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 Mud-walled houses
Being an inexperienced mountaineer, I hired the services of Marrakech- based mountain tour guide, Tariq Hamoudi. He tailored a trek to suit my level of fitness -- which he tested by asking me to walk up a flight of stairs (and then wisely decided to keep it relatively easy.)
We spent our days trekking across the dry, barren mountains. The views were spectacular, across the endless mountain peaks, down to mud brick villages nestled in the lush, green valleys below. At the end of each day we walked down off the mountains into a Berber village to spend the night in a guesthouse, which consisted of basic rooms attached to the owner's house, with mattresses on the floor, some without electricity or shower facilities.
We spent our evenings relaxing on the terraces drinking mint tea, watching the colours of the mountains change as the sun set, and listening to the sounds of the village, the local mosque’s call to prayer, and women singing as they worked. But most distinctive of these was the sound of children playing -- not with toys, skateboards, computer games or iPods – but with each other -- running, laughing and playing.
I watched women weaving baskets in the shade of walnut trees, washing clothes in the canals, or returning home laden with crops. The men were preparing mud walls to extend their houses, using planks as moulds and mallets to compact the soil. It was fascinating to watch them using such old fashioned, labour intensive practices. Tariq explained that the villages were gradually being connected with electricity and this was a very exciting development, but while I recognised the advantages of this I couldn’t help feeling it was a shame the villages wouldn’t be preserved the way they were.
Our meals included delicious, traditional couscous and tagines, cherries and walnuts fresh from the tree, fresh bread with homemade butter, honey, jams and chocolate spread, and endless cups of mint tea. During one hike, we found ourselves without any food so Tariq knocked on the door of a random house and asked if we could buy some bread. The man of the house invited us in, and his wife served us bread, butter, honey and mint tea. They wouldn't accept any money. Their generosity was very moving.
As the trek continued, I developed an overwhelming desire to stay; to abandon my western lifestyle for the uncomplicated and generous lifestyle of these Berber people hidden away in the mountains.
All too soon the trek was over and within a matter of minutes after walking down off the mountains to a main road, we found ourselves crammed in an overcrowded taxi on our way back to Marrakech. I plan to return one day to tackle Jbel Toubkal, the highest peak in the Atlas Mountains, but in the meantime, I need to work on getting considerably fitter!
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