Into the Atlas Mountains of Morocco
The land of the Berber hasn’t changed - adventure still conquers.
The ancient Greeks believed that Atlas was the primordial Titan who held up the sky. I mean, someone has to do it right? Stacey Abrams is a busy person. Today we give a little nod to Atlas in all things cartography, and so can probably thank the divine being himself for separating the Sahara Desert from the Atlantic Ocean. It is right here where the Atlas Mountain Ranges kneel down just outside Marrakech, the cultural and spiritual capital, for a passage to entry.
I had prepared for this journey by pandering to more than enough of a spa fix at the La Sultana riad that I am both perfectly rested and sufficiently hydrated for a desert slash mountainous tempo. If you know me at all, you’ll know I am the most hydrated person you’ll ever meet. I lazed around the traditional hamam for hours and practiced getting my sweat on – surely the sandy mountains will take me now with open arms and all? “Usually people stay for about 20 minutes, you seem to have much more stamina, Sir,” said Rachida, the La Sultana spa manager with a glint in her eye. Right, the white boy from Africa was sweating, and sweating…
If you want to read more about my spa life in Morocco I did a piece in Tatler where I luxuriate more than usual - from the Royal Mansour to Erg Chigaga Desert Camp... who am I kidding, the usual luxuriating. Chin, chin…
As convergence of the Middle East and Africa this, now modern, country has historically acted as an egress to Europe. A sparkly airport, an endless row of yellow building cranes and seemingly too many new condos spiral out from the old Arab medina; still holding the city’s core and its many religions and cultures. The world I recalled from a prior trip is mostly covered by dust (and the 21st century apparently): Chinese scooters had replaced the camels, tank-tops slipped serious flesh on the streets, the King himself was ever progressive (I’ve heard some stories about the Prince that I was enjoying) and everyone in sight bore a smartphone.
“The mountains are calling and I must go” or so said Yankee naturalist John Muir.
It’s easy to shake Marrakesh, a quick ride on the newish highway nips out of this fruitful metro of almost two million inhabitants. Morocco’s Atlas Mountains are still the adventure-seeker’s playground today, and where the nomads left their tracks is where the 4x4 maniac rallies. And so it is right here where I vamoosed from civilization and headed into the notorious pink dust.
Villages, with as many goats as people, ushered me in as the 4x4 jaunted its initial mounting. The sleek tar highway in fact disappeared a long time ago and potholes plus a fine dust powder replaced it – like a veil thrown across the car and perhaps even riled my eyes. But the endless mountains bent over backwards and revealed just a little white snowy lip on, perhaps its highest peak, Jebel Toubkal. In the dust and Arabic French conversation around me I made out flashes of the brawny ranges of Middle, High and Anti-Atlas.
Argan oil, endemic to Morocco, is available en masse and my guide named Fettah (yes like the cheese he keeps reminding me) listed the benefits to the hair and skin and even mind. In fact, Argan oil demand has ballooned. So much so that the Moroccan government wants to double production in the next few years – with more and more women’s cooperatives offering autonomy (and added education) to a society that had traditionally been much more male dominated. So, of course, I had to buy some as gifts attaching this story as a postcard.
But I was distracted. My goal was to head higher into the mountains, to cruise into unexplored rivers and back up onto peaks unnamed. Fettah and his ever-smiling-never-speaking driver were both up for the challenge. I drove in silence for a few hours and the idea of tectonic plates colliding and forming these wrinkles on this insignificant little patch of the universe brooded in my head as the hot wind hit my face through the open windows. Morocco, land of avifauna and all day mint tea, had me hexed. The past was speaking to me…and I was wondering how to get my monkey mind to stop so I could hear this wisdom from the earth.
Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, was officially over and the fasting had ended. Villages were celebrating with tagines fat with goat and root vegetables, and mounted by couscous for the masses. As I careened by, from the backseat of the 4x4 I watched women wave and children calling after me with chirpy smiles and dusty palms. These were part of the Berber people, descendants of the pre-Arab people of Northern Africa – with nomadic adventure spirit to prove it. The Berbers, or as Fettah points out “a wide range of ancestry and phenotypes” are also called “Amazighs” or “free-borns” and in 2011 was given full recognition in the new Moroccan constitution of their culture and language.
When I was eventually ready to stop due to classic Daniel hunger and that 40-degree heat thirst, the sun had seemed to halt in the sky and shadows were nowhere to be seen. I sneaked out of the car and darted to the nearest tree, my Nordic roots weren’t exactly made for this heat, and Fettah splashed water on me possibly in fear that I’d overheat. He then chuckled to himself whilst he texted on his iPhone – I’m sure it was funny for him, and the recipient.
Lunch, which the Moroccans like to call second breakfast (after the earlier morning raw yogurt with dates), was served sitting on the floor of a local man’s lovely home - Mohammed was his name and his son commenced the feast with a washing of my hands. The “Maghrebi” tea ceremony, which a 1850s British merchant brought to the country, is an elaborate pouring and measuring of green tea, mint leaves, sugar and a family’s secret combination of herbs. As the silvery pot poured the virescent liquid Mohammed shared a proverb in French:
“The first glass is as gentle as life, the second glass is as strong as love, the third glass is as bitter as death”
Beyond tea, “Khobz” flat bread was served with “amlou” (a blend of toasted almonds, honey and Argan oil) and semolina fried breads, called “Harsha,” dipped in green olive oil from nearby. Mohammed’s home overlooked an old town with the mosque rising with prayers that freed the valleys and hills from its loud speakers. The sound had taken me by surprise; I had forgotten the strong Islamic culture after seeing so many Western-dressed locals (with iPhones) and hearing English all day. Out of respect I remained quiet and mindful as I sat quietly on the woven red and pink mat – contemplating the reverence in this little town high up in the mountains.
I met Mohammed’s family before heading higher up into the hills – a collection of young sons and a daughter – who all wished me well for my journey and offered me a place to sleep should I ever return. Fettah added that Mohammed suggested I bring my husband for a time out vacation – I wasn’t sure how that was ever communicated, or lost in translation, but I left it with a smile and a “shukran.”
I drove further into the mountains, and villages with Berbers were less and less frequent. The waterways, carefully routing the rivers to local’s farms, guided me up and farther away. What I couldn’t stop thinking about, as the terrain became rougher and more remote, is how happy everyone seemed. The less they possessed, the more they were willing to share it with me. The more unpretentious they appeared the more content they seemed to be. The pink dust had finally coated me and I was on my own adventure – after all it’s parlous to question one’s purpose here. Accepting it is much more fruitful.
bravo!