Walking boots on I was ready to go to the mountains. I went to the bus station (a lay-by) and was welcomed with a shout of “Imlil?” to which I nodded and was ushered onto the full minibus. Well that was easy I thought, as I munched on some nuts provided by the lady squeezed next to me. Of course it wasn’t actually that easy, and after changing into three more vehicles I eventually reached Imlil, it taking 3.5 hours to do the 1.5 hour journey. On arriving a man scooped me up and offered a good price for a room and board. I said I would see the place and then decide, sitting and drinking tea with him as we waited for the tourists he was there for. On the journey I had thought about the contrast of this trip where I had only socialised with locals, compared to time spent in hostels and with other travellers. Whilst I loved the latter and it was very fun, I wasn’t wanting that on this trip. I didn’t want to talk about myself or my life or my travels. I only wanted to learn about Morocco and the people from here. Naturally, this meant that when the taxi arrived with the other tourists they were four, british travellers. I enjoyed chatting to them in the evening anyway, but took care to keep my distance. After seeing the lovely terrace with a view down the valley and the surrounding mountains, and seeing the room was private with an ensuite, I agreed to stay. After drinking thyme tea in the sun I went to find the nearby waterfall, dancing along the mountain-side path. The waterfall was odd, quite small and squished with a drink stall / cafe. I ate a Moroccan salad here and the man filmed a piece of cinematic genius, directing me to stand in different positions as he panned around. He showed me how to make the delicious harissa served on my salad, and gave me a handful of olives for free. The brits from the guesthouse appeared and I walked with them back to the village, where I bought some nuts and argon oil. We ate dinner together in the guesthouse. There was a bowl of harira to start, but not the sort I’d had in Marrakech, this one was a white, lumpy, tasteless liquid. I put this to one side and moved swiftly on to the warm bread and chicken tagine. We ate tasty oranges for dessert. I decided I would do a long hike in the morning, a two day hike in a single day. I organised this with the guesthouse owner and went up to the terrace to take in the stars, which were remarkable. I sighed about how much I missed the stars living in London, where it never even got completely dark. There were small fires in the valley and I imagined the people sat closely around them for warmth. It was very cold. In my little room, as I put a clean tshirt over the grubby pillowcase and changed into leggings to avoid touching the ancient blankets, I realised that I didn’t really fancy this style of travelling right now. It’s hard to remember that I’m not on a shoestring budget anymore and I can, in fact, stay in relatively nice places and not the absolute cheapest ones! I slept awfully in the cold room and was happy for the morning.
After eating breakfast, a little before 8, I set off with Mouhad my guide who looked about 17 but assured me he was 20. Day hadn’t yet broken but it was not completely dark. From the guesthouse we ascended. With each pause I looked back to the town and saw the sky become brighter and more pink. It was beautiful. And so very quiet. Only the occasional bird noise broke the air. After 1.5 hours of climbing we reached the top of Tassgimout, and descended the other side to the village of Tizi Oussem. Mouhad and I talked as we hiked. In the mountains, people were either arabic or Berber. Berber people are native to Morocco and there are different groups in different areas, with different dialects of Berber language and different traditions. In Imlil, the people were High Atlas Berbers. Mouhad felt very strongly about his religion and told me how important the five daily prayers were and how ramadan gave him energy for the year. The first cup of tea is always poured back into the teapot to mix the sugar. It’s normal for girls in the mountains to have a baby at 16 or 17 and to marry earlier. He speaks Berber and arabic fluently, but cannot read the Berber script as it wasn’t taught in school (but it is now). When he messages in Berber he writes it in french. We reached the town of Tizi Oussem, which was the home of Mouhad’s mother, and were immediately stopped by an aunt of his to have breakfast. The home was very simple and like those in Tajikistan, with a strange tiled floor, bare concrete walls and lots of rugs and blankets. We were, to my horror, served huge bowls of the white, gloupy harira. I knew I had to finish it so set about trying to gulp it down. I asked Mouhad what it was - flour and water. The tastelessness made sense. Next came thyme tea and bread served with the most fragrant homemade olive oil, and then doughnut like balls. Completely stuffed (this being my second breakfast after all) we said we’d take the remaining two doughnuts with us. In coming to pack them up, two more were snuck in by the aunt. Continuing through the village was quite the experience. Everyone stopped to shake our hands and say hello, and every lady (who were more numerous than the men, unlike in Marrakech) insisted we eat breakfast with them. Our excuse that we’d already eaten two breakfasts didn’t faze them at all, and it was only with much back and forth and patting of our full bellies that they relented and let us continue on. We could’ve eaten 6 or 7 more breakfasts if we’d wanted to! The generosity was incredible. We saw women making bread in tandoor like ovens, and leading sheep on leads like Little Bo Beep. Many of the houses were damaged from the recent earthquake and these families were staying in tents or containers. I commented on how it was strange that only some of the houses had been damaged and not all, Mouhad corrected me with “not some, lots” and I apologetically agreed.
After passing through a second village we left the track and ascended once again, this time through juniper bushes. High in the hills was a football pitch which I found very funny, as it was in no way flat. At the top we paused for a snack and I enjoyed the silence. A shepherd appeared and Mouhad spoke with him before giving him the uneaten lunch food - oranges, sardines and cheese. I remembered the doughnuts in my bag and handed these over. The man thanked us and continued along the hill. As the afternoon continued we listened to Berber mountain music and Mouhad taught me some dance moves to go with my new Berber words. All too soon Imlil appeared beneath us and we descended back into the town and to the guesthouse. I thanked and paid Mouhad, sending him all the photos I had taken for his instagram. I drank tea and considered my next moves as my feet rested.
I realised my assumption that Imlil was on the way to the Sahara was incorrect, although it was geographically the roads and mountains meant the best way to go further south was actually to go back north to Marrakech. As lovely as the mountains were, it was too cold and I felt satisfied after my long hike. The desert called me instead. And so I decided to try and get back to Marrakech that evening, so I could head to the desert the following morning. I rushed to the taxi point without showering, dirty and weary but excited now I’d settled on my plan. Seeing a full taxi I asked “Marrakech?” and got the reply of “Marrakech, but full” and watched the taxi drive away. Ah well, you can’t win them all. I dropped my bags and ate an orange, spitting the pips down to the dried river bed. I played catch with my orange peel, entertaining the taxi drivers by throwing it higher and higher. I pulled my High Atlas hat on as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, bought the previous day on the way to the waterfall. I wasn’t worried about what was going to happen, either I’d get a shared taxi to Marrakech tonight or I wouldn’t and I’d stay in Imlil another night, but in a nicer guesthouse. Some old men showed me the bracelets in their rucksacks and I bought a copper bangle from them. I tried hitchhiking with abysmal success. On seeing a minibus pull around the corner I asked the taxi drivers if this was going to Marrakech, they said yes but it was a tourist bus. I exclaimed “but I am a tourist!” to their amusement, and raced to stretch out my thumb. The bus didn’t stop. After 45 minutes of this I think the taxi driver just felt sorry for me so, with four men wanting to go Asni, he said to climb in and he would take me to Marrakech. I didn’t believe him at first, which made him smile, but he assured me he would. Feeling very pleased I sat in the front and watched the sun set a second time, as we left the valley and mountains behind.
On reaching Marrakech, I went to the closest restaurant and ordered harira (the nice version) and used their wifi to find somewhere to stay. I set out for my chosen Riad but no one answered the door. Feeling slightly concerned, it being almost 10pm and having nowhere to stay, wandering the streets of Marrakech, I went to another nearby Riad. Again, no answer. I turned to leave, feeling even more concerned, when a man appeared along the street and ran over to let me in. Checked in I showered in the very excellent shower and collapsed into bed.
A brief but pleasant visit to the mountains. Not the most amazing mountains I’ve ever seen, but the Berber people were incredible and I enjoyed this experience a lot.