Trekking in the High Atlas by Mark Davidson
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As the false teeth stared out at me, I knew the thought of going to the dentist would never be the same again. I'd been perusing bric-a-brac in the Djemaa El Fna, the main market place in Marrakesh. In existence for more than 700 years, in its time it has sold everything from dentures to douara; a casserole of marinated lamb's tripe, liver and heart. Bewitched by the hypnotic atmosphere, I watched in a trance as snakes rose from woven baskets and story tellers regaled me with tales from the Arabian Nights. A stark contrast to the arduous trek I’d undertake in the Atlas Mountains for the next few days.
Next morning I was up early for one of those hideous ‘before dawn’ starts that signal the end of contact with Western civilisation. After loading my bags onto the bus, I was driven to the tiny hamlet of Imlil. The hustle and bustle that greeted me made me feel like I was the first tourist that they had ever met, yet I could hardly begrudge them the opportunity to sell their wares.
Preparation in Imlil
More to the point, I now had the chance to meet my new friends; a pack of mules who were to carry all the equipment and luggage required for my trek through the mountains. I was led by the chief guide, Mohamed, ably supported by our cook, Hassan, who soon demonstrated his ability to perform miracles with only the bare essentials. After a little sustenance of Turkish coffee, I donned my boots and headed off along a mule track to the Berber village of Aremd. It was immediately apparent that the mules had an unlimited supply of energy as they weaved their way with metronomic regularity along each path.
The Berber people we passed wore a colourful mix of clothes as I greeted them for the first of many occasions on my trek. Representing 80% of the population they live a simple lifestyle, meagre by Western standards, and yet self-contained with a happiness that would be hard to match. Children played with a carefree abandon contrasting sharply with the addictive modern electronic playthings so beloved of kids back home.
At night I slept in a light sleeping bag on bare floors usually in flat-roofed houses, made of stone reinforced with dried mud; a simple, yet satisfying, harmony with nature. The food was delicious, purchased locally, and always well prepared in traditional Berber style; tajine stews and couscous. It was with a satisfying sense of serenity that I would sit outside with a freshly-cooked meal watching the Berbers harvest their land as they have done for so many centuries.
Onwards Through Treacherous Paths
I needed the aid of a trekking pole to help me traverse the steep slopes consisting mainly of scree. Yet despite the treacherous nature of many of the tracks and pathways, I managed to find a rhythm that enabled me to get up and down with a fair amount of ease despite many of the paths being on the edge of a precipice.
My aim was to explore the mountains via a series of treks at an average altitude of 2,500 metres, spending each night in a different location. But to safely reach each destination every evening, there was the small matter, of traversing cols every day. Not being used to the harsh conditions it left me breathless, but being in a group our strong sense of camaraderie helped to keep each other going. Following in the footsteps of those in front, it felt as if I was being led in some form of hypnotic trance.
As the tracks got higher and the air thinner, I felt I had little time to admire the bare scenery around me. Each day I set off before the mules and would try and work out at what point I would be passed by our 'friends' and where I could check on my luggage. They would often walk unattended, oblivious to the surroundings around them. The muleteers, owners of the animals, had respect for them and the knowledge that a well-cared-for beast earns them money.
Despite the terrain often looking similar to a lunar landscape, I walked through a juniper forest one day and had lunch by a river before making my way to the village of Amskere. That evening I was entertained by a traditional Berber dance. I was told they maintain very strict rituals. The dances, regardless of purpose, follow an astrological calendar. There is a propitious dance for each day and food is cooked and given to the appropriate spirit before the dance has ended.
Ski Resorts in the Moroccan Atlas
As the days passed, I encountered a number of different villages, including the ski resort of Oukaimeden where Moroccans come to enjoy the winter sunshine. It was a shame that during the summer months, when we visited, the chair lifts were closed as I would have liked to have taken a ride to the top of the nearby peaks. As it was, I dragged myself to the top on foot. No rest for the wicked!
Having a certain amount of trepidation on the morning I set out, I knew I would have a sense of failure if I didn't reach the top. Passing the snow line, my breathing became harder as the air became thinner, a clear indication of how cold it had become. I even attempted to have a snowball fight with some other members of the group trekking with me. At altitude this really required effort. As I went higher my pace became slower and it was a case of watching my footsteps, slowly, one foot in front of another, concentrating on reaching the top. No one spoke. The preoccupation for self preservation became paramount.
On reaching my goal the relief was palpable. A shake of the hands all round and as I viewed my surroundings from the summit, I was aware of a simple, but profound truth. Although the people who live in this part of the world may not have the technological advantages we enjoy in the West, they have instead something far more important which we ignore at our peril; A simple, but beautiful lifestyle.