arrived at the hotel in Taroudant where they had held dinner for us. We ate quickly and fell into bed.

The next morning, Sunday, we were supposed to have a carriage ride around the town’s well-preserved red mud walls, then time to browse the souks, said to be among the best in Morocco. The carriages never arrived. We set off to the souks on foot, only to learn that the shops did not open until much later. So much for Taroudant.

Next stop, Ouarzazate. It was on this journey that the aged Mercedes gave up. At least we were traveling by day and could admire the majestic scenery. Before the disaster, we stopped to photograph goats who climb argan trees to feed on the fruit.

We made another stop at a co-op where we were supposed to learn about saffron production. Alas, it was closed. Khalil rounded up sandwiches at a local grocery, and we picnicked until someone arrived to open a shop so at least we could buy some of Morocco’s famous and pricey spice.

An enterprising young boy, arms laded with necklaces of pungent smelling eucalyptus seeds, suddenly appeared. He offered three strands for just 2 euros. Everyone made a purchase.

It was dinner time when we arrived in Ouarzazate, a town where numerous movies, including “Lawrence of Arabia” and “Jewel of the Nile,” have been made. To make up for the traumas of the day, we opted to splurge at an excellent restaurant, Relais Saint Exupery. I tried the Moroccan specialty, pastilla de pigeon, a sweet pigeon pie made with pastry layers stuffed with pigeon morsels, ground almonds and dusted with sugar. As we ate, proprietor Jean Pierre entertained us with stories about famous customers, including Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, who, while on site for a movie, ate there “at least 20 times.”

Monday in Ouarzazate was even better. We toured the town’s casbah, Taorit, then drove — at last in a newer model, roomy van — outside town to visit two other casbahs. Ait Benhaddou, a UNESCO World Heritage site that is “the largest complex of packed earth buildings in Morocco,” according to my guidebook.

The pile of beige/orange buildings is clustered on a hill above a river. Rather than wade through the shallow water, some of us paid a euro to hop on a donkey for the trip across. Steps and narrow passageways between the buildings climb the hill, leading to openings with rooms to explore, then up to the summit for an amazing view.

The trip back to Marrakech over the mountains offered more incredible scenery, and some hairy moments when our van passed lumbering trucks on narrow curves.

Marrakech is a lively, booming metropolis where it’s easy to get lost in the labyrinth of souks. We became disoriented trying to find the riad (small hotel) deep in the bowels of the city that my friend, Isabel, had booked online. Forget maps, street names, street numbers. It was dark when a taxi deposited us on the outskirts of these narrow alleys — they don’t accommodate cars —and the driver said he would show me on foot where the riad was. Isabel was frightened. She covered her head with a scarf and stayed locked in the taxi.

The driver and I trod down dirt paths, past shabby houses, strange shops and kids playing in courtyards. As we turned corner after corner, I became nervous. The driver had to ask directions several times, but finally we arrived.

From the outside it looked dreadful. I couldn’t imagine why Isabel had booked it. But when the doors opened, it was another world: antique furniture, an open tiled courtyard, beautifully decorated bedrooms.

The riad was a fitting end: This trip had its disconcerting moments, but also some wonderful experiences that make you want to see more. I’d be happy to return and explore more of Morocco anytime.

Photojournalist Leah Larkin lives in France and can be contacted through her website, www.leahlarkin.com, or blog address, www.provencetales.typepad.com.

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