Mount Toubkal

 Tuesday, March 19

 

There was a great crashing in the night, as the wind blew our windows and our shutters open. I figured out how to latch them, but the banging continued from another room. 

View from my bed in the morning

Coffee!

In the morning, we were supposed to hike up, or part way up, the mountain, but it was so cold and windy, we thought we wouldn’t enjoy it. We cancelled. Then changed our minds when things seemed to settle down and the sun came out. Our mountain guide arrived and three of us — Bettyanne, Vicki, and myself — set out for a five hour hike.  

We filled our water bottles with purified water

The first part was through the village, and it was all stairs. Stairs and stairs and stairs carved out of the hillside. And not just 20-cm, evenly-spaces stairs — these were sometimes up to 50 cm steps, one after another after another. If this was how it was going to be, I thought, I might not make it. 

Post-stairs. There was neither time nor energy to take photos of the steep part.

Donkey being loaded with sand for construction somewhere

This short video gives a sense of the breeze. Turn your sound on.

Fortunately, at the top of the all those stairs, the way flatted out onto a wide gravel valley with a rushing but narrow river coursing through the middle, one we’d have to cross several times to get to the trail. Our guide knew the narrow parts, made sure we had solid stepping stones, and stretched himself like an acrobat to help us across.

We poked our way across the stony river channel, slowly. Several serious climbers barrelled past us, on their way to base camp. Our destination was a shrine, Sidi Chamharouch, about halfway to base camp.

Proof we were there! The second script on the sign is the Amazigh language.

Then the trail began. And the weather: wind, rain, hail. So. Much. Fun! The trail was good, well travelled by mountaineers and, we discovered, pack horses, mules, donkeys. We entered a national park, and had to stop at a checkpoint to show our passports. We heard there’d been a murder up on the mountain a few years ago, two young Scandinavian women beheaded by a trio of Islamic State supporters. We were glad we had a guide, trusted and hired by Mariam.

Remaining upbeat, always

I found the trail tough, not that it was steep, but that it was relentless. I’d thought myself pretty good at hills, with lots of practice on Pender Island, but this was different. Bettyanne trotted on like a she-goat, and Vicki was slow but steady, while I had to stop frequently to catch my breath. I attribute it to the elevation, at 2,300 meters above sea level, because this felt different than a steady climb at sea level. It didn’t help that the wind threatened to blow us off the mountain. The hail didn’t help, either. But I have a stubborn streak (“streak??” my friends would stay), and I powered on, loving it in a sick kind of way.

I later learned that 2,500 meters is the lower threshold for altitude sickness, so I wasn’t imagining the effect of altitude on my ability to climb. Susceptibility has nothing to do with physical fitness, apparently.

Locals do it differently

We passed teams of hikers on their way down, and horses, mainly, carrying supplies. We were passed by strapping young Swedes eagerly approaching their mountain. We met a goatherd and stopped to chat. We passed stands selling juice and bottled water. We came upon a shop selling a moderate assortment of souvenirs: yes, the Trinket Cartel is even here!

Stepping aside for horses

Friendly goatherd

There's no escaping the Trinket Cartel!

Finally, we arrived at a rest station just below the shrine. There was a hut with tables and chairs, of sorts, and piles of mattresses against the wall. Somebody’s meal was cooking on a gas burner. We sat for a bit and rested. We were ignored, as men went about the business of moving supplies. Bettyanne and Vicki visited the loo, and from all reports, this was a good one to miss. They planned to wash their shoes when we got back down, ‘nuff said.

Bettyanne, contemplating the loo. Note mattresses, if you're tempted to stay.

Not laughing at you, Bettyanne, I swear!

Someone's meal

It would have been another five minutes to the shrine, but we declined. We could see the white boulder from where we were, and we would not have been allowed into the shrine itself. Sidi Chamharouch is a sacred pilgrimage site for Muslims, housing the body of a man said to have the gift of healing. We were ready to head back down the way we’d come.

To the valley below

 

Some two hours later, we met up with the rest of our crew, who cheered each of us as we entered the small guesthouse where we were to have lunch. There was tea and popcorn (!) on the table, and we dove in. 

People who climb mountains understand. Athletes understand. Anyone who intentionally puts themselves through trials, no matter the nature of the challenge, understands the satisfaction of accomplishment. We felt great! I asked our guide, as he was leaving, where we ranked on the slowness scale: Slow, very slow, or really slooooooow. He said, no, we were good. Yeah, I bet you say that to all the girls!

View from the tiny guesthouse where we had lunch

We were brought a tagine by the women of the house, ate heartily, then descended to our hotel. We passed many, many hostelries, some basic, some fancy, and that made it clear that what keeps this cluster of villages alive is the mountain and its conquerors. 

There were no conquerors today: the mountain was closed due to high winds. We don’t know if all those bright faces we’d encountered on the trail got to fulfill their dream. 

We arrived at our warm home for a hot shower (showers in Morocco have been wonderful) and a rest. Normally, I would have wanted to explore the village, but I’d had enough, having trekked 12 km already. 

Our abode, Riad Jnane, a welcome sight

Ceiling detail, dining room

 

Second dining room, upstairs

The wind continued to beat at the windows of our room. Just as dusk approached, the power failed. No shock to us Penderites, but I thought we should check on our friends. Sue and Vicki were in the hall, wondering what to do. Sue seemed a bit outraged that she’d asked 40 minutes ago when the power would come back on, and had been told “20 minutes.” We explained that it was out of their control, that if this were like home, it could take hours or days to get power back, but that the hotel people would know how to take care of us — they cook with gas, and they heat with wood. We bundled up in our djellabas and went to sit by the fire in the small dining room. We were brought small electric lanterns that burned with a bright blue light. We dug into dinner, tagine of course.

Dinner by lamplight

Power was restored around 10:30 at night, by what means I have no idea.
 

 

The hike:

 

From Oasis to Mountain

 Wednesday, March 18

Another very long day of driving today. When we were planning to join this tour, I did look at driving times, and I remember several very long days, but I don’t think it registered that almost every driving day would be long. Fortunately, the tour is planned so as not to ever have two six-hour days in a row. In addition, stops are frequent and well-spaced. Nevertheless, it’s exhausting. I’m grateful for the good company of my fellow travellers. We always manage to have good conversation and lots of laughs.

Stars of our own film

Our first stop today was at Ouarzazate, known as the Hollywood of Morocco. We gazed down a long driveway at the studio lot whose main claim to international fame, it seems, is “The Mummy”: the outer gates were flanked by Egyptian motifs. Must see that film!

Entrance to film lot

We continued on, and visited a women’s carpet co-op. Mariam and Wild Women have been careful to find places that are true co-ops. Many storefronts call themselves co-ops, but in fact are not. This establishment, Coopérative du Tapis Akhnif Lglaoui, is where women from the region can bring their carpets to sell, under no duress to produce. There must be thousands of carpets here, in all different styles, from thick knotted pile to fine kilims. These latter were my favourite to look at, but they are so coarse to the touch, I was dissuaded from even considering buying one.

Carpet cooperative

Would you like to buy a thousand carpets?

We watched a woman carding wool, and then spinning it expertly. Another woman was knotting a piled rug, knot by knot. We know hand-knotted rugs are valuable, but watching this woman work, I realized a finished carpet of any size represents years of labour.

 

 

 

Some carpets have designs that tell a story, if you know how to read them. When distances were long and communication difficult, a young woman would make a carpet to send to her mother. The code she wove into it would tell her mother how her marriage was going and if she was happy. The men were not privy to this code.

The best carpets sell for upwards of $6,000 dollars Canadian, but I would think they’d be twice that price in Canada, if such quality can even be found. We were shown carpet after carpet by “Mr. Muscles,” the only man in the place. They’ll ship all over the world. I suppose sometimes people actually buy.

 

Kilims like these are my favourite 

A hefty price tag: about $6000 Canadian

Across the river from the co-op is Ait Ben Haddou, a kasbah which has been designated a Unesco World Heritage site. The kasbah we visited in Merzouga, so well preserved, does not have such a designation, and does not want it and its accompanying commercialization.

Ait Ben Haddou

I would have thought that World Heritage designation would mean preservation of the spirit of a place, but this is certainly not the case here. The whole place is a marketplace for tourists, and it's crawling with them. All the usual crap…er…goods are here: scarves, bags, kaftans, trinkets, fridge magnets, postcards. I’m grateful we’d seen the more authentic version.

Shopping in the Kasbah

 

This man's little paintings were invisible until he held them over a flame. 

 

Synagogue in the kasbah

One must always know how long one's camel will take to get to Timbuktu

My list of must-see movies just grew

From Ouarzazate, we began the climb into the heart of the High Atlas mountains. Roads were excellent, but winding. We stopped for lunch at a mega-eatery, where a tour bus load of people was just finishing up. I’m starting to realize there is a set pattern that all the tours follow, set places to stop, set places to eat. It’s kinda weird. But the bathroom are clean and the food suits the needs of the less-adventurous palate.

The thing about winding roads is that they are motion-sickness inducing; you have to keep your eyes on the road. We were fine: I had my perch above the wheel, as did Bettyanne across the aisle. Sue and Milica were ensconced in the back seat as always, higher than all of us. Vicki seemed to be fine in front of me, without the forward sight line. 

Sporadically along the way, there’d be a bend in the road with a pull-out, and, sure enough, a man with things to sell, the same things that are for sale everywhere. I started thinking about these guys and their make-do roadside shops, all with the same stuff, and I realized there must be a central warehouse somewhere, and maybe someone who runs the goods out to the tourist traps and the bends in the roads. I guess I was thinking out loud, and I started muttering about the “Trinket Cartel,” and the whole bus erupted. That was it! We were on the lookout from then on. I tell you, the Trinket Cartel is everywhere.

The Trinket Cartel by the kasbah

  

The Trinket Cartel by the side of the road

 We came in sight of snowy mountains. We came perilously close to snowy mountains. 

We’ve been cold a lot on this trip, colder than the tour packing list led us to expect. We’d been told the desert gets cold at night, but let me just say the desert was positively balmy at night compared to many of our days in Morocco. We’d had some respite, in the oasis and in the desert and in the valleys by Merzouga. I, for one, was not ready to be back in the cold. But up we climbed, up and up, to emerge in Imlil, a mountain village at the base of Mount Toukbal, the highest mountain in Morocco and the second most popular mountain for climbing in Africa, next to Kilimanjaro. And it was cold.

Imlil was a location for “Seven Years in Tibet.” I bet Brad Pitt was cold, too.

We were let off in the main road of the village and walked the last bit to our abode, the Riad Jnane Imlil. This was a rustic mountain lodging, but beautiful. It was heated by heat pump in the bedrooms and by fire in the common rooms. We were provided with djellabas, which we discovered were wonderfully cosy. I understand, now, why this full-coverage robe is still worn here, even by young men. We ate our tagine fully djellaba’d against what cold there might be.

Welcoming committee, Imlil

 

Imlil from our riad window

 

 

Ride to the Kasbah

 Tuesday March 18


We were met in the morning by a local guide to lead us on a two-hour bike ride through the neighbourhood. The way was rough, with lots of bone-shaking gravel, uneven paths, rutted dried mud. But it sure felt good to ride, a change from all the walking we’d been doing.

 

 

We passed through neighbourhoods broken to rubble by the earthquake of 2023, the one that made the news around the world. The people able to replace their homes abandoned the customary adobe construction of mud and straw, building new houses with concrete bricks. I wonder how this will change the the look of Morocco with its rose-coloured cities and villages.

Putting our feet down on narrow paths with sharp corners to navigate

Our destination was the Ameridhl Kasbah, a privately maintained fortress home once belonging to a wealthy family. Our guide was highly knowledgeable in the history of the place. We saw olive presses and old kitchens (there were four of them); we climbed through the several storeys of the building; we took in the view of both the courtyard with its fountain and the outside, with the remains of the neighbouring Ksar. We learned that a Kasbah is a wealthy fortified home, and a Ksar is a neighbourhood, also protected by walls.

Courtyard

Sitting room

 

One of four kitchens, spread out for security and warmth

Another kitchen

And another

Complex construction

Sign of the Amazigh

This approximates the view depicted on the 50-dirham note, the kasbah as a symbol of Moroccan heritage

We were there!

Traditional olive press

Amal picked us up at the Kasbah -- enough of rough riding! -- to take us back to Sawadi for lunch.

Moroccan salad: finely chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, and a bit of onion, with olive oil and lemon vinegar. Don't eat the flower!

 

A mostly demolished Berber omelet

We were free for the afternoon to hang out at the Ecolodge. We explored the farm, just barely begun to come to life at the end of winter.

 

Olive trees being watered

 

 

The hammam, just behind the lounge chairs

And then, most of us opted to partake in the hammam that was offered there.

Hammams, in their traditional form, are public baths. In times when water was not available in private homes, the hammam was where people washed. The last hammam I experienced was in Istanbul, back in 1972. It was a building many hundreds of years old, with marble interiors where we lounged naked for what seemed like hours, where someone would come along now and then to pour hot water over us. We were scrubbed, by equally naked hammam women, and the skin rolled off in black ribbons. We were gently massaged with scented oil. The guys, I remember, said the massage they got was anything but gentle. They were in the men’s section, of course, nowhere near the women.

The hammam at Sawadi is meant for two people at most. We went individually into the little steam room, where a not-naked woman scoured every inch of our bodies. I started off wearing underwear, but it was evident within the first minute, that that was ridiculous, so there I was, naked. This woman toiled vigorously over me. It seemed like such an act of love, one woman caring for another. And the skin rolled off in ribbons, again. This time, not black; I haven’t been travelling for eight months, like I had been back then, more than fifty years ago. 

We were, all of us who participated, blissed out for dinner. 

Sue’s birthday today! Mariam and Amal used the kitchen (pretty sure that’s what happened; these kitchens seem to be open to outsiders cooking in them) to make a cake, complete with candles. Happy Birthday, Sue!

Not a Moroccan cake, for sure!

 

 Today's ride

 

Relive '03/17/26'