A trek in The Anti-Atlas Mountains of southern Morocco my 4th trek for Macmillan Caner Support, 2004

If the pacific is a pearl then, Morocco is a jewel. The mountains of the Anti Atlas lie deep within the country, like majestic castle ruins appointed to dominate the Western Sahara. The days are short, hot and dusty and nights are as opposite as it is possible, being cold, crisp and clear.

Having spent some months recuperating from my little fracas  with my anatomy and being told first that I would not be able to join Macmillan in the spring on Mt Kenya due to the altitude and then later, that they were now not putting the trek on after all.  Although disappointed, I was somewhat relieved.  Wondering how to direct my energies next, thoughts lead around to the concept of an Africa that was perhaps a little nearer and somewhat lower.  Morocco found its way into my dreams and I thought of a new way of continuing both with my enthusiasm for trekking and my desire to extend my fund raising for Macmillan.

As I was unable to register for another trek with Macmillan that year (their only treks taking place at high altitude), I decided to trek with a commercial company and fund raise for Macmillan independently.

Not familiar with the differences of the many trekking companies vying for business, I spent a great deal of time looking for a suitable trek. I also went up to London to the travel show at Earls court and spoke with representatives of the various companies.  Exodus, a friendly and reasonably priced outdoor specialist, had the perfect location and dates over spring half term, in February.  The trek in the lower, remote Anti-Atlas Mountains of southern Morocco was a circular one and didn't go above 2500m.

I had by now participated in three treks for Macmillan and felt suitably able to offer local groups a talk both about Macmillan’s work and a presentation of my various walks. There was a good take up and they were eagerly anticipated by members of local societies. I personally was a little anxious but thought I would be up for it like everything else I had overcome so far.  The first of these talks was to be at a tiny village church hall in the middle of the East Dorset countryside. It being February and the weather very cold, it wasn't surprising that there was a sudden snow storm, complete with thunder and lightening that afternoon.  We tried to reach the hall, but very soon came across the first obstacle, a jack- knifed lorry. The snow continued to fall steadily and when we finally reached the hall the evening had been postponed due to the weather.  All my tummy squirms had been for nothing!

As it was still very much winter, I had spent most evenings walking around the entire perimeter of the small town of Verwood.  It was cold and crispy and very dark. You wouldn't believe how much wildlife you discover at night, and it doesn't even have to be that late or rural.  There were plenty of sittings of foxes and badgers, night skies full of twinkling stars and roads that I never knew existed.

This time there was no meeting up at Heathrow to collect our tickets and chatting to each other in the queue at passport control. I quickly made note of similarly dressed travellers or those with either large blue Exodus bags or luggage labels to later make conversation with as they stocked up on a paperback in WH Smiths. Then came the thing that you never want to hear when travelling aboard: the plane still hadn't left Morocco, which was five hours flying time away. It was a good job I had an exciting book with me.  My travels have taught me to never expect everything to go perfectly and your travel experiences will be both interesting and calm. 

Now that we were five hours late, would the connecting flight wait for us?  Probably not. I had by now sussed out a few likely individuals to make contact with. Some of them turned out to be taking part in a cycle riding experience on the southern side of the High Atlas, while others were joining me on the trek. The flight was a most interesting one, chatting to a Moroccan Frenchman would was a buyer for a High end British food retailer. Arriving in Casablanca late that night we learnt that out of five connecting flights ours was the only one that had left without us. So here I was at one in the morning tying to learn where I was expected to spend the night. My French Knight in shining armour helped to lead me through the various Moroccan airport technicalities and we were whisked away to a very exotic looking hotel. Unfortunately arriving in my room I slipped upon the water soaked floor and then realised that the beds had also been stripped and left in a dishevelled state.  Well, it was late and I at least had my sleeping bag so I snuggled up on the bed, while water continued to drip down the walls and left for the airport with our bags once again.

Well, it was here that we all had a laugh. Entering the aeroplane with our large bags buffeting their way up the white metal steeps we meet a panicking air hostess. Yet again the Frenchman came to our rescue, and led us back outside and to the back of the plane where some extremely surprised    luggage handlers watched us with opened mouths as we loaded our own bags. And yes they did all arrive safely!

At Agadir on the north western coast we purchased visas and changed money before meeting up with the trip leader and making our way inland to Tarourdant for lunch. Tarourdant is one of those simple surprises, rich in tradition and beautifully Moroccan. It is located in the Sous valley, south of Marrakech and is known as The Grandmother of Marrakech. Its sixteenth century ramparts giving it an appearance of an important city, although when once inside the walls you can plainly see that it is not much more than a small market town. Its souks trading in brass, copper, silver, jewellery, carpets, crafts, leather and spices.  Each area of the city has a souk which appears to specialise in a different thing; either carpentry, metals or goods.  Its busy lanes vibrant and colourful with sounds and smells to complement the market within.

At Berber stalls laden with baskets of smelling pungently of garam masala, cumin, cinnamon, paprika, saffron and turmeric, their owners proudly arranging each ingredient into a magic carpet of Autumnal colours. Briefly they look more beautiful than the traditional carpets that adorn the walls of many of the souks. Here you can by frankincense, mere, cures for snoring and eczema, among other things.  If you wander further into the depths of these seemingly ancient markets you can trade for crafts and barter for silver jewellery of every description. 

We had a pleasant lunch at a small local café, enjoying a tajine of meat, chicken, and sticks of root vegetables cooked in a sweet smelling broth of spices and served in a hatted tagine dish to hold in the delicate aromas. Then we were once again on our way speeding through the mountain landscape and on to our starting point of the trek at Irghem.  We camped outside the small copper mining town and walked down the dusty street where fathers watch football from a tiny television in a café and grubby children followed us hoping for an offering of sweets.

The night was cold and starry, but by morning the sun had risen with its gentle spring warmth. It didn't stay that way for long, as the day went on the sun grow hotter and sapped our energy.

The Anti-Atlas were formed about 300million years ago when the continents of America, Africa and Europe collided. They had perhaps been part of a much mountain range that was even higher than The Himalayas are today. These mountains are dry, but have a golden beauty, especially in the evening sunlight, just before the sun suddenly drips below the North African horizon. Little valleys hold green oasis of date palms, terraced barley fields, small villages and in spring bubbling streams of sweet clean water. These valleys smell divine; aromatic spices of sandalwood tones and almond blossom .Here also the sound of chattering of children playing in school playgrounds can be heard among the sharp barks of angry dogs. Small, tatty chickens scratch the dusty lanes where donkeys work for grateful masters and peace and distance from the busy world is apparent everywhere.

On the first day of walking we climbed up through deep valleys an over a pass and until we reached the pretty village of Tadicht which clings to the steep valley sides. There we camped in our small green tents enjoying the views and watching the moon rising in a serine landscape of soft golden hues.  We were given a small bowl each evening after our long day of seven or eight hours of trekking.  In this we put a small amount of cold, untreated water and went back to our tents or to local irrigation fields to wash before our evening meal.  It was at this time when we all gathered in the fading evening light to eat together. Our guide would play a strange game of serving the evening meal to us one at a time. He would make us wait at his discretion, while lecturing us on the merits of not eating pork, not consuming alcohol and defiantly not believing in any else other than Islam.  I think he tolerated us but we never grow any fondness for him and so often clients do on other treks. It was strange as we all grow fond of our mule handlers and our dear old cook, learning to say “thank you” and “good morning” to them in the local Berber tongue. It was lovely to meet the local people who often waved from tending their fields and invited us into them homes to share warm freshly baked bread, local honey and nut purée. We dually removed our shoes and covered our legs in repeat of their beliefs.

Here there was no bathrooms. We went for little trips up the mountain or to the dry river bed at night to spend a penny.  The village children watched me paint there houses in a small sketch book and followed me about like the pied piper hoping for the pencils and note books that I carried in my rucksack.  I'm sure there was someone in the know at the local schools as their teachers would release them from lessons to collect the pencils as we passed. One day there were about twenty children waiting outside my tent. Here once again the children would walk several hours to school across the barren sandy hills.  These short years spent in school were precise to them. Children here start school at seven and only speak their local dialect of Berber. On their first day they are introduced to Arabic by their teacher and given text books to use which are written in French. Quite a double whammy for a first day.  By fourteen the boys go off to schools in the cities and girls begin a life of working on the fields and learning to be the mothers of the future. You often see young girls in pretty traditional clothing, carrying a basket on their shoulders filled with weeds and twigs to feed the family’s goats and fuel the cooking fire.  They sing happily, and withdraw shyly from sight along with a family dog who follows them as they work the barley crops.

After porridge the next day our group, now quite a close nit team, began the climb up through a tiny gorge to the escapement above and the top of Jebel Aklim (2531m) . It was cooler up here and tiny yellow narcissus tucked themselves into little crevices were snow hand recently melted away.  We looked out from this sacred summit, the highest in the Anti-Atlas and enjoyed the views among offerings of oil, and barley flour that had been left here in this special place. We hurried down the other side of the mountain and joined out mule handlers once again, enjoying a lunch of carefully prepared salad, bread and tinned fish (we had this every lunch and although predicable it was very welcome).  The mountains were full of tiny wild flowers and at the back a group of us would dilly dally, taking photographs of the miniature creations.  We would talk about our favourite films, bands and finally by day five “favourite food”, it always happens. The talk came round to the topic of chips after a week of couscous and tagine.  So on that day we were equally rewarded by an unexpectedly sort day and Chips and doughnuts for tea! We loved our cook even more.

The next day we headed through the little villages of Tizgui, Goulouah and Ouzoug visiting a barley store so old that it was more like a castle, with sacks of cereal being the royalty.  Finally camping in Irtem that night and feasting on a small chicken who had been running around our camp. Once in camp we would have mint tea and biscuits and rest for a while now that the heat of the day had finally passed.  The days had got hotter and we took more unscheduled stops to take pictures behind any rock that might hold some shade from the searing heat. There were no wild animals out here and very few birds, but the wild flowers although tiny in this hung arena of rocks were very beautiful. Finally after crossing a couple of cols we reached “The city of Cats”.  The cats seemed somewhat scarce but the village was beautiful and had both an oasis surrounded by palm trees and irrigated fields where we washed our sweaty bodies in the tiny stone channels between the planted fields. Here small green frogs hopped in the pool, from which we had been asked to wash in, but the running water in the irrigation channels seemed so much more inviting.

The small village was a pleasant place to rest and also to explore. It is here that the strange rock formation; Adrar Kims , dominates the scene. It is shaped like a tajine pot protruding from the rocky landscape like an upturned terracotta flowerpot.

The following day the heat became hideous as our group weaved though villages so old that donkeys and chickens could be scene more often in the houses than people. An image that conjured up an impression that one had been transported back to biblical days. We strolled softly through lush, green tracks and tiny cobbled streets that were no wider than a path.  There are no roads here, only donkeys and mules to assist the weary. I'm quite sure why we were asked to tread so softly, were these villagers unlike those from other hamlets? We passed silently as if we had never visited this lonely place. The valley was extremely beautiful, almost an idyllic setting. This picturesque place although charming was not inviting. It was a pity really as its coolness and almost dappled light on the palm lined paths could have been faultless if it had been a happier sanctuary from the relentless heat.

 After lunch we ascended the mountain trail, rocky, barren and eternally beautiful. The heat making the scenery merge in a shimmering, sandstone landscape of imaginary castles in ancient kingdoms. We finally arrived at our last and most secret camp. Here there were no village people, only the glorious rocks of a mountain gorge. From out of the rock sprang a stream, clear and cool were we took out water to cool our feet and wash greasy hair. Then we took it turns to rest and organise cliff climbing races for the three of us who still wanted to be competitive in this perfect place.

Before I left home, I had as usual checked the weather forecast.  The forecast was for six days of sun and the seventh was for rain. I had shared this with the local crew at the beginning of the trek and they had not believed this would be the case, as it hadn't rained significantly for seven years. So it was with some amazement that at midnight it began to rain and rained for the remainder of the trek!  In the morning my tent was soggy, but it didn't matter as it was our final day.

We said our good byes to our faithful cook and mule handlers who had put up our tents, loaded our bags and made us so welcome. Leaving them happy with a very good tip, spare T-shirts, and unwanted boots, we set off for our last trekking day. On this final day the scenery was quite different. There were valleys filled with almond blossom trees and troglodyte caves to visit.  Here there were more villages, but now with noisy and aggressive dogs, bottles of fizzy drink to buy at village shops and people tending their fields to wave to.

The rain grow heavier and we welcomed the hill that we had to climb to see the little town of Irgham in the greyness below, a welcome sight as the storm approached again.  There had been a French trekking group in the area at the time of our trek and so a race had ensued, with our guide steadily increasing the pace all day, to the point of loosing part of our group for a short time. But he was pleased enough when we arrived at the small restaurant in town to have lunch. It would surely be something different today! No, it was salad, tinned fish and flat bread, what else!

The French arrived even damper than ourselves and we gave them our seats and waited for the bus. It was quite a ride in the storm, across the mountain roads. I gave up worrying about the hairpin bends and lightning flashes. Sleep was easy and the three hour drive back to Tarourdant was too frightening to contemplate.

Once in Tarourdant and nicely installed in a cosy hotel, I made for the shower. The hotel only had one type of water. COLD. So we all popped off to the local baths for a wash and a massage. I decided a wash was what I needed and I think I made the right choice as sat on the wooden benches with only a pair of pants to cover me. I awaited my fate. The massage the other girls had was a wash with my soap and flannel by a local girl in a pair of pants. After she had finished with them, she continued to bring me no less than five buckets of hot water to wash with, before indicating that I must now be clean and should go. I got dressed and joined the lads who were very sore and looked like they had been in couple of rounds with Mohamed Ali. The moral is don’t fall for the idea of beautiful girls gently massaging your weary bones in an Arabic country. It doesn't happen. You are given a real going over by a board shouldered Arab man who would have played rugby if he was Welsh.

I haggled for a few souvenirs to take home, and the only thing left to do was to get the plane home early the next morning. It had been a great trip and made me realise that it was possible although not always comfortable to walk in the heat. So now I had a whole new geological area to trek in; deserts.