This was the phrase repeatedly running through my head. How did I find myself on the back of a mule in the middle of a purple and grey moonscape on a precipitous trail with switchbacks to the sky?
Two days before, Judy and I spent a fun, if unseasonably hot, day in Marrakesh. The train down from Casa passed near Ben Guerir, an American Air Force Base which has an emergency landing runway for the Space Shuttle. I thought the name was interesting, as ben is “son” in Arabic and guerir means “to heal” in French. Although never used, Northern Africa is the first land mass the Shuttle flies over after launching from Cape Canaveral.
Marrakesh already looked different from Casa even as the train approached the city. Casa has more sprawl while Marrakesh is bounded by beautiful new mansions set against the view of the Atlas Mountains. After grabbing a taxi at the train station, the driver was hassled by a policeman before we could leave. He argued his way out of whatever the cop had accused him of, and I wondered why they even try until Judy reminded me that not only do policemen get paid very little, but their superiors demand a certain amount of money from bribes, so there’s pressure to get them.
We first went to the Bahia, a royal palace built mostly during the 1300s. Marrakesh is the oldest imperial city and the former capital until the French united Morocco and put an end to the fighting between north and south, Arabs and Berbers. (An interesting side note is that the Berbers, the indigenous people of Morocco, may have descended from the Jewish race, although their delicate facial structure more resembles Ethiopians, and they have begun to get more vocal against Islam.) For those of you who insisted I buy a digital camera for this trip, you’ll be punished by the number of abstract pictures I took of the arches and ceiling mosaics in the Bahia palace. I also took several great pictures of Moroccans from the rooftop table where Judy and I ate a tagine lunch. This was great since many traditional Moroccans shun being photographed, and I try to not be obvious about it.
After a 40-cent freshly made orange juice in the medina, Judy and I spent the afternoon in the market. I was grateful Judy spoke Arabic, as much as the shopkeepers were surprised, and we were able to get a reduced rate from the usual tourist prices. I bought a great red suede shirt and a wonderful beaded cashmere shawl – each for about $40. We also haggled for a small black purse, one I needed to carry my passport, money, and blog notes. It was imprinted with “Gucci, Italy” and others with D&G or Prada. Assuming they were knock-offs, I bargained down to $8, though Judy later thought they might be real, albeit seconds, since the high-end leather factories are in Marrakesh and elsewhere in Morocco. The market stalls brimming with varieties of nuts, dates, and other dried fruit were irresistible. Judy mentioned that Egyptians and other Africans who visit Marrakesh are awed by the bounty. Walking back to my hotel, we made a wide circumference around the snake charmers in the middle of the square. We’re both extremely squeamish around snakes, and apparently they’ll throw a snake around your shoulders and ask for 50 dh to take it off!
The following morning found me in Imlil, a group of 7 villages which serves as the starting point for the two-day trek up to Toubkal, the third highest mountain in Africa (~14000 feet). Rachid, my guide, showed me my planned 4-day trek in the Middle Atlas Mountains (excluding the summit hike, which I wasn’t prepared for). The first day’s trek was uneventful except for lunch. Ibraham caught up to us with a pack mule, set up a little table (tablecloth included) and chair on a Berber rug on a lookout point over the valley below. He and Rachid spent at least half an hour making lunch while I tried to amuse myself by taking pictures. Finally a gorgeous salad topped with cheese and tuna, rimmed by orange slices, plus a hot plate of meatballs in a fresh tomato-onion sauce, bread, and tea were served – enough for 3 people! Later came a full plate of melon slices which I was too full to touch. Rachid then brought out a 3-inch thick mattress, snuggled it into a rocky outcropping, and said I could take a nap. I didn’t really need a nap but quickly realized they were going to take a nap and there was no reason to hurry in Morocco.
Rachid, in his early 20s I would guess, was quiet and spoke impeccable French and English, while Ibraham was gregarious but didn’t speak French too well. I didn’t participate in much conversation but enjoyed the guides’ banter and even singing in Arabic. We stayed in a modest hotel – maybe more like a hostel – where I had dinner with a Ukranian/Russian couple who now lived in San Francisco. The next morning, however, my stomach was churning, and I asked Rachid to give me another couple hours sleep to see if I’d get better. Finally deciding I might feel better once I got going, we hit the trail – where I got sick 15 minutes later. Rachid offered to take me back to Imlil or alter the route since the day’s hike was quite strenuous. “No, no – I’m fine – a bit weak but feeling better.” I didn’t want to “be a girl” and go back. Resting every 10 minutes or so, Rachid and Ibrahim finally let me fall asleep a bit on a rock outcropping. I was really looking forward to the mattress at lunch!
I continued to get sick, not being able to keep any water down. This is when they decided to put me on the mule. I thought it might be a death wish since the trail was so narrow and mountain so steep, but I didn’t particularly care at that point. Five minutes later, while I was in my “straight from the back of the donkey to an airplane (or at least a bed)” reverie, they pulled me off when the mule stumbled on a loose rock and almost fell backwards over the cliff. Rachid and Ibraham resorted to pulling me by the hand up the trail that stretched on forever. Finally Rachid told me that the peak we were ascending to was the final one and only a descent afterwards (of a few kilometers, though!) to the hostel. Ibraham had already finished the ascent with the mule when he came bounding down the trail again. (These guys navigate the mountains like a casual stroll through the park, and seem to do it with only a glass or two of sweet mint tea a day.) Ibrahim was excited. Good news! There was a transport for me at the top! I asked if it was a Ferrari…. obviously a delirious joke. I thought they’d called Imlil to send a car up, but found out it was a Parisian couple in a rental car who were just curious as to where the road ended. They drove Rachid and me down to the hotel, and after telling them they were my guardian angels, immediately got sick again.
God and I had been having conversations all day, and of course I tried to figure out why did this have to happen to me?? I’ll save the dialogue but realized I’d been a snot the day before. I didn’t like the trail (too easy and accessible by car), didn’t like the 4-star lunch (it made me feel self-consciously snobby), felt insecure at the hostel crowded with groups (everyone already knew each other), and walking in silence with my guides for most of the day. I decided I’d been suffering from a lack of gratitude and a grandiose self-sufficiency. I’d been very well-taken care of and decided to appreciate it and whatever was going to happen.
Of course my new gratitude resolve was tested the next day. Rachid knew the taxi driver who was taking us back to Imlil (I’d conceded that the planned 7-hour trek for the day wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest), and again I listened to them talk animatedly and sing songs in Arabic. On the descent, the driver waved to another passing us, then pulled over. While he talked to the other driver, Rachid and I got out and looked at the gorgeous view: red rock mountains and evergreens surrounding the occasional rectangular buildings of a Berber village. He pointed out the area we were scheduled to walk that day, and I felt sad. It would have been beautiful. Again, why did this have to happen to me?? But it was done and I had to trust it was meant to be. We stood looking at the view for quite some time, and I finally asked about our driver who was still talking to the other. “Oh, they’re friends and haven’t seen each other in a long time” replied Rachid. I wondered what “a long time” meant. Probably much shorter than my culture would consider.
Back in Imlil, there was no room in the Toubkal Kasbah, the four-star hotel that arranged my trek. They could put me in an annex a little way down the path into Imlil and I would still take my meals at the Kasbah, but again, I was fighting my disappointment. Rachid delivered me to the terrace for a 4-course hot lunch, of which I could only eat a few bites of each large dish. I felt self-conscious again, eating alone amid tables full of tourists, having such superb food and accommodations while looking up at Toubkal, over at Ibraham’s little Berber village perched on the mountain opposite, and down upon women and girls reaping in the fields with the collected harvest packed on their backs.
My pink room, however, was wonderful. I think I was the only guest in the 3-story annex, so it was very quiet, and I had a full bathroom, which was so nice after being sick. I opened the two big shaded windows wide to listen to the constant rushing water in the irrigation ditch outside, then changed into the warm green jallaba (provided to wear like a robe), and crawled into bed.
Rachid and I met later that afternoon for a little walk around Imlil. On the way out, we ran into Ibraham, just returning with the mule from my shortened trek. He invited us to his house later, and I was so excited and honored! After the walk, I asked Rachid if we could stop back at my hotel since I had nuts, dates, and figs that I’d brought from Marrakesh for the trek but never ate. It made me happy that I could bring gifts to Ibrahim’s family. They laid out a wonderful Berber rug and pillows on the terrace high above the valley and under Toubkal. Ibraham and his wife have two young children and also live with his brother who has two. Being very shy at first, the children laughed at me trying to recite the Arabic numbers from 1 to 10. Then I pulled out my camera and found the secret to getting pictures of children: take one, then show them the digital picture. Suddenly they’re so excited to pose and even take the camera to make their own documentation! Ibraham’s wife served us soup, walnuts, bread with walnut oil, tea, and coffee – a perfect little meal for me. Later, Rachid invited me to visit his family’s house in another village, about 10 minutes away.
I finally asked Rachid a little about himself: he isn’t married – not yet! (seems to be every Moroccan’s response to an unmarried person), has 4 brothers (2 in Marrakesh, one in Holland, and one with whom he lives) and one sister (married to the proprietor of a nearby restaurant where we had tea). He attended the university in Marrakesh while living with his brothers. Though the uni is free, the associated living costs are difficult for most Moroccans to pay, so Rachid had an advantage because of his brothers. He began learning French in the Imlil primary school (from ages 6 to 12), then continued at the university. As for English, he learned in the cafes by speaking with English-speaking tourists. His job as a guide fits him well. He does a trek for 2-8 days, then hangs out at home in Imlil for several days. He’d just returned from two weeks with friends in Agadir, a great surfing beach on the Atlantic. He’s climbed Toubkal many, many times – even skis down it. He told me that you have to pack your skis on the final ascent, which is 3-4 hours, then ski down in 20 minutes! I figured it’s best not to fall or that time would reduce to 10. At Rachid’s house, I conversed in French with his brother’s family and practiced my Arabic with his niece. His mother and father live in the family’s original Berber house two minutes away. The lower levels of the old house are now used to keep the family’s livestock: sheep, cows, and a mule, but his parents still live in the top level since they’ve lived there all their lives. Meals, however, are shared at their children’s home. Although I’d given away all my gifts to Ibraham’s children and nephews, Rachid’s mother insisted I take a generous bag of shelled walnuts, one of the family’s means of income.
The following morning marked my last in Imlil, so Rachid and I planned a half-day trek. He was unusually quiet and finally told me a woman from the village next to his had passed away the previous night. He didn’t want to change the day’s plans, but as we hiked up, we met many dressed-up women on mules led by the men. Only the women’s headscarves were black. They were coming down from other villages for the funeral, which we could see in the distance. I was surprised that it was held so soon after the woman’s death, but shouldn’t have been. Word travels quickly in the villages (aided now by many who have cell phones), and burying the body right away is probably a prudent health measure.
After a 3-hour Arabic lesson during the hike up the mountain towards Toubkal, Rachid and I stopped at a gorgeous waterfall for lunch. Eating the lunch packed by the hotel and watching some lambs come drink by the water was followed by a nap on the warm rocks, both of us being lulled asleep by the sound of the rushing water. I think we’d have stayed all afternoon if I wasn’t on a schedule.
Leaving Imlil with my new driver, Driss, I felt sad. I missed Rachid and Ibraham, the quiet life they lived among their extended relatives encompassing Imlil, and the beauty and freedom of the mountains. Realizing that my experience there came only after the plans were changed because I was sick, my heart filled with gratitude and appreciation. Now I could see that in order to get my attention, God frequently needs to put this stubborn girl on the back of a mule in a desert with a precipitous drop to one side and switchbacks up to heaven.
In this vein of appreciation, I’d also like to thank two good friends who enthusiastically encouraged me to take this long, big trip: Julie and Judy (in her memory). I am grateful to both of you.
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| Imlil Trek in Morocco |
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