In May of 2008, I traveled to Morocco for a three week adventure. Morocco is a land so intrinsically beautiful and rich with heritage that the moment you step foot on it you feel completely transported to another time in history. Morocco’s fascinating mixture of Berber, Arabic, and French cultures creates a unique nation unlike anywhere else in the world. The distinctive architecture, traditional clothing, and skilled craftsmanship of Morocco captivated me throughout my travels. The areas I visited were tremendously diverse: crowded medieval cities, abandoned Roman ruins, the Atlas Mountains, and the Sahara desert. When not mesmerized by Moroccan culture, I was awestruck by the Moroccan varied landscapes (from surreal sand dunes to jagged mountains).
I spent time touring cities, camping in the Sahara desert (via camel), then completing a difficult 15 day trek. The goal of the trek was to climb four 4000 meter peaks; the highest in North Africa.
Click a picture to see a larger view
and explanation.
Travel log
This narrative helps me to remember the trip in all its glory. I’ve separated out the trekking portion of the trip for a day by day account.
After two days of airline travel to reach Morocco, I was greeted at the Fes airport by my private guide Moha. I had five days with Moha and a driver before I was to meet my trekking group in Marrakesh.
Upon arriving at the street where my first night accommodations had been arranged (in Fes), I was disappointed to see a narrow alley-way bordered by dingy white buildings. We rang the buzzer at a decrepit door and waited for an answer. I was bracing myself for a crumbling interior and a questionable hotel room. Finally the door swung open, and revealed a spectacular BEAUTIFUL inner courtyard. At that moment I learned that the drab exteriors of Moroccan buildings do not correlate to the lavish interiors hidden within. My first night in Morocco was the most luxurious of the trip. The Riad (the homes which provide accommodations) was decorated extravagantly with tiles and Moroccan rugs. I was offered my first (of soon to be many in Morocco) servings of mint tea. The top floor of the Riad was assigned exclusively to me. My extravagant room included a hot shower and a balcony overlooking the city. Dinner served in the Riad was a multiple course gourmet meal of Moroccan delicacies. I retired to my private roof top balcony and watched the sunset color the white buildings of the city. As the skies dimmed, an illuminated white castle became silhouetted on the hillside above. My room was surprisingly quiet--until the Islamic prayer call sounded from the local mosque at 3:15 AM.
Ancient Fes is called the grandest of Morocco’s imperial cities. The “Fes el-Bali” (the largest living Islamic medieval city in the world) was sensory overload. The unusual sights, smells, noise, and non-English-speaking people quickly overwhelmed my jet-lagged brain. I quickly got lost in the narrow winding alleys. The covered bazaars are crammed with shops, mosques, restaurants, medersas (colleges), dye pits (tanneries), museums and carpet shops. As I waded through the crowds, donkeys laden with goods squeezed by. Shopkeepers beckoned me to “look”, “try” or “buy”, but they weren’t rude or pushy (like Marrakesh turned out to be).
Next I visited the site of Volubilis. It was my first time visiting Roman ruins anywhere in the world. I was surprised that so much of the city was still intact—soaring columns, archways, water and sewer systems, and tile floors. The tile floors were the most fascinating. They were composed of actual colored stones, and had not been preserved in any way. Most tile mosaics depicted Greek Gods related and stories. To add to the grandiosity, giant storks (yes, real live birds) were sitting on nests atop the large columns amongst the ruins.
At its peak, it is estimated that Volubilis housed up to 20,000 people. Romans abandoned Volubilis around AD 280. Berbers, Greeks, Jews and Syrians inhabited the city until the 18th century, when its marble was plundered for the palaces in Meknes. The Libson earthquake of 1722 collapsed many of the buildings.
Meknes was the next city visited. Meknes is surrounded by 25 km of impressive walls with monumental gates and an enormous palace complex (which was never completed). I was able to tour inside part of the palace and then visited an exquisitely decorated mausoleum. At dusk, my local guide took me through the crowded medina (Place el-Hedim).
In my hotel in Meknes I was introduced to a strange custom in budget hotels in Morocco. The lights in hallways of hotels default to “off”. You must find a circular switch and press “on” if you want to see where you are walking. Unfortunately, the light timers are very short and commonly turn off while you are still walking down the hallway – or more dangerously – going down the stairway. After a few occasions of groping in total darkness, I learned to take a head lamp with me when walking anywhere within Moroccan hotels after dark.
Speaking of other curious customs, I was in an Internet café one afternoon when suddenly everyone began leaving. A worker came over and motioned me to shut down my computer. Turns out it was prayer time, and the Internet Café closed for 30 minutes during the dedicated Islamic devotional period.
We passed by many desert oasis towns when driving from Meknes to the Sahara desert. Stopping in Efoud, I was treated to lunch in my guide’s family’s home. I was surprised to find that the Moroccan family received more cable television channels than Dishnetwork gives me at home. It felt surreal to be eating Tagine couscous in a primitive village home while watching the NBA finals on television.
After some 4x4 driving, we reached the edge of the Sahara desert and the awaiting camels. Unfortunately, the wind was blowing sand. After hearing another tourist exclaim “my camera won’t shut anymore”, I was afraid to risk taking photos while riding the camel. As a result, I don’t have any photos of me on the camel or of the beautiful sand dune formations we rode through.
The camel ride was only 1 ½ hours, but the saddle was extremely uncomfortable. I was really ready to jump off the camel’s back when we arrived at the nomad camp. I had anticipated a touristy camping environment, but was surprised to find “real” nomads making a secondary income by hosting visitors in their camp. After meeting these uneducated people in traditional dress, I was somewhat leery of eating the food which was served for dinner. But oh well…. how many times in your life are you going to eat mystery meat in the Sahara desert served by Berber nomads?
After dinner, Moha took me out into the desert sand dunes. It was dark, and we walked until we could no longer see any of the lights from camp. Without head lamps, we slipped up and down the dunes in the darkness. With nothing to trip over or run into, it didn’t matter if I couldn’t see. The stars were amazingly bright. After walking a bit further, we just laid down on the sand and looked up at the night sky. The temperature was perfect, the wind was calm, and there were no biting bugs. During the time I gazed upwards, I saw three shooting stars (Moha missed two). The sand still held some daytime warmth, and I let the fine granules run through my fingers. Mesmerized by the night sky, the stars seemed to develop more depth as I stared upwards…..until it felt like I would be transported upwards amongst the dots of bright light. It was a surreal experience and the highlight of my trip!
I returned to my nomad tent at midnight. At 1 AM, I was suddenly awoken by the meow of a cat. I couldn’t believe it. What was a cat doing out in the middle of the desert? I’ll never know how the cat got there, but thanks to that loud kitty I never got back to sleep. Fortunately at daybreak I quietly snuck out of nomad camp with my camera and snapped a few photos of the sunrise behind our camels.
My next goal was to climb the massive sand dune behind our tents and ride a snowboard down – “sandboarding”. First I had to overcome numerous technical difficulties. The boots fitted to the snowboard were several sizes too small. Boots were out. Could I cinch my shoes down into the bindings? It would have been easier if the buckles still had their original plastic tabs still attached. No such luck. By carefully manipulating the plastic, I could ratchet my shoes down into the bindings somewhat securely. But the final impediment to my sandboarding experience was that the binding itself rotated (turned) within the attachment point. No amount of messing around with the bolts could secure the wayward binding. Therefore, my feet would be involuntarily rotating side to side as I attempted to maintain control of the board. Forget about turning! No guts, no glory, so I decided to hike up and try this dangerous contraption.
Hiking up a steep sand dune while holding a snowboard turned out to be much harder than hiking up snow on a mountain. The sand shifts with each step, making upward progress an extremely frustrating exercise in thrashing oneself against gravity-assisted shifting sand. Suffice it to say I never made it to the top of the dune when carrying the snowboard. The steepness of the incline made it tricky to actually get my feet strapped in the binding without doing a face-plant. The sandboarding episode turned out to be anti-climatic; I just pointed the nose downhill and slid straight down without any turns. It was not very exciting, but at least I gave it my best shot.
Not to give up on conquering the giant sand dune, I then attacked it (sans snowboard) from a different angle. It took approximately one hour to hike to the top. Once I was almost at the “summit”, I could hear the camp staff whistling for me to come down. What would happen if I slid down the steepest area (without a snowboard)? Would I cause a sand avalanche and get buried? There was only one way to find out. Woohoo, down I went….sinking up to my knees at times. I made it to the bottom totally covered in sand -- I even managed to get sand in my ears!
I was provided with entertainment during the return camel ride. Two Japanese tourists’ camels were tied to the back of my camel. Each time we went down a sand dune, the woman would scream as if she were going to be pitched forward over the camel’s head. I soon began to urge my camel to descend the steepest part of the dune in an effort to generate the loudest volume from the woman behind me.
When leaving the desert, Moha took me to see fossils still embedded in rock (not yet excavated). I also visited a factory where the fossils are processed for sale and incorporated into sculptures and sinks.
Next on the itinerary was to visit “Morocco’s best rock climbing area” in a “beautiful canyon”. Suffice it to say that Todra Gorge‘s selection of routes would make quite a disappointing climbing vacation destination. Jaded by living in Utah, I didn’t even take my camera out of the bag as I strolled on the paved road through the canyon.
Arriving at my hotel in Ouarzazate (pronounced Warzazat) after dark, I didn’t notice that the hotel was built in the Kasbah-fortress style of architecture. As I consumed my umpteenth meal of Tagine & couscous in the hotel restaurant, stray cats begged for food at my feet. Cats are ubiquitous throughout Morocco; begging for scraps while you are eating –indoors or out. Seeing other couples with wine glasses, I attempted to order some wine with dinner. Unfortunately, wine “by the glass” was not an option. Only a full bottle could be sold. If I had known that this would be the only option for the duration of my trip to consume any type of alcohol – I would have bought a few bottles of wine! So began my longest period of sobriety since my teenage years: four weeks without alcohol of any type. As if it were a bad joke to taunt the tourists, the Moroccans serve mint tea each evening in shot glasses. Cheers!
After a night of getting sick in my hotel room (good timing), we were on the road again toward Marrakesh. The route took us up and over the High Atlas Mountains. The winding road had spectacular views, especially where vehicles had crashed through the cement walls and you could view the steep rock faces dropping hundreds of feet below. Enterprising souvenir salespeople occupied every pull –off or overlook. After driving through groves of olive trees, we reached the crowds and bustle of Marrakesh. In the afternoon Moha deposited me at my Marrakesh hotel and we said “goodbye”.
Armed with a caricature map, I headed out solo into the bustling city. Just crossing the road in front of the hotel was an adventure (cross walks – aren’t they just to line people up to run over them more easily?). I hadn’t gotten far when the “guides” started offering to show me the “mosque that is only open to foreigners today”. Amazingly, these “guides” have the same opening line: “You can trust me, I work at the hotel”. At times, I had to reverse directions to shake these parasites. But at least it was a change from Fes, where I was whistled at and offered a “hand massage”. Traveling as a solo woman traveler in Morocco wasn’t difficult or frightening, it was just annoying.
The focal point of the crowded market in Marrakesh is the square called Djemaa el Fna. That is where you find the snake charmers, local musicians, and women grabbing your arm and painting henna tattoos (then asking for exorbitant $$$). Marrakesh was like Fes on crack. I felt like I had to constantly be on alert; not for pick-pockets, but for general mayhem (and a propensity to get lost in the confusing alleyways). I made sure to keep my hands in my pocket when nearing the henna-painting ladies, and walked quickly past any cobras on straw mats.
A note in the hotel lobby indicated that my trekking group was to meet at the hotel at 6:30 PM. Due to a peculiar and somewhat secretive Moroccan time change, only a few group members assembled at the appropriate time. We waited an hour for the majority of the group to show up. It became immediately obvious that the tour company had not provided a Group Leader for this trip. The local guide would be required to handle our group of 15 trekkers. [It would have been 16, but one person cancelled due to a twisted ankle at the last minute].
Once assembled, the group was told we were walking to the dinner restaurant. Out we went to that dangerous street crossing in front of the hotel. The guide demonstrated how Moroccans cross the street – just step out and swim through the onslaught of vehicles. Hopefully the vehicles will swerve. I did pay attention that our group wasn’t carefully herded through the throngs of people during the 20 minute walk to the restaurant. If someone were to drop back and get lost in the sea of people or heavy traffic—they were on their own. This was an ominous forbearance to the trek.
Upon arriving at the restaurant, the guide told a few people that he needed to leave and pick up additional group members from the airport. So we sat around the table and feebly started introducing ourselves to each other. Some time had passed before we realized that the restaurant was a buffet, and we had to get up and serve ourselves. We hoped the meal had been magically paid for. Thankfully, a few of the group felt confident to navigate back to our hotel in the dark. I followed closely behind.
The tour company “arranging” the trip was KE Adventures. Our group would be composed of 15 people + a local guide (and camp staff). There were only two Americans in the group; the rest were European (Scot, Brit, Irish, and Italian).
The next morning we gathered in the hotel lobby and waited once again for those group members who were unaware of the pesky Moroccan time change. We still had not received information of any type about our trek. Instead of speaking to the group as a whole, the guide instructed us to board an awaiting van. Too bad for those who had never been on a trek – you were in for a surprise!
After an hour ride in the van, we were shuttled into a small shop and told to enjoy some mint tea. We chilled while our pack animals were loaded. Finally the guide approached our table with a map. Would this finally be the elusive briefing we had all greatly anticipated?
Our guide indicated our planned route on the map. Unfortunately, information about river crossings, required supplies, clothing requirements and other pertinent information was omitted. Too bad, if you don’t have it now you’ve got 14 days to suffer without it. Regrettably one of those essential bits of information was the fact that no toilet paper would be provided in the toilet tent for the next two weeks. Surprise! Once we found out, we were out in the wilderness. I ended up stooping to a new low in life—trading shoulder massages for toilet paper.
Next I’ve made notes on each day of the trek. The daily hiking mileage is listed, but may be inaccurate because there were a few times I forgot to turn on my GPS until we were out on the trail.
CM = Cumulative Mileage for the trip MT = Moving Time (cumulative).
Day 1 Monday 6/2 7.2 miles
We started in the town of Arba Tighedouine (after being told to pay for our mint tea that we had been told to drink). Due to the obscure nature of the trip briefing process, the group was blissfully unaware of the upcoming river crossings. Methods for crossing ranged from the more common “strip your boots and torture your bare feet across the rocks” to “just plow through the water and empty your boots on the other side”. I started with the former and ended with the latter.
Soon we were introduced to the lunch system of having all the mules stop and unloaded at mealtime. The trail lunches were quite luxury and were served on tables and chairs. We normally had 30 minutes or so to relax after each lunch meal during the trek. This seemed to be enough time to drift off to sleep with a full stomach, only to be rudely awakened to resume hiking uphill in the heat of the day.
On the first day, we walked for about three hours the first day mostly on a hot dirt road. When our group reached the campsite, I immediately retreated to the river and washed in the cold water. Although my group members were more interested in setting up tents, my priority each night upon reaching camp was to immerse as much of my body in cold water as quickly as possible. Refreshing!!
At dusk, we were introduced to the camp’s dining tent. When I first viewed the miniature canopy, I thought that four feet of the support poles had not been assembled. You literally had to duck or crawl to get into this thing; I’ve never seen anything like it. Once inside, three or more people's heads acted as roofing support. To add insult to injury, there weren’t enough spots at the table to accommodate 15 people. With every meal, a few people were required to hold their plate instead of having access to a proper table. This gave extra importance to being punctual for mealtimes.
To our dismay, this was the night we were to discover the many inadequacies of the “toilet tent”. The trekking company neglected to list “toilet paper” on the required packing items, and the elusive trip briefing failed to mention we should purchase paper before leaving civilization.
From the seeds of adversity (musical chair-mealtimes, wet boots, insufficient toilet paper, and midget-sized dining tents) grew the triumph of peak-bagging in subsequent days. Camp 1 elevation 4143’
Day 2 Tues 6/3 9.25 miles
The mules were enlisted to help us cross the river beside the campsite. Then we steadily climbed up up up until the camping area was just a green dot far far below. Upon reaching the Berber village of Ourzazt, children greeted our group members with requests for pens. Astonishingly, a small store in the village just happened to sell pens. Rather well-used pens, I might add. The newly purchased pens were dutifully given to the children, who probably traded them back to the shopkeeper for candy after our group left town. Seeing how we were duped, we didn’t fall for that scam in any subsequent villages.
Unlucky for me, the village had a larger supply of pens than toilet tissue. I was only able to snag a few facial tissues before we headed on.
Lunch was in a very nice field, and we attracted the curiosity of some Berber children. These children will not permit you to take their photograph, even for money. They believe it steals their soul. I tried interesting ways of panning the landscape and then quickly snapping a photo of the kids. The result is some photos of the children’s profiles; their faces hidden as they stare in a different direction.
After lunch we discovered some petroglyphs and trekked through carpets of spring flowers toward our campsite (a pasture named Agdal n’Irkane). I tried bouldering on some nearby rocks, but the rock was too brittle. Following the stream away from camp and around a bend, I thought I had found a nice private spot to bathe. After stripping down and soaping up, I was startled to see another group member appear downstream (looking my direction).
Since I didn’t hear the call to dinner, I lost the nightly game of musical chairs and had to sit holding my plate this evening. For some unknown reason, our cook had not been introduced to spices of any kind. For the two weeks of the trek, we were served plain food without any flavoring. There wasn’t so much as pepper to enhance our scrambled eggs. This night I drifted to sleep with the sound of nearby frogs chirping. Camp 2 Elevation 7347 ft Cumulative Miles 16.45
Day 3 Wed 6/4 13.8 miles
The day began with a gentle ascent to a high pass overlooking the Orika valley. This set the pattern for subsequent trekking days. We conquered high altitudes, only to lose them again in the same day (or multiple times in one day). The High Atlas treks are a series of up up up, followed by down down down (then repeat).
When we descended into a Berber village, two of our group members took a wrong turn and ended up lost in the village. One of those group members was me. The village was a mini maze. After several turns, we realized retracing out steps would be difficult. The local guide noticed we were missing, and enlisted villagers to help find us. After rejoining the other members, we were offered mint tea and bread in one of the Berber homes. Seeing the unusual facial expressions of those who sampled the butter, I abstained from Berber butter for the remainder of the trip. The olive oil, on the other hand, was fantastic. I had a slight bread dipping mishap, and ended up anointing my trekking pants with olive oil. This would become just one stain in an array of discolorations I would proudly sport for the next two weeks.
After paying for our tea, we were back on the trail again towards Setti Fadma (down down down). Near the river, we stopped for lunch in a chicken pen. The ground was completely covered in chicken shit, and numerous chickens scratched the ground amongst our group. I was horrified to see my group members taking our sleeping bag mats and laying them directly on the ground on top of the chicken poop. Could there be any quicker way to contract salmonella? These mats would be in our tents for the next two weeks!
It felt good to soak my feet in the cold river. I was beginning to develop some blisters due to the long hiking days in the heat. After lunch we crossed a swinging wooden bridge composed of sticks wired together. There were a few spots where a foot could have easily broken through, leading to a 20 foot plunge to the shallow river below.
Next we trekked on the paved road through the town of Setti Fadma. Had I known what was ahead, I would have simply stopped and paid for a room in town for the night. Cafes with riverside tables looked very relaxing, and I even saw a sign advertising Internet access. Unfortunately, the KE cheap-o itinerary did not allow for a blessed shower and mattress break. We were led above the village to a small plot of land where the dirt had been graded. As we set up our tents side by side on the damp soil, the bugs began to bite. There was no privacy nor nearby river access. To complete the ambiance, our toilet tent was oriented to give maximal viewing to some local men. Sensing a unique form of entertainment, the men later set up a small table and chairs in direct view of the toilet tent’s open doorway.
It was possible to get a taxi in Setti Fadma and return to Marrakesh (bagging the rest of the trek). A few group members admitted they were considering this option. Camp 3 Elevation 4834 CM 30.25 MT 11.29 hrs
Day 4 Thurs 6/5 7.5 miles
This trekking day started with an interesting and invigorating hike through the river. Wearing sandals, we crossed currents multiple times back and forth. At first the cold water was sharply painful on the feet. Thankfully, after several minutes of immersion, they became numb. An unfortunate side effect, however, was that dexterity and balance become limited when you can’t feel your feet. I felt the potential for mishap was too risky; it was easy to stub a toe or twist your ankle. An injury on this day would pretty much guarantee you wouldn’t make all four summits.
While in the canyon, we were treated to our first “story of doom” by our local guide. Apparently there is a species of monkey that inhabit this area at a certain time of the year. A local woman walked to this location to harvest some hay. The monkeys apparently swarmed her and killed her. When villagers came looking for her the next day, they found her remains. “Finished”. Thankfully the monkeys weren’t in the area during our trek so our group wasn’t in danger of being eaten alive.
After about an hour and a half of river hiking, we ascended to dry land. This turned out to be one of the longest and hottest trekking days of the trip. We went up up up, then down down down over and over again. Toward the end of the day, one member of our group stepped off the trail to relieve himself. When he returned, there was no sign of our group. The trail was not well delineated, so he could not tell which direction we had departed. As he searched to find the trail, he ended up falling into the river. It was even more of a bummer since the guy was wearing cotton jeans and this was toward the end of the day. Our group never noticed this guy was missing (since we are a big group and were very tired from our long day). Thankfully the mule team which was behind us ended up finding the missing group member. This was extremely lucky, since this was the only day on the trek that the mule team ended up behind our group at day’s end. The guy who had been left behind was understandably very upset that evening.
We arrived at camp and I could tell my feet were hamburger. The river hiking had removed my moleskin, and the long hot day had done a number on my blisters. I threw off my daypack and headed down to the stream below the campsite. Amazingly, there was a small waterfall with a deep pool below. I stripped to my underwear and got in. I totally immersed myself in the chilly water. I held my breath and went underwater in the deep pool. It felt SO refreshing! I could only tolerate the waterfall for a few quick seconds, but it felt wonderful to let the water cascade down my tired neck and shoulders.
We were barely able to assemble our tents before dark this evening. The campsite was remote, quiet, and had an amazing display of stars that night. Camp 4 8374 elevation CM 37.75 MT 16.39
Day 5 Fri 6/6 5.05 miles
We began the day going up up up and over the Tizi Boukcoud pass (an ascent of 1500 ft). Our former campsite faded to a spec down below as we climbed higher and higher. Today was one of the shorter hiking days to the campsite, which was unfortunate because the upcoming campsite wasn’t an area where you wanted to spend time hanging out.
Our camp was nestled on a few ledges of a Berber terrace. The ridges had formerly grown wheat, so wheat chaff was overabundant in the camping area. These small bits of wheat chaff had an uncanny ability to attach to socks and jump in the tent. Days later, I was still picking wheat chaff out of my socks and tent.
The Berber villagers thought our group was entertaining. In small crowds, they stood just outside our tent area and stared. Occasionally they were seen very close to our tents, so we made sure to keep the tents zipped up (not preferable in the heat). I felt the staring troupes were fair game for my camera, but they thought otherwise. I’m left with a selection of photos depicting frowning villagers nodding fingers at me for taking snapshots of them.
Apparently our local guide had paid someone in the village of Adouz for the privilege of camping in the wheat chaff. Other villagers could be seen attempting to extort more $ from our staff later in the day. I would suspect numerous villagers probably claim ownership to our terraces.
Later in the afternoon I walked down to a small stream in a lame attempt to take a sponge bath. I was immediately surrounded by about 20 laughing villagers. Apparently to the Berber culture it is hilarious to dip a washcloth in the stream and wipe it on yourself. It was the comedy routine I never knew I had. Camp 5 Elevation 8858’ CM 42.8 MT 19.29
Day 6 Fri 6/6 7.8 miles
This was our first early morning; using head lamps during breakfast. We were up early because it was the first of the four summit ascents: the ascent of Adrar n’Dern.
The guide led our group slowly to the foot of the mountain. I gazed upward at the summit target. It seemed so far in the distance. It was.
There was no trail; we chose our own lines to zigzag slowly upward. The climb required using hands to steady yourself over the bigger boulders. As I climbed, I’d periodically look upward at a snow patch near the top. It never seemed to get any closer. The mountain just went on and on. I felt like I was on an escalator that was going the wrong way. I kept thrashing my body upward, but not seeming to get anywhere. It was maddening. Retreat was not a viable option--our next campsite was on the other side of the mountain. I would have to get there somehow. Eventually I must have given up glancing uphill, because SUDDENLY the snowfield was only a few feet away. After hours of exertion, the summit was finally within reach. I was so relieved, I almost felt like crying.
There we were, finally on the summit of Adrar n’Dern (13,127’). We quickly snapped photos and pulled on extra layers of clothing. As I looked out over the jagged landscape, I felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Summiting mountains is one of my greatest passions. Somehow the view from the top makes all the suffering (from climbing) worthwhile. Summit views put my life in perspective. Daily worries seem so insignificant from high atop a peak. My routine job and exercise schedule couldn’t be further away at that moment. My goal of summiting high mountains in Morrocco was 1/4th completed. I have overcome all the obstacles and now I’m triumphantly standing at the highest point. After retreating out of the wind, we enjoyed lunch near the summit. One guy in our group (ironically named “Guy”) gave me half of his orange. I cleaned my sticky orange juiced hands in the snow.
The descent went much quicker than then ascent. Portions of scree were easier to slide down than to try and control your feet versus gravity. After a particularly steep slide, I had to remove my boots and dump the gravel out of them. Suddenly, I heard hollering from the slide area. A man was running down the mountain at full speed. Incredible to watch; I was certain that the out of control descent would end in a bloody mess. Thankfully, the man survived unscathed (he turned out to be a guide for a group of French people).
Almost to camp, we passed by the French group’s campsite. I had toilet tent envy. The French people had a SQUARE toilet ten, and it actually shut (for some privacy). I bet it was stocked with toilet tissue, too. Just to add insult to injury, our substandard toilet tent blew down during the night.
Tonight’s campsite was anticlimactic. The small creek which ran beside our camp consisted mainly of moss and trash, so bathing was not something which would actually make you cleaner. It was late when we arrived to camp, anyway. The camp staff surprised us by serving tiny donuts with our tea as a celebration for everyone making the summit. Camp 6 Elevation 10,067 CM 50.6 MT 25.25
Day 7 Sun 6/8 6.2 miles
After our heroic ascent the previous day, the Itinerary Gods decided to take it easy on us. This was our shortest trekking day of the trip. Ironically, this was the only day which we experienced rain – while we were relaxing indoors.
After about 30 minutes of uphill climbing, we began a descent to the village of Amsouzart. As I was walking along on the easy trail, a rock rolled under my foot and DOWN I WENT. Taken completely by surprise, I managed to embed a few rock fragments in my hand. From that point on, I always wore protective gloves when we were trekking. If I was going down again, I wasn’t going to sacrifice any more skin.
We reached the gite (Berber “hotel”) in the village at 11:30, just as the clouds were starting to obscure the blue sky. Our group was given three rooms, so a strict male/female division was impossible. There were no beds; we laid the salmonella/wheat chaff mattresses directly on the floors. On the second floor, the gite had a long table boarded by a sofa and chairs. FINALLY everyone in our group could sit around a table and eat together (without the late person forcibly ostracized from the table top).
We were offered a “shower”, which consisted of a trickle of very hot water in a filthy small room. I was to learn later that the secret of getting some cold water in the mix was to pull the cold water knob out while turning. Oh well, I made it work despite the sanitary challenge. I felt reasonably clean.
The design of the bathroom facilities in the gite would have been laughable, if we didn’t have to use them. The door to the bathroom was something out of Alice and Wonderland. It was a tiny door. So you had to both step up and bend down (at the same time) to get in. Once inside, it was your typical primitive squatty-potty. But you felt like some giant nursery rhyme character when crawling into the miniature entry-way to the toilet.
There was enough open space within the gite for me to do some Pilates and yoga during that afternoon. The stretching and core workout felt fantastic. Later we walked through the local village and viewed some of the innovative water-powered contraptions (flour grinder, generator). In the nick of time, I was able to score a roll of toilet paper. I had just used my precious last folded square of facial tissue. A small shop sold rolls of toilet paper, so finally that stressful daily hygiene issue would be alleviated.
I also discovered “Bounty” bars at this little store. They are comparable to “Mounds” bars in the US. I bought four bars—one for today and one for each upcoming summit. Sorry to say that my lack of willpower was shortly revealed. I am powerless over chocolate. By the end of the day, all four bars were gone (well, OK, I DID give one to my tent partner).
Our camp cook provided dinner for our group. French fries were a surprise treat. In keeping with the “no spices” rule, ketchup or any other condiments (spare salt) were not provided.
Since we now had adequate chairs, tonight was the first time our group sat up late and talked. We also had electric lights (for a few hours). I’d really been having difficulty understanding the Scots and the Irish during normal conversation thus far in the trek. By this night, I was starting to get my accent ears tuned in. It took extra concentration to decipher what they were saying. When they used expressions like “fit as a butcher’s dog”, I just wanted to say “WTF???” They talked about television shows I’ve never heard of, and seemed to remember every football (American’s term “soccer”) game ever televised. I tried joining in the conversation when possible, but for the most part I was uncharacteristically quiet during this trek. Camp 7 (gite) Elevation 5709 CM 56.8
Day 8 Mon 6/9 7.5 miles
Today was “tea extravaganza” day. We stopped for tea just out of town and I scored a miniature packet of Pringles. A few more hours of hiking and we crested the pass before Lake Ifni. This azure blue lake is the largest in the middle Atlas. We then skirted the blue lake from high above. When we reached the other side of the lake, we were surprised to discover that enterprising men had set up a few small shops. With a complete lack of privacy (and apparently viewed by several local men), I changed into my bathing suit. Some other group members had stripped and were already in the lake (al natural). The lake seemed colder than the streams I had previously washed in! Instead of washing, I probably got dirtier due to the unavoidable floating heaps of unknown brown material.
We lunched near the lake, and were provided with another serving of tea.
Due to building cumulous clouds, we camped just an hour above the lake in a narrow gorge. Tea was promptly served at 5:30, once again. At dusk, goats and sheep were herded through our campsite. It was very amusing to see the baby goats and sheep bleating. They were unbelievably cute. Around this time, a tragedy struck the campsite that we could never fully recover from. A group member (who shall remain nameless, but he was Italian) became sick and ruined the bathroom tent. Not that the small canvas structure was ever very sanitary (or useful), but from this point on it became what we would classify at my workplace as “infectious waste”. It should have been buried on the spot.
At dinner we were warned about upcoming snow crossings the next day. It would be a difficult day for our mules; they would only make it “Inshallah”. That’s the phrase for “God willing”. We ended up hearing that phrase used several times during out trek. Camp 8 8013 elevation CM 64.3 MT 31.19
Day 9 Tues 6/10 8.7 miles
This was one of our longest and most difficult days. First issue of the day was ascending up and over Tizi-n-Ouanoum pass (11,975'). This was a very difficult steep, rocky path for the mules. When we arrived at a snow crossing the male members of our group were enlisted to help the heavily-laden mules cross the snow. Rather than slipping, the largest danger is that a mule’s leg would plunge down into the snow and snap. Therefore, the men helped to shoulder the mules’ load as they crossed. The trick for the human assistants was not to slip on the snow, which would result in being trampled by the mule.
Once we reached the pass, our work was not even half done. We hiked downhill on the other side, then started on a traverse toward our next summit. This traverse was not fun. There were times when I stepped on rocks, and the whole area started to slide. I just quickly stepped in the direction I would like to go as I’m sliding downhill--in an effort to reach something stable. We lost our blue skies as we traversed another snowfield (sans mules) and began the ascent of Ouanoukrim. One group member had a catastrophic fall on the snow and slid down into rocks. He lost a significant portion of skin on his arm, and by the end of the trip apparently was sporting a nice infection in that area.
Unlike the first mountain, the ascent of Ouanoukrim didn’t have me on the edge of tears. Ouranokrim’s true summit wasn’t visible as we were climbing. We had the false belief “almost there”, until we were fooled by yet another false summit. Slowly, we went up up up, (almost there, almost there) until finally we were at 13,412’. The weather on top was colder and cloudy, but it did not appear that rain was likely. The guide celebrated our success by breaking out a bright pink mystery meat-jelly roll for a lunch snack. I abstained from the Day-Glo meat.
Retreating down the mountain went quickly. As we lost altitude, the Neltner Refuge came into view. There were two refuges built at the base of Toubkal. Since we were the budget tour, we didn’t get to stay in the refuges. Nor did we get to stay adjacent to the refuges. No, we were relegated to the mule pastures across the stream and beyond the buildings. Disgustingly, there were numerous remains of old toilet tent sites outside the door of my tent. I nick-named the site “shit camp”.
Overcoming sanitary adversity once again, I opted out of tea time (with Helen) and paid 10 dirhams for a long, hot shower. You read that right. An actual shower with shampoo and everything. I must have been so overjoyed at the luxury that I forgot I had hung my bra on a peg behind the door. When I returned later, it was gone (along with dirty underwear). Someone needed it worse than me, I guess. Camp 9 Elevation 10,318’ CM 73 miles MT 38.14 Max elevation 13,436
Day 10 Wed 6/11 4.1 miles to top of Toubkal and back!
Toubkal is the highest summit in North Africa, and – surprise – the easiest to climb. Our group had a leisurely breakfast. We could see lots of other hiking parties heading out to begin the ascent (some started at 4 AM). When we finally began hiking, our group was fit enough that we still ended up passing some of these earlier groups.
The Toubkal summit was crowded. We had to wait our turn to take photos with the metal triangle behind us. Our group retreated to an area sheltered from the wind and hung out for over an hour. The amazing thing about these Atlas summits is that weather is rarely a factor. Normally when you bag a 13,000+ summit, you hurry to the top (early in the morning), then quickly descend before the lightening storms. Moroccan peaks are really low stress compared to normal mountain weather concerns.
We descended Toubkal using a different route which took us beside wreckage of an aircraft crash. We were told this crash occurred in 1969. There is a surprising amount of wreckage for a crash that happened so long ago. We returned to shit camp in time for lunch. I had nothing better to do than go take another shower at the refuge. It really would have been nicer to stay in the Refuge, but we were on the budget KE Adventure tour. The realization that there was only one more tent camp comforted me greatly. Same (shit) camp CM 77.1 miles MT 41.11
Day 11 Thurs 6/12 7 miles
The Itinerary Gods were not smiling on us today. This killer day was by far the hardest of the trek. Not only were we ascending 3 peaks in 3 sequential days, but the “route” up Bouguinoussen was difficult and exposed. The danger was aggravated due to the large size of our group (potential for rock fall on group members below). The “gradual ascent” listed on the itinerary turned out to be scrambling up a colouir. Straight up; up and over waterfalls and rock formations. Rock fall was a significant risk to the French group on our heels. It was slow going as we clung onto bits of solid rock in some places while trying not to touch or step on loose rocks in other places.
During a short break, we were told another story of doom. Apparently Inshallah was not in play one day. God was not willing. “One group coming up. Big rock back down. Group finished” as the guide gestured the “game over” hand movement. This was not a cheerful pep talk. We weren’t even half way up the mountain yet.
We ascended to the “finger”, then across and up to Bouguinoussen. To add to the excitement, we enjoyed significant exposure and hands on scrambling on the last 200 feet toward the summit of Bougunoussen(13,205). We spent about 30 minutes on the summit out of the wind. I felt really triumphant knowing I had made all four summits on this difficult trek. It had not been easy.
As we began to down climb, the French group decided that turnabout is fair play. They began a descent directly behind us, without regard to rock fall potential to our group.
After reaching the “finger”, we then turned to descend in a different direction. We spent hours and hours descending loose scree. The ironic part of the loose scree was that only prickly plants seemed to grow in those areas. So if you fell (and just about everyone did at one point), you were guaranteed to put your hand down on something with thorns or spikes. My leather gloves were no match for these prickles! I had to extract thorns countless times.
After what seemed like several hours, we arrived at a flat area where two of our mules were grazing. My guide asked if I’d prefer a mule ride to the lunch meeting area. Are you kidding? Keep walking on these hot, worn out feet when I could be riding high on the mule? Much to the amusement of the other group members, I happily took the mule. The other chose to keep walking. Whatever.
After lunch, there was still more scree and downhill to the next camp. Would this day ever end? But wait—there was something exciting to stop for. A huge waterfall loomed out of a canyon on the left. We veered toward the thundering waterfall. I dropped my pack and stripped down to my undies. The wind and spray coming off the falls was overpowering. I was soaked and shivering before I was anywhere near the downpour of roaring water. I gave it my best shot, but I never actually got under the full brunt of the falling water. I was soaked and cold nonetheless. But when skipping over rocks to return to my clothing, I made a grisly discovery. There was a dead goat in the water. I must have walked right over it, but at that time I was concentrating on the waterfall and not really looking where I was stepping. YUCK! But yet another sanitary challenge awaited that day……..
We arrived at a terraced dirt area and directed to set up our tents. There was barely enough room; tents were erected side by side. Apparently mules or other animals use this area extensively (and leave remains behind). There were hundreds of flies, and they preferred to congregate inside the tents. My tent mate was sick and it was a long day….but I celebrated because it was our LAST NIGHT sleeping in a tent!!!! Camp 11 7214’ Elevation CM 84.1 MT 46.34 Max Elev 13,688
Day 12 Fri 6/13 5.2 miles
Today was an easy mule trail descending down to Imlay valley. We stopped at a gite in the village of Ait Souka. We were greeted with mint tea in the garden.
A slight upgrade from the last gite, we were provided with mattresses directly on the floor. Goodbye salmonella/wheat chaff mattresses. Another group of noisy French adolescents were also staying at the gite. One shower room was provided for the approximately 35 people staying at the gite. To keep things interesting, it was contained in a bathroom with a toilet that wouldn’t flush. And if that weren’t enough, when you took a shower the entire room started to fill with water. Taking one look at the exposed electrical wires, I opted to shower in the dark. Camp 12 (Gite) CM 89.3 (for entire trek) MT 49 hrs
The next morning we returned to our hotel in Marrakesh. In the afternoon, most members of the group went to a hammam. Moroccans visit a hammam once weekly; we even saw hammams in the poor Berber villages while trekking.
Hammams are separated into male and female rooms. First you strip down and enter a hot, steamy, darkened room. Then you are given warm water and black soap to rub all over yourself. When this process if finished, a woman in the hammam motions for you to lie down on a table. The table was not built for comfort; it is topped with tiles. Since I was covered in soap, I was very slippery. When getting up onto the table, I felt like a seal at one of those aquarium shows. Gliding on my slipperiness, and I nearly slid across the tiles. If I hadn’t been able to self-arrest, my slide would have resulted in a nasty fall to the cement floor.
Next the woman dons a rough mitt and scrubs you down. It’s kind of a pleasure/pain thing. It hurts for a micro-second, but then it feels relieving to have the top layer of your skin removed. The skin comes off in sheets; it is crazy. Three weeks worth of accumulated sun screen being sloughed off my body.
I spent the afternoon cruising more of the souq with two group members who hadn’t yet explored the market. I found it was much less hassle to explore the shops with other people; I wasn’t pestered as much as when I was solo.
Later that evening we had a lovely dinner of tagine and couscous as our grand finale send off meal. I slathered my plate with a dark layer of pepper in an attempt to reawaken my comatose taste buds. All of us in the group said our goodbyes. I was on my own once again.
My final day in Morocco I had booked a two-hour horse ride in the mountains. A private English-speaking guide picked me up at my hotel at 9 AM. First we drove to a scenic overlook on a reservoir that apparently is the big source of water for Marrakesh. Then we drove to a Berber village up on the mountainside. As we turned into a driveway in a non-descript adobe type building, my expectations were sinking fast. I was sure they’d put me on a mule instead of a horse.
Exiting the vehicle, I was invited to partake of the mint tea. Sampling the tea, I almost spit it out when the man led a horse my direction. It was a BEAUTIFUL very large (tall) and muscular horse with an English saddle. It turned out to be a mare, but I could not identify the exact breed. She was so tall; I didn’t think I could mount the saddle without assistance. I was just barely able to hook my foot in the stirrup and fling myself into the saddle.
Once out riding, the horse responded to the least little nudge or command. Someone had invested time training this horse. When we went into a trot, she would shake her head as if to say “let’s RUN”. The scenery while riding was fantastic. We ascended in elevation higher and higher in the mountains. It happened to be wheat harvest season, and I saw men using donkeys to separate the wheat from the straw. Whenever my horse would pass near these donkeys, the jacks would attempt to break free and visit my mare. She was definitely up for it, and I had to do more than nudge her to keep her traveling on her way.
My private guide met me on a 4x4 road. We then drove to a luxury resort for a late lunch. The food was fantastic French gourmet, but it took hours for the waiter to serve the meal. I gave up before desert and coffee and just asked for the bill. The waiter visibly said something angrily when he picked up his tip. Apparently he is used to higher tips for making the meal drag out all day.
The private guide drove me to the Cyber Park in Marrakesh. It’s this crazy place that combines a park atmosphere with Internet access. You stroll around the beautiful gardens, and then see these Kiosks throughout the park where you can log on for free. Somehow they use an on-screen keyboard. I didn’t try them because I figured they were in French or Arabic. In the center of the park there was a full blown Internet Café. It was a most unusual city park, especially for a country with only a 52% literacy rate.
Next we drove to Palmeraie. It’s just on the outskirts of Marrakesh, but a world away. I was told that soldiers in ancient times dropped date seeds, and this large area grew palm trees as a result. Within the palm tree forest, there were numerous camel ride offerings. Also in this area were luxury resorts and golf courses. It was completely different than the crowds, noise, and pollution of Marrakesh.
In all, my “two hour” horse ride started at 9 AM and I returned to my hotel at 7 PM! During all that, I managed to spend the last of all my Moroccan money (dirhams).
Normally the narrative would end here, but my biggest crisis in Morocco was yet to come. At the Marrakesh airport, I was informed that they had “no record” of my E-ticket. Even though I had a print out of my confirmation, I was informed that “my information was not in the computer system”. Incredibly, Air Morocco does not have a ticket office in the airport. The ticket office was in the town of Marrakesh somewhere. If I were to take a taxi into town to get this mess straightened out, there was not enough time to return before my flight took off. I asked if I could just buy my way to Casablanca, and the airline agent informed me they “don’t take credit cards”.
I managed to get a ticket to Casablanca only. When I arrived in Casablanca, the worse possible thing happened -- luggage didn’t arrive. The airline police directed me to walk to the end of the terminal for “customer service”. What awaited me at the end of the terminal was shocking. Tons of luggage stacked in long rows – I’ve never seen so much lost luggage. I knew there was no way that my lost bag would be forwarded to the US. This area looked like a luggage storage area, not a luggage reclaim area.
I waited in line for about 45 minutes listening to the lone customer service representative speak French to the other travelers. I’m thinking “I’m doomed”. Waiting in this line will guarantee I’ll never get my flight straightened out. Then my luck seemed to change. A worker walked briskly over to me and spoke French and gestured wildly up the terminal. I took that for a chance my luggage had been found, and risked my precious spot in the lost luggage line.
Sure enough, my bag had mysteriously appeared. But now there was another problem. A policeman was standing beside it, and also speaking French to me. He pointed to my bag and then pointed to the gun in his holster. I said “no” and shook my head indicating I did not have a gun in my luggage. Apparently that was not what he was saying, because he proceeded to repeat the charade again – pointing to my bag and then pointing to his gun. I just smiled and reached for the bag. I’ll never know what he was saying, but he didn’t stop me from taking the bag.
The clock had been ticking. It was a race against time. I now had three hours before my flight would take off, and I had to get myself rebooked on an airplane. I asked directions to the Air Morocco ticket office. After manually hauling my bags upstairs (the elevator appeared to be broken), I waited another 20 minutes or so in line to speak to an agent.
“Who told you to come here?” asked the agent in English. Again I showed my printed itinerary and re-explained my no-computer-records problem. “You need to go to Terminal 3. There are agents there that can help you”.
I was in Terminal 1. After going to both ends of the terminal, I resorted to waiting in line at the Information Counter to ask where the heck was Terminal 3? I was told to go outside at Terminal 1 and take a bus. Funny, I couldn’t seem to exit at Terminal 1. Every where I turned had glass doors and windows that wouldn’t open, even though I could see outside. I felt like a hamster in one of those habitrails.
OK, let’s try the second level (hauling my bags up the escalator this time), and what do you know—an exit. As you may expect, there were no signs indicating a waiting area for buses to Terminal 3. There was a white bus parked on the right, but it had curtains so I assumed it was a tourist bus. I saw a security officer, so I walked over and asked about the mysterious Terminal 3 bus. “You wait right here. Big red bus will come in 5 minutes”. So I waited and waiting, getting very ancy because the clock was really ticking down now.
Finally a big red bus marked “Airport Hotel” pulled in behind the white bus. Just to make sure, I hauled my luggage over there and asked the driver. “Are you the bus for Terminal 3?” “No”, he replied and motioned me to the white bus I had seen earlier. No driver was in the white bus, so I stood around until someone showed up. Sure enough, this was the elusive bus to Terminal 3. When the bus finally started, it felt like we drove into Casablanca and to a different (much older) airport. It was hard to believe Terminal 3 even shared the same runways as the main airport.
As you may expect, the line for check-in at Terminal 3 was horrendous. I waited patiently for my turn, only to be told by the gate agent that “I was not in their computer system”. “I was told you could fix it”, I explained. “You are not in our system. You need to go to the ticket office”.
This went back and forth, a manager was summoned, then I was directed to an office outside the check in area. I took my place in yet another line. My luck finally turned at this point – the couple in front of me had the exact same problem. However, the man spoke fluent French and they both had seat confirmations. The discussion in French became heated. The office woman turned her computer screen to the man. The man gestured wildly to his airline confirmation paperwork. It was a stalemate. The office woman would not help. We weren’t getting on that plane.
Since I was next in line, I thought I’d give it a shot playing the ultra-nice I’ll give you some cash if you get me on that plane wink wink. I offered to simply buy a brand new ticket to New York. “I can’t sell you one, it’s less than two hours before the flight” she alleged. The office woman not only showed me her computer screen, but she went on to print me a new confirmation on those airline ticket papers – for the following morning. It had my name, the flight number, and the time. However, there was one major problem. That flight no longer existed. Hadn’t the Air Morocco computers in Morocco been synched with reality in the past month? I knew before I left Utah that Air Morocco had cancelled the next day’s flight.
I slid under the security line, and asked to see that manager again. Sure enough, the flight printed on my ticket for the next day did not exist. So now I was really in nowhere land……. When I informed office woman that the manager verified there was no flight the next day, she instructed me to see “Mr. ____ in Terminal 2” and he could assist me in getting a hotel in Casablanca. When I requested she phone Delta airlines (Air Morocco’s supposed partner airline), the office woman loudly exclaimed “I am done with you!”
I looked for a payphone to call Delta or Orbitz. The only pay phones in Terminal 3 used calling cards (not credit cards), and there wasn’t a single place to buy a calling card in Teriminal 3. I ran up and down the terminal looking for some way to make a phone call. I was sweating bullets; time was really running out. Things looked grim.
Amazingly, the couple who spoke French was able to use their own mobile phone to contact Delta. I pleaded with the woman to also advise Delta of my name and get my flight straightened out, too. Delta said that we were “in the system” and “had confirmed seats” on the airplane.
We rushed back to the now empty ticket counter and begged the woman to try the computer once more. In my peripheral vision, I saw security personnel starting to close in on us from two sides. Amazingly, we were suddenly in the computer system. The agent was rushing to get our boarding passes printed; Final boarding had already been announced. We put our luggage on the scale, never thinking we’d ever see it again.
My last memories of Morocco are running for that final boarding gate. I had to go through the metal detector and passport check once again……I was so close to getting out of there, but I still might not make it in time…….. If I didn’t make this flight, I’d be stuck in Morocco at least two more days until there was a genuine flight to the US…. Finally I arrived at the door to the outside and looked out. I could see my plane. The plane still had a set of steps leading to an open door!!! I ran as fast as I could across the tarmac and up the steps.
My seat was in the very back of the plane. I sunk wearily into my seat, very sweaty and thirsty. Immediately I felt an enormous sense of relief. I was never so glad to board an aircraft. I was on my way home! The euphoria of four successful summits, and lots of other extraordinary memories would accompany my journey home.