Ksar es-Seghir

Fresh off the blue-drenched high of Chefchaouen, the Vagabond Couple and Shehzadi found themselves chasing a different rhythm. Gone were the dreamlike alleyways and chilled-out cats of the mountain town. The road (here's a map) pulled them westward, toward the sea, into lands that had seen too much and still stood proud: Tetouan, elegant and stubborn and Ksar es-Seghir, tiny but heavy with centuries.

Now, if Chefchaouen was the relaxed cousin who smokes hash and listens to Gnawa on a rooftop, Tétouan is the refined aunt who teaches Andalusian music, hosts literary salons and gives you that look if your shoes aren’t polished.

Tétouan

Tetouan doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. It lets its white walls and Andalusian arches whisper everything. Founded way back — seriously back — by Berbers, it’s been built, razed, rebuilt, colonized, rebelled over and still somehow manages to keep its medina cleaner than most people's kitchens.

Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de las Victorias (Iglesia de Bacturia) Church, Tetouan

The Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de las Victorias, affectionately dubbed Iglesia de Bacturia by locals, is a charming little church in Tétouan city center. Built in the early 20th century, this quaint Catholic chapel stands as a testament to the city’s multicultural past, blending Spanish colonial influences with Moorish charm — because why choose one architectural style when you can have both? Dedicated to Our Lady of Victories, the church once served the Spanish community during the protectorate era and today, it’s a peaceful retreat where history whispers through its modest walls.

Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de las Victorias (Iglesia de Bacturia) Church, Tétouan

Though small in size, it packs a punch in character — like that one tiny tapas bar that somehow serves the best chorizo in town. While not as grand as its cathedral cousins, this hidden gem offers a quiet escape from Tetouan’s bustling medina, proving that sometimes the best things come in small, slightly off-the-radar packages. Just don’t expect a soaring spire — this church keeps it humble, much like your abuela’s sobremesa after a big meal.

Tetouan

When the Spanish torched Tétouan in the 15th century for “harboring pirates” (read: outwitting colonialists), exiled Andalusians came pouring in, bringing with them architectural finesse, music that still makes hearts ache and recipes that have aged better than any influencer’s skincare line.

And don't even try to drive in the Medina (the old city). You probably are not allowed to, anyway. In any case, the alleys are so tight even the donkeys look annoyed.

Tétouan

But under all that white plaster and historical elegance lies something twitchy: tectonic plates. Tetouan sits at a lovely little geological collision zone where the African and Eurasian plates bump elbows — and sometimes throw punches. The 1755 Lisbon earthquake was so powerful, it hit Morocco’s north coast like a sledgehammer. There’s even a local legend that the sea pulled back before rushing in to slap the shoreline, a sort of divine “don’t mess with me” moment.

The most recent large earthquake near Tétouan occurred a few months ago on February 11, 2025, with a magnitude of 5.1. The epicenter was in Ksar el-Kebir, within the Tanger-Tétouan region and the quake was also felt in six provinces of Andalucia in southern Spain. The earthquake struck around 11:49 pm on that Monday night.

After getting their fill of Tetouan’s music-filled courtyards and earth-rattled tales, the trio rolled further down the coast to Ksar es-Seghir — a town so small you might miss it if you blink, but if you do spot it, brace yourself. This place has seen more drama than a Netflix period epic.

Ksar es-Seghir, Morocco

It started as a Phoenician port. Then the Romans showed up, probably looking smug. Then the Arabs. Then the Portuguese stormed in during the 15th century like uninvited houseguests and built a massive fortress to stare menacingly across the Strait of Gibraltar. Spain got in on the action too. It was a whole “Game of Thrones” situation, minus the dragons but with way more salt air and cannonballs.

Ksar es-Seghir, Morocco

Despite being constantly fought over, Ksar es-Seghir isn’t flashy. Its ruins are chunky and serious — walls that feel like they’ve been punched by time itself. You can still stand on the old dock and picture galleons creaking with silk, spices and scrolls from China, Timbuktu and Toledo. This was one of Morocco’s key ports on the maritime Silk Road and if you listen hard enough, you can almost hear the merchants shouting over crates and squawking birds.

Ruins of old fortress on beach of Ksar es-Seghir, Morocco

Of course, the earth here is still jumpy. Locals shrug off the occasional tremor with the kind of nonchalance usually reserved for bad Wi-Fi. Some even say a giant sleeps beneath Ksar es-Seghir and when he rolls over, the earth shakes. Scientists call it the Alboran Fault System, but we’re not sure the giant cares about terminology.

The new Port Tanger Med viewed from Ksar es-Seghir, Morocco

What Tetouan and Ksar es-Seghir share — besides a tendency to rattle — is an incredible density of history and culture. Tetouan gave the world Andalusian classical music that still echoes through its tiled conservatories. It inspired poets, sheltered exiles and taught generations of artisans how to spin clay into intricate zellige tiles or thread into velvet slippers. Ksar es-Seghir, for all its weathered face and smaller footprint, holds the weight of empires. Together, they tell a story of movement — of people, music, trade and yes, tectonics.

By the end of the day, our three wanderers were windblown, a little sunburned and full of grilled sardines eaten beside the fortress walls. They sat staring at the sea, imagining Portuguese ships vanishing into the horizon, earthquakes stirring beneath their feet and an old musician in Tetouan still tuning his oud by candlelight.

History doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it just sits beside you, sipping mint tea, humming a song older than maps.

Ferry Tales & Asphalt Dreams: Leaving Morocco, Africa and Driving Back to Pulpi, Spain

The next morning, the Vagabond Couple and Shehzadi stood at the docks of Tanger Med, sipping aggressively sweet mint tea while trucks rumbled around them like groggy metal beasts. There’s a weird kind of romance to ferry terminals — part shipping yard, part liminal dreamscape. And Tanger Med, the busiest port in all of Africa, hums with global energy: Moroccan oranges heading to France, German cars rolling in for the Casablanca elite and beneath it all, the ancient heartbeat of trade that goes back to Phoenicians and pirates.

Tanger Med Port: Ferry to Algeciras, Spain

The ferry to Algeciras isn’t glamorous, but it gets the job done. They climbed aboard with backpacks, a pickup truck and hearts still warm from couscous and call to prayer. The Strait of Gibraltar stretched before them like a shimmering thread — only 14 kilometers wide, but it feels like time travel. On one side, Africa: minarets, medinas and the sound of Arabic floating over rooftops. On the other: Europe, all sprawl and structure.

As the boat sliced through the water, they caught glimpses of Jebel Musa, the Moroccan peak that, along with Spain’s Rock of Gibraltar, forms the mythical Pillars of Hercules — once thought to mark the edge of the known world. Past here, ancient sailors feared the sea just dropped off. Thankfully, the only thing dropping today was Wi-Fi signal. Jebel Musa (Mount Moses), rising 842 meters (2,762 feet) above the Mediterranean, is one of the most iconic peaks in Morocco’s Rif Mountains (yes, the same mountains that Chefchaouen calls home).

The mountain holds cultural significance for both Berber communities and Spanish heritage, as it was once part of a Spanish enclave. Its rugged slopes offer breathtaking coastal views and the nearby pilgrimage site of Moulay Abdessalam adds a spiritual dimension.

As their ferry approaches the port of Algeciras in Spain, the mighty Rock of Gibraltar rises dramatically from the sea, a colossal limestone monolith that has loomed over history like a stubborn, weather-beaten sentinel. Known to the ancients as the other Pillar of Hercules, this British Overseas Territory (much to Spain’s occasional chagrin) has been a strategic prize for Phoenicians, Romans, Moors and Spaniards — each leaving their mark like layers on a well-traveled passport. Today, its cliffs are home to the famous Barbary macaques, Europe’s only wild monkeys, who reign over the rock with the same entitled swagger as tourists at an all-inclusive resort. A symbol of endurance and contested identity, Gibraltar stands as a quirky blend of British pubs, Mediterranean sun and a history so dense you could stub your toe on it. Whether you see it as a fortress, a myth, or just a really big rock, one thing’s certain — it refuses to be ignored.

The ferry takes about 90 minutes, but time bends on the strait. You see Morocco behind you, Spain ahead of you and a hundred layers of history floating in between — Berber raiders, Roman galleys, Islamic fleets, Crusaders, spice traders. It’s less a crossing than a compression of eras.

Port of Algeciras, Spain

When they docked in Algeciras, it was back to Shehzadi on Deck 5 and back on asphalt. But not just any asphalt — this was the AP-7, Spain’s glorious Mediterranean spine.

Now, if you think highways can’t be scenic, you haven’t driven this one.

Winding eastward, the AP-7 hugs the Costa del Sol like a clingy ex. To the right: endless Mediterranean blues and the occasional yacht that probably has its own Instagram account. To the left: craggy mountains, olive groves and white villages perched like sun-bleached fossils on hillsides.

They passed Estepona, known for murals the size of apartment blocks. Then came Marbella, where golden beaches flirt with Gucci storefronts. Somewhere around Málaga, the GPS went rogue, but honestly, who cares? The coastal light here makes even the gas stations look like oil paintings.

They grabbed lunch near Nerja, with its famous caves and a cliffside view that could heal emotional trauma. Farther along, Almuñécar shimmered below sugarloaf hills, while the ruins of watchtowers dotted the cliffs, reminders of Moorish lookout posts from the time when this coast was the edge of al-Andalus.

Shehzadi parked at Carrefour at El Ejido, Almería, Spain

As they entered their home province of Almería, they stopped at the Carrefour at El Ejido to pick up some groceries and a snack at the McDonalds. Shehzadi, being a full-blooded American pickup truck from San Antonio, Texas, had to be parked unusually as is often the case with American pickups in Europe. 

By late afternoon, the landscape grew drier, more rugged — the Desierto de Tabernas creeping in. This is Europe’s only real desert and also where they shot a ton of spaghetti Westerns. Pulpi wasn’t far now. About an hour after sunset, the trio finally rolled into home. Tired, dusty and buzzing with that good, low-level exhaustion that only comes from living a few too many lives in a short time.

But this was just an intermission.

Because the Vagabond Couple and Shehzadi aren’t finished. Not even close. Tetouan and Ksar es-Seghir were just a whisper of the past, a spark in the wider fire.

From Pulpi they’ll point the wheels east. Across the Mediterranean and into the Middle East — retracing the old Silk Road through the bazaars and onward into the soaring Caucasus. They'll return to Tbilisi, Georgia, where this whole mad journey once began. And they won’t stop there. No, this Silk Road dream is stitched long and winding.

From the Caspian shores to Uzbekistan’s tiled palaces, through the ghost towns of the Taklamakan Desert, across the pulse of China, down into the color and chaos of India.

This is no vacation. This is a pilgrimage of motion, myth and meaning. The road goes on.

But for now, in Pulpi, Shehzadi rests. And somewhere in the glove box, there’s still sand from Morocco.

Next: Continuing on the Silk Road from Spain across the Pyrenees to Andorra and France

- The Vagabond Couple and Shehzadi