Three naked masseuses, cannabis by the ton and a date with wild Berbers
Wendy Driver was set for wholesome hiking through the Rif Mountains with British pensioners. Then everybody started stripping...
IT HAS to be the strangest beauty treatment ever. I am lying virtually naked on the heated floor of the hammam along with two comparative strangers. To my astonishment, our three buxom masseuses have also shed their clothes and are scrubbing us all over before plastering us with what looks like axle grease.
Laughing and gossiping, they pour buckets of water over us, sloshing it everywhere until the whole hammam is awash. No wonder they have stripped off as we are all totally drenched. It’s certainly a novel way of getting to know some of my fellow travellers at the start of a walking tour of North Morocco.
I have joined a group of a dozen keen hikers. All are super-fit considering nearly everyone is over 70. Our leader, Hughie, with a shock of red hair and oodles of charm, is less than half their age. An Iraqi war veteran, he has planned the holiday with military precision, combining day hikes with visits to ancient sites and private lunches in Moroccan homes.
He turns out to be the perfect host and we feel like cosseted guests at a private house party. Nothing is too much trouble. He offers to carry our backpacks if we’re feeling weary and takes over the hotel kitchen to prepare our fresh fruit salad for breakfast.
Our walks take us through the rolling foothills of the Rif Mountains and across meadows carpeted with wild camomile and African marigold. We scramble up stony tracks below snow-covered crags and slither down muddy trails in the pine forests with only herds of goats for company. We travel light, carrying just our daysacks while our luggage is transported from one hotel to the next.
The first morning we set off from the walled city of Chefchaouen, nestling beneath the twin peaks of Jebel Al Kalaa and Tisouka. Hughie leads the way, accompanied by our local guide, Abdel Salaam. A little donkey brings up the rear carrying our emergency rations and other secret goodies. ‘He is called Sarkozy,’ his owner tells me. ‘Because he is small and likes the ladies.’
After a steep climb up banks of yellow broom, we pause for a short break in the shade of cork oaks. Hughie rummages in the panniers to produce fresh lemonade and home-made gingerbread, then grabs a bottle of sherry smuggled in from Spain. ‘This will set you up for the next leg,’ he explains to one lady who is finding the heat daunting.
It is early April but already the temperature has soared to a sweltering 32C. Catching my breath I gaze out over the surrounding hills. Everywhere I look are freshly ploughed fields recently sown with cannabis, the main source of revenue in the region. Chefchaouen, our base during three days of trekking in the region, is a major centre for drug-trafficking although I never feel threatened as I wander through the picturesque medina. Its winding passageways are all painted powder blue as a sign of welcome.
A series of steep steps leads down to a traditional riad, the Dar Baibou. Its pretty tiled courtyards have comfy sofas where we can relax over a mint tea, and the bedrooms have hand-painted arched doorways and stained-glass windows.
Hughie certainly has the knack of finding the perfect location to stay. When we get to Fez, our hotel, the Riad Salam, is a sumptuous merchant’s house just a few minutes’ walk from the city’s colossal medina, which dates from the Middle Ages.
As soon as I pass through one of the main gates I am lost in a chaotic maze of narrow, noisy, crowded alleyways. It is just as well Abdel knows the way. Locals and tourists jostle each other for space as they barter and haggle with stallholders.
The constant warning cry of ‘Balak! Balak!’ (‘Watch your back!’) reverberates. We dive into doorways and squeeze against stalls to avoid being crushed by donkeys and men pushing carts piled high with bread, fruit and vegetables.
At the entrance to the ancient tanneries I am given a sprig of mint to hold to my nose to disguise the stench of rancid meat. Little has changed over the centuries. Men still clamber inside the honeycomb of vats filled with brilliant red and yellow dye. They are practically submerged as they trample the hides which are laid out to dry in the sun.
Next day, with the freak heatwave still raging, we decide to abandon our morning’s hike and drive directly to our next destination. On the way we come across a spectacular spring festival taking place along the roadside.
Hundreds of Berber tribesmen dressed in flowing robes and turbans are competing in horsemanship trials. We join throngs of spectators to watch the teams riding in unison at full gallop, brandishing silver and brass muskets and leaving a cloud of red dust in their wake. It is an impressive sight with the Arab stallions decked out in ornate gold and brocade saddlery. ‘You have been very lucky,’ Abdel tells me. ‘It only
happens once a year and this is the first time I have ever seen it.’
Our last walk begins in the holy city of Moulay Idriss, named after the 8th Century founder of Islam in Morocco and now a place of pilgrimage. We soon join an old Roman road, its massive paving stones leading through the olive groves to the edge of a steep escarpment. Far below, in the middle of a vast plain, lie the weathered remains of Volubilis, once a major outpost of the Roman Empire. The pillars and arches stand proud among the cypress trees. Its fortifications once stretched for miles, but less than half the city has been excavated.
Storks nest on top of the Doric columns and wild flowers grow out of the crumbling walls, but the intricate mosaic floors are still intact, depicting brightly coloured animals, birds and mythological figures.
On our final day, Hughie has arranged a special farewell lunch in a beautiful organic garden. The Jardins de Zineb are an idyllic oasis of vines, vegetable plots and orchards created out of the barren landscape.
Zineb greets us personally, leading us to an open-sided Bedouin tent in the midst of an orange grove. We feast on her home-grown salads and vegetable tagine, delicately flavoured with lemon, cinnamon and cumin.
Afterwards I lie in a hammock listening to the hum of cicadas and sipping my last glass of mint tea.
I promise myself I’ll be back, if only for another massage in the hammam.