RAMBLING AROUND MOROCCO

by

W. RUTH KOZAK

THE OURIKA VALLEY

It was November, and the rainy season had begun in Morocco. The day before our trekking group arrived at the Ourika Valley in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains, a flash flood had swept down the dry wadi gouging away great chunks of the road and gnawing at the foundations of the mud-build Berber houses that perched precariously along the river bank.

The tour brochure described the trek as ‘moderate’, but that first day, slogging along what was left of the road, slipping and sliding up and down muddy goat trails, I began to doubt my own capabilities and the accuracy of the brochure’s description. These were the back roads of Morocco, not the carefully maintained and manicured forest trails I was used to hiking on in the mountain ranges of the Canadian west coast.

I thought I was in reasonably good shape, but my fellow trekkers were a group of intrepid British ramblers who walked at a speed I would use when hurrying to catch a bus. A tiny 74 year old woman led the way at a racing pace on the mountain trail. Being a travel writer, I wanted to stop long enough to jot down my impressions and soak up the atmosphere, but I was soon left behind by the roadside. There was hardly time for picture taking, let alone scribbling notes. However, in spite of my trepidations that first day, the experience was one not to be missed.

We had started our adventure from the beautiful Royal city of Marrakech, known as the ‘red city’ because of its rose- tinted buildings. Marrakech nestles like a rose-quartz gemstone near the foothills of the snow-capped High Atlas Mountains that hover in the distance. You can trek here with organized groups, as I did, or for $25 a day hire your own guides to take you on the well-trodden routes. If you’re fit and experienced, you can venture into the more rugged areas. The High Atlas is the most challenging trekking range in North Africa and one of few areas in Africa that gets snow. The summit of Djebal Toubkal is North Africa’s highest peak (4167 meters).

The red rose city of Marrakech

We left Marrakech by mini-van at 8.30 in the morning, heading for our first trekking destination, the Ourika Valley. When we arrived at the starting point, we were forced to leave the van and take shelter in an attractive restaurant where waiters dressed in white tunics and red fezes served us hot mint tea. The amazing ‘Berber telegraph’ sprang into action, and soon, the guide we were supposed to meet farther along the road, was notified. Because of the floods, we were told we wouldn’t be able to reach the Seven Cascades waterfalls. Our guide, Absolem, was waiting for us a few kilometers away at the village of Setti Fatma.

We had to walk to the meeting point as the roads were impassable. The trail skirted and often forded the river. We teetered across foot-wide Berber bridges fashioned out of sticks, suspended over the rushing white water. I was grateful for the helping hand of young Abdsel, our guide’s teen-aged brother. The uneven slippery pathways were lined with hedges of cactus pears. Sometimes we had to squeeze behind village houses on trails meant only for goats.

The Berber villages cling to the rocky mountain slopes. In places where the road had washed away the houses overhung the river bed . Berber life is simple but impoverished. Their houses are made of mud and straw bricks built in squares with the doors and windows opening onto an inner courtyard. The people, though poor, are smiling and usually friendly. However, at one fording place, where we crossed the river on stepping stones, some Berber women were scrubbing their laundry on the rocks and one of them threatened to throw stones at us because someone had stopped to take pictures. You soon learn to be innovative and sneaky when taking photos in Morocco. Most Berbers dislike having their pictures taken believing that the camera captures their soul. Even the children will scatter and hide when they see a camera lens pointed at them.

Farther along the river, we stopped in a shady grove to eat our picnic lunch. The hotel had provided each of us with a bag containing cheese, a boiled egg, a boiled potato, sardines, an orange and a small round loaf of freshly baked bread. Out of courtesy we shared our lunches with Absolem and his brother. To a Moroccan, a guest is a gift from Allah and Islamic law says food must be shared with the poor.

A group of small children and women were tending cows by the river. These Berber children live in isolation and their friendliness and curiosity shows when visitors appear. We had been advised not to give money to the children. Usually they will approach, asking for stilo‘s (pens), and our tour guide suggested it was best to give anything like this to the village teacher or an adult for distribution. This discourages begging. I had brought a package of pencils stenciled with Canadian maple leaves. I put the packet on a stone and waited. Soon one of the little boys got brave enough to sidle over . He snatched the packet of pencils and ran back to his friends. I watched as one of the women took the packet and distributed the pencils among the children. The odd thing was, they didn’t seem to know what the pencils were, because they were not sharpened. One little boys sucked his, as though he thought it was a candy.

We made a circle trip up the Ourika Valley, hiking for more than six hours, a total of just over seven kilometers. By the time we arrived back to where we had started, some of the road had been cleared. A van waited for us to take us back to the restaurant where our driver would be waiting. It was a ramshackle vehicle, the cabin gutted, with wooden benches along each side. Our group of fifteen trekkers and the tour leader crammed into the back. The driver, his companion and the Berber guides sat in the front and one other man stood on the back bumper. Amazingly, twenty people were scrunched into a space that was meant for ten. As the van started off down the gravel road, I wondered if we would ever arrive at our destination safely. In places, there was barely enough road left for the van to maneuver by. Although the river wasn’t deep, the banks were steep enough to plunge over. Squeezed in like sardines as we were, I had visions of us all being killed. Miraculously, though, we made it to the end of the road construction safely where our mini-van was waiting to take us back to Marrakech.

Early the next morning, we set off for a visit to the Berber market at the town of Amizmiz. We made our way into the crowded square passing the farmers bringing their mud-covered cows to market. Mule drivers shouted “Barek!“ (look out!). Dozens of animals were tethered in an area just outside the souq, a kind of donkey and mule parking lot. There was even a blacksmith at work shoeing animals while their owners shopped.

We had been warned by our tour guide to beware of back-pack slashers and stow our valuables in a money-belt. Local etiquette must be observed. It isn’t polite for either men or women to wear shorts and women must not bare their shoulders or show cleavage. A girl wearing a mini skirt would be viewed as a prostitute. These same rules apply throughout Morocco. And remember to be innovative and sneaky if you want to capture these colorful scenes on film!

A Moroccan souq is a total sensory experience. The Amizmiz souq is comprised of very small shops and canopied stalls selling fish, meat, poultry, and locally grown fruit and vegetables, sacks of mint tea, nuts and dates. Spices such as saffron, cumin, ginger and cinnamon are displayed in colorful cone-shaped piles. One area of the souq featured clothing and cooking pots and hardware. Weavers and coppersmiths worked their trades, herbalists displayed their variety of naturopathic wares assuring us that their products were guaranteed. You can buy everything from a mixture of cumin and lemon-grass to sooth an upset stomach to chameleon livers for sexual frustration. The smells of mint, spices and baking foods filled the air with a mouth-watering fragrance. There was a cacophony of sounds: goat bells, braying donkeys, merchants calling out their wares and shoppers haggling, coppersmiths and blacksmiths hammering.

Amizmiz souq

On one of the back lanes men can get a shave and haircut while their wives bargain in the market. In another lane a man tended the barbecue coals under a dozen clay tajine pots. These cone-shaped cooking dishes contained chicken or lamb stewed with eggplant, carrots, onions and raisins in savory spices, to be served over steaming plates of couscous. Dinner’s ready when your shopping’s done!

We left the Amizmiz souq and headed up into the mountains on a well-maintained forestry road.

Here the villages are different from those we had visited in the Ourika Valley. Tiered on the mountainside, their ochre clay walls almost make them invisible in the mountain landscape. There are lovely terraced gardens with lemon and olive groves, as the Valley is well irrigated and very green. The road is lined with eucalyptus trees. The mountain slopes are rocky and arid. Lavender and thyme grows among the rocks making the air fragrant. We passed a few shepherd boys and goat herders and in no time had a flock of children following us asking for stilos (pens). When we stopped by the roadside for a picnic, the village children gathered around; they were especially fascinated with my tiny silver salt and pepper shakers and everything I was eating: a boiled egg, sardines, tomato, cheese, orange and a little loaf of bread. But when someone climbed up the hillside and sneakily tried to take a picture of them, they quickly dispersed.

Berber village

Our tour guide suggested we find the village school so we could donate our gift pens and pencils to the teacher. We walked a few more kilometers, but couldn’t find the school. On the way back, we met some of the people walking or riding donkey carts from the market at Amizmiz. They greeted us with smiles and the familiar “Salaam” or “Bonjour.” Most Moroccans speak French as well as their Berber or Arabic dialects.

The drive back to Marrakech is through rolling foothills. Inland, the rock-strewn fields turn into a desert with little vegetation except for patches of irrigated farmland where there are orchards and lots of old olive groves. The villages are walled kasbahs and there are imposing castles owned by wealthy landowners.

The day ended with an amusing experience. Our Moroccan tour organizer, Maria, invited the women in our group to go to a women’s hammam (steam bath). Morocco is a male-dominated, Muslim society. Marriages are arranged, and women live cloistered lives in the confines of their houses. Marriages are arranged, and women don’t go out, unless to market, unaccompanied. On the street they wear colorful djellabas of emerald green, turquoise, jasmine and saffron which are not meant to be symbols of oppression such as the burqa worn by Afghani women. In the large cities, you will see many women in western dress but most wear traditional dress during Ramadan or when in traditional towns. As in most Muslim countries, women wear head scarves, and some the half-veil. Berber women often display tribal tattooed lines on their faces denoting they are married. In this male-dominated, Muslim society, unescorted women may experience verbal abuse so western travelers might expect remarks, whistles, tongue-clicking and other unwanted attention. Violent incidents or attacks are rare. Visitors might consider wearing a head scarf, especially if traveling outside large cities. And remember to dress discretely.

While the public life in Morocco might be dominated by men, the worlds of the house and hammam belong to the women. It is their sanctuary, a place to socialize. In the small towns, the baths are usually in the center of the medina where one fire will serve the bakery and the hammam. Often they are simple affairs, such as the make-shift hut by the roadside I saw in one Berber village: an igloo-shaped structure made of branches covered with reeds and plastic, where a small bonfire in a circle of stones provided the heat and water was thrown over the hot stones and coals to make steam.

We were led down a narrow cobbled back alley on a side street to the hammam. I expected something romantic and luxurious as our tour guide had said hammams provide the full treatment you would receive at a spa. This hammam was in a grotty run-down building with no exotic amenities. Inside a dingy room full of stifling steam, women and children sat on stools in front of faucets and cisterns as they soaped, scrubbed and poured water over themselves from pails made of recycled tires. Being modest, like the other women in my group, I put on my bathing suit. Inside the steam room the Moroccan women were naked, making ministrations to their bodies while they chatted and soaped. Some were plump and soft, others lithe and youthful. None were inhibited about touching themselves in front of others. There was none of the body shame or shyness that often surrounds women in Western cultures where bodies shapes and sizes are compared and women glance about anxiously. I sat on the wet floor modestly and doused myself several times after soaping, then the hostess scrubbed me with a rough loufa to exfoliate my skin. After several more dousings, I was clean as could be and totally relaxed. I wasn’t oiled and massaged as I’d expected to would be, still it was a pleasant way to end another exhausting day of trekking.

Our enchanting old hotel, the Hotel du Foucald, is well situated for sightseeing in Marrakesch’s medina (old town). The hotel is near the famous Djamaa el Fna square with its labyrinth of side streets, hammams, caravanserai and bazaars. The souq is a maze of tiny covered walkways where everything is sold from embroidered saddles for camels, to potions for casting spells. On the bustling streets, donkeys are everywhere, some loaded with produce, others with pottery, some pulling carts heaped with mint for tea. The donkeys wear shoes made from car tires to keep them from sipping on the cobblestones. Weavers and coppersmiths work their trades. Herb doctors assure us their products are better than viagra. You can buy almost any unusual medicine: goat hooves for hair treatment, ground up ferret for depression and I even saw a dried fox head in the shop that sold magic potions.

We visited a spice shop where we were given a lecture and demonstration of herbal medicines and blends of spices including the world’s most expensive spice, saffron. At the carpet-sellers the merchant explained the distinctive patterns of carpets woven in wool and silk. I bought a small rug in the Berber colors of saffron and lapis blue. I call it my ‘magic carpet’ because each time I step on it I am immediately transported back to the souq in Marrakesh.

Watch out for pickpockets in these crowded market areas. Wear a money belt, and never carry a purse on a strap or a backpack which can be sliced open. In the souq, be firm but polite. Haggling is part of the Moroccan experience. Just say “no, merci.”

Marrakesh is a spectacle of exotica. In the Djmaa el Fna snake charmers, musicians, acrobats, water vendors wearing distinctive red suits and wide-brimmed hats and jangling bells, story tellers, ebony-skinned dancers in brightly hued costumes, boys with pet monkeys, and other assorted side-show attractions will entertain you -- for a price. Don’t try to take photos of these colorful entrepeneurs without expecting to pay, and make sure you only pay half of what they ask. No more than five dirham. Once you know your way around and have a feel for the place, it’s fun, and during the day not dangerous to wander on your own.

Snake Charmers

Marrakech is one of Morocco’ imperial cities, a Berber/Arab fortress settlement nine centuries old. Within its 11th century medina is the Koutoubia mosque with its elegant 65-meter high minaret. The golden balls on top are said to be a gift of a Sultan’s wife who melted down her jewelry as an act of penance because she ate three grapes during the Ramadan fast. There are several elaborate palaces such as the El Badi where storks nest on the ramparts, and the Palais el Bahia with its lovely gardens. I visited the Mausoleum of the Saadiens and the 16th century religious school for students who studied at the nearby Mosque of Ben Yussef. The mosaics and cedar carvings in the richly decorated spacious courtyard are a contrast to the sparse, cell-like rooms occupied by the students.

Koranic School

After a morning of touring the historic sites, I took a caliches (horse-drawn carriage) to the Jardin Majorelle in the European quarter. This beautiful garden estate was created in the 1920’s by the French Orientalist painter Jacques Majorelle and is now owned by fashion designer Yves St. Laurent. It’s a tropical paradise of tall cacti and palms set against pink towered buildings and grill-worked gateways. Bougainvillea, hibiscus and flowering potted plants line the cobbled pathways. The colors of the buildings and clay pots are dazzling brilliant blue, turquoise, pink, yellow, and orange, all complimenting the colors of the flowers. Birds twitter in the trees and trellises hung with flowering vines and many

different tropical plants grow in abundance. The artist’s studio has been converted into a small Museum

of Islamic art and displays St. Laurent’s fine collection of North African carpets and furniture as well as Majorelle’s paintings.

Riding in a hired caliches is a perfect way to see around Marrakech. You might also want to hire a certified local guide through the tourist office, usually for around $15 US for a half-day or $25 for a full day escorted tour.

We set off early the next morning for another trek to inspect a higher route along the ravine above the River Ourigane. By the time we’d stopped for lunch my foot was hurting, and the tour guide suggested I return to the starting point of our trek instead of attempting the more difficult climb up into the mountains. I was provided with my own personal guide, Mabourak. Nobody else accepted the invitation to join me, so Mabourak and I set off back down the road with instruction to meet the group at the end of the valley. Mabourak has been a guide for fifteen years and spoke English quite fluently though he has not had any formal education and cannot read or write. Like many Moroccan men, he has a wife and child living in the Sahara who he visits ever two months or so.

Our guides Mabourak and Mohammed

Instead of staying on the road, Mabourak led me down into the valley on the Berber trails.

The countryside is stunning with its shrub-covered knolls and rich sienna-red earth. Mabourak was very well informed about the flora and fauna of the land, and our walk turned into a geology and botany lesson. Minerals abound in the area and we collected agate, flint, hematite and bits of lapis lazuli. He showed me wild garlic, thyme and other herbs and wild flowers. Low bush juniper and quince grow in abundance. In the reforested juniper groves wild boar are hunted. Other animals such as fox, mountain sheep and goats, and jackals roam here. There are many wild birds too, such as eagles, hawks, cuckoos and pheasants.

Ourigane Valley, (hiking with Mabourak)

He pointed out, across the valley, the town of Tourot where there is a Jewish synagogue. The area is a popular destination for Jewish tourists as well as the French, and several luxury resorts in the valley accommodate visitors who wish to explore the area by horseback, go hunting, or just lounge by the swimming pool.

For me, that trek with my guide, Mabourak, was the highlight of my Moroccan adventure. When we reached our destination at the end of the valley, we relaxed in the cafe and sipped cans of ice-cold Moroccan beer as we waited for the rest of the group to arrive. At least one of them had to admit that she wished she’d joined me. I was glad, though, that I’d had that time alone to absorb the beauty of the countryside and get acquainted with one of the locals.

Our week in Morocco was quickly coming to an end. The next day we piled into a small bus and headed west, toward the sea, to the romantic seaside town of Essaouira (pronounced: ess-ow-EE-ra), the former ancient city port of Mogador. The beach of flat, silky sand curves for miles around a sheltered bay where new resort hotels accommodate tourists to this popular resort. The town was once used as a backdrop for Orson Welles’ movie “Othello”. In the ’60’s it was a popular hangout for such notables as Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley. It’s a compact, gorgeous gem of a place, friendly and laid-back. In former times it was a free port for transporting Sahara gold and slave trade and a starting point for pilgrimages to Mecca. The town was built centuries ago by the Portuguese and there is still the remains of a historic fort within the walled town.

After a delicious fish lunch on the quay, a walk on the ramparts gave me a good view of the Atlantic seacoast, with waves crashing on the rocks below. I browsed around the market where there are many artisan shops. The best wood carvers in Morocco are here in Essaouira and the shops sell their exquisitely crafted work made of the lovely mottled thuya wood. The vendors and merchants were polite, not pushy. I stopped at a music shop before heading for the beach, and bought a tape of Berber music. The shopkeeper spoke fluent English and said he had a friend who lived in my home city, Vancouver.

Souq

Down on the beach, a brisk wind was ruffling the surf. I took off my shoes and waded along the flat shoreline. Two camels plodded up the beach, and I was tempted to accept a ride but decided I’d rather save camel riding for a future trip to the Sahara.

There are so many sights to be seen in Marrakech that an eight-day tour is hardly enough. On my last day there I walked down the Avenue Mohammed V to the Arsenal Artiste, the craft market where prices are set and you can make purchases without haggling, while you watch the artisans at work. The King was in town, so the ornate lamp-standards of the avenue displayed the royal banners of green, white and red. You don’t have to fight crowds at the Craft Market like you do in the souq so it’s pleasant to browse among the little shops where you can buy ceramics, woodwork, metal-work, clothing and even musical instruments.

Later I joined some of the group who had opted to go shopping instead of trekking, and we visited the Maison Tiskiwin, a 19th century house that was once the home of a Dutch anthropologist. It now houses a stunning collection of jewelry, clothes, fabrics and carpets and you get a sense of what would be like to live in a Moroccan home. Moroccan houses are windowless, with rooms opening to a sun-lit inner courtyard; the walls hung with woven tapestries and floors paved with lapis and turquoise tiles.

We dined that night in our hotel on a delicious buffet of lamb tajine, salads and honey-drenched desserts. Then it was time to pay one last visit to the Djemaa el Fna. The velvet sky was ablaze with stars. The smoke of barbecues filled the air with the tantalizing aroma of the delicious tidbits sold by the street vendors. I sat upstairs in a restaurant, sipping hot mint tea, with a ringside view of the activities below. Few places are as colorful and exciting as this.

Tea sellers

As I watched darkness envelope the city, I marveled at the things I had experienced: the vibrant, kaleidoscope of colors; the fragrance of spices and mint that permeate the air; the lovely rose hue that enshrouds Marrakech city; the interesting, friendly and gracious people; the souqs and markets, especially the Djmaa el Fna with all its strange sights. For a traveler like me, who seeks the exotic, Morocco did not disappoint me.

THE END

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