Unearth real Morocco
JANE MEMMLER takes a hike to traditional Berber villages in the beautiful High Atlas Mountains
THE early morning sun casts a languid haze, bouncing off the rich terracotta-hued mountains. Delicate plumes of smoke swirl out of chimneys gently heating the brick hammams in readiness for the Berbers’ weekly deep cleanse.
Gulls, reminiscent of a scene from Hitchcock thriller The Birds, swoop over the flat roofs before soaring back into the deep blue heavens.The whinnying and hee-hawing of the mountain’s most trusty steeds, the mule, echo off the valley’s barren walls, as does the hypnotic muezzin slowly reaching his haunting crescendo as he calls the faithful to prayer.
Life is simple and raw up here in Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains. Clusters of rudimentary, dusty villages cling to steep jagged hillsides, watched over by towering minarets. Accessing them is challenging. The only way in, and out, is via narrow rocky paths. It’s a place no delivery van could traverse, let alone building machinery.
The Berbers have long resided in this harsh environment. It’s not just the climate, their way of life is devoid of the modern trappings we take for granted in the west.
There’s no entertainment, no cinemas, no cafes, no shops.You may stumble across a restaurant in a family-run hotel but most are content just tending their animals and farmland.
In summer it’s glorious and busy with seasonal hikers. Come winter, the temperature plummets and the mountains are dusted with snow.
Imlil province encompasses seven small villages, with Armad being the largest (pop. 1,300).At 1,740 metres above sea level, the air is much clearer and infinitely cooler than bustling Marrakech, an hour’s drive away. I’m exploring some of them with Rachid, a guide from nearbyAshane.We meet in Imlil, the area’s “capital” where streets are lined with shops selling honey, terracotta tagine pots, and baskets adorned with large pom-poms. On the town’s bridge, wiry old men tout for mule trek business while their charges, swathed in colourful rugs, stand by patiently.
It’s also the starting point for the hardier tourists making the pilgrimage up Africa’s secondhighest mountain, Toubkal, as the proliferation of hiking gear shops attest. This landscape is biblical,
with jagged peaks of red clay – their sides shrouded in walnut and apple trees offering respite from the heat.
Rachid knows this terrain, and its people, like the back of his hand. Confident steps over rocks and down ravines show his impeccable guiding pedigree, a result of two years travelling the entire country studying with the guiding school.
Occasionally we meet a porter, leading mules laden with luggage and cooking equipment en route to setting up camp for hikers who pace their hike to the summit.
In tiny villages children played football on the flat rooftops while women in brightly coloured skirts and headscarves swept what dust they could, attempting to clear the ever-present dirt from doorsteps.
We stopped at Rachid’s house for mint tea and biscuits. Passing through a courtyard, home to ducks and rabbits, his charming children and beautiful wife welcomed me like an old friend.The clean, simple home was unadorned save for the elaborate flock-pattern cushions and rugs. I spent a happy and humbling half-hour gleaning a rare insight into the life of a Berber.
By 2,000 metres the sights, and sounds, were overwhelming. It was almost unfathomable to think the pulsating, chaotic city of Marrakech was merely an hour away.
But I’d not come to Morocco just to try to understand more about the lives of Berbers, I also wanted to experience Sir Richard Branson’s Moroccan retreat Kasbah Tamadot. In 1998, when he was here at the start of his challenge to circumnavigate the globe in a hot air balloon, Branson’s mother Eve spotted the property during a foray into the hills – and she persuaded him to buy it. He agreed on the proviso she would help the local Berber communities... and so the Eve Branson Foundation was formed.
There’s something special about this incredible, remote property at the foothills of the Atlas mountains. Start with the name. Tamadot means soft breeze. Behind its imposing walls lies an extraordinary oasis.
Graduated towers, rooftop terraces, hidden courtyards and gardens of roses and mini orchards where peacocks roam. There are just 12 rooms, including six palatial suites, and superb African tents with vast bathrooms and their own Jacuzzi in a private garden.All are stunning, with traditional Berber touches such as linens and bathmats made by the local women. Meals are served alfresco, on the roof or overlooking the pool and terraced lawns, watching a rose pink sunset. And all the entertainment you need is on hand. Try breadmaking lessons given by two charming Berber ladies; hands-on tagine courses held in the minuscule kitchen, and plenty of sports from tennis and table tennis or simply chill by the glorious pool. However, that would mean missing out on learning more about this intriguing community. At nearby Tansghart Craft Centre, set up by the foundation, local women learn traditional crafts such as embroidery. It’s humbling to spend time with these happy ladies who take great pride in their work. Next door, the Tamgounssi Weaving Centre produces stunning rugs on traditional looms.
Eve is clearly a much-loved figure here and her photo hangs proudly in the workshops.You can understand why.The foundation has organised rubbish collections and set up a
Motherhouse (maternity hospital) in Asni, a quiet, clean refuge to enable women from villages to give birth in a secure surroundings.
At the weekly Asni market the rural community catch up on gossip. For visitors, it’s a joyful assault on the senses and offers a glimpse into Morocco’s soul. Wafts of mint and sizzling kebabs fill the air. Traders lead mules through a medley of stalls. Farmers tout just-ripe fruit and veg from rickety tables, while baskets bursting with fluorescent spices, sticky dates and biscuits, sit among barbers wielding long blades giving wet shaves.
I’ve found the real Morocco, far removed from the western world.