Ourika? Eureka!

 

I’m happy to announce that today’s blog post is sponsored by Nooco! Now, you might be wondering exactly who, or what, Nooco is. I’m glad you asked! As far as I’m concerned, Nooco is the greatest packaged cookie, or biscuit if you’re a communist, that has ever graced this green earth. To explain, a rich, smooth, decadent square of perfectly made Moroccan milk chocolate is layered on top of a crisp, buttery, vanilla-flavored cookie, somewhat akin to an animal cracker (if said animals were raised free-range on a strict diet of Bermuda grass), and then finished off with a pinch of what can only be Colombian crack cocaine. And, if that wasn’t already incentive enough, a packet of four Nooco cookies will set you back only .50 Cents (yep, we’re definitely Poppin’ Them Thangs). So, here I wallow, on a bender of Noocos and Moroccan boxed milk, which is just regular milk except way more disgusting, with crumbs, slivers of chocolate, and empty cookie wrappers littering my half-naked body as I slowly, peacefully embark on a sugar-fueled psychedelic trip—but don’t worry, I can quit anytime I want. Yeah…Noocos. To know them is to love them, and to love them is to buy four packs instead of lunch. Don’t even get me started on the sandwich variety. Anyway, what am I here for? Oh yeah, I went to the mountains! 

Strange promotional Nooco paragraph notwithstanding, this week’s blog will focus on the highlight of my recent trip and the singular best day I’ve had in Morocco to date. Said adventure was a trip I took to the Atlas Mountains to visit a traditional Amazigh village. Unfortunately, I don’t know the name of the exact village in which this cathartic getaway occurred, but the closest major inhabited settlement is the commune of Ourika in southern Morocco. I’d say that the village I visited is probably another half hour up the narrow, winding mountain road—at least by van; donkey is another story. To get to our village, we woke up early and had a rousing breakfast of eggs so hard-boiled they could have starred in Chinatown, sliced cucumber, and cubes of mystery meat that would make a can of Spam look like a prime cut of ribeye. At least there was the reliable plate of harcha bread (I’m naming my firstborn after that stuff). Actually, I’m not complaining—I enjoy any continental breakfast where the main event isn’t cereal. After breakfast, we grabbed our stuff and headed for the vehicles. Our usual, obnoxiously large Greyhound tour bus was too large for the roads we were going to be taking, so we split up into three vans and set off to leave civilization behind. I initially grabbed a window seat on the van so that I could lean against it and try and get some extra sleep, but that proved difficult despite the fact that it was quiet enough in our van to hold a wake, so I was forced to look out the window like a kid on road trip with screen time restrictions. Actually, I was glad of my chance to watch the scenery for a couple of reasons. For one, it was intriguing to see the transformation of the social landscape as we left the armpit of Morocco (Marrakech) and traveled into the wilderness. The craze of big city life was quickly left behind and replaced by smaller towns, which in turn were eclipsed by increasingly diminutive villages. Another reason I was grateful for my window seat was because of the changes to the physical landscape. The flat terrain of the land continued uninterrupted for a significant portion of the journey, but after a while the jagged shapes of the mountains materialized like an oasis through the pervasive haze. Seriously, at first I was struggling to determine if I was actually seeing mountains or if it was just one of those eggs catching up to me, but before long it became clear that I was looking at some mountains—really tall ones. Before long, we started our ascent, driving on roads so contorted it was like they had a sociopathic chiropractor. Okay, I’m being a little dramatic, but I did start getting kind of antsy when my neighbor announced the roads were “doing him dirty” before refusing to accept either a vomit bag or a different seat. Still, we made it to the top without any technicolor yawns and were finally able to get off our ride. 

The first thing I noticed upon exiting the van was how clear and clean the air was. I hadn’t really thought about it before, or maybe I’d just gotten used to it, but all the larger cities are thick with dust, smoke, and exhaust. We had stopped on an upper mountain road with the valley of the village stretching before us. With such clean air, we could see every detail of the village and the landscape beyond. Some of the more photographically inclined students among our group pulled cameras from bags and attached lenses that looked like they’d be illegal to own in California so they could really zoom in on the details. After getting a couple minutes to grab our things and admire the view, we formed up and started following our guide down a rocky path between some structures on the outskirts of the village. Our first stop was no more than 200 yards from where the vans dropped us off. We had arrived at the house of the family who provides hosting opportunities for groups who want to visit this particular village. This family opens their home for visitors to see Amazigh living conditions, and they host us with tea and a meal of traditional Moroccan dishes. One especially notable thing about Moroccan culture is their practice of hospitality. Every Moroccan home I’ve been in thus far has a salon or living area with long couches placed around the perimeter of the room with round tables in the center. This allows the family to host a significant number of guests without becoming overwhelmed. Despite the humble construction of this home, the living room was designed to accommodate for this practice. Almost all of our entire group of 30+ were able to sit on these comfortable couches and enjoy a glass of tea loaded with mint and cloves. The tea was delicious, and the cool mountain air blowing in through the windows made for a lovely atmosphere. I felt more relaxed than I had since arriving in the country. Outside, the few people who weren’t able to pack into the living room enjoyed their tea on a blanket and pillows spread on the hardened mud patio, while the host family rushed back and forth between the two groups—working hard to make sure their hospitality extended to everyone.

After sitting inside for around half an hour, we all collected our shoes and congregated outside the home to set off on our day hike. We would be returning to the home after the hike in order to eat, but for now we were headed along the trail that led towards the village. When I say “hike,” you might imagine our large group traversing a steep, narrow trail up one of the magisterial mountains around us. The truth was a little less impressive but a lot more manageable. The descent to the valley where the village lay was slow and gradual—with a trail that often disappeared and left us just walking along the gently sloping fields and plains where the sheep grazed. Low stone walls delineated the territory of different residents and looked almost like something you’d see in Ireland instead of Africa. We walked unhurriedly, breathing in the cleansing mountain air and watching birds and shepherds alike while talking contentedly amongst ourselves. Before long, we arrived at another section of structures arrayed outside the center of the village. As we walked among these quiet homes, children and adults peeked from doors and windows to observe who was disturbing the tranquility of their village. Sometimes, some of the braver children would run into the group and walk with us awhile, happily chattering in Darija Arabic. Looking down alleys that ran adjacent to the main road, you’d see curiously decorated doors, men working on repairing homes, or old dogs languishing in the shade of the buildings. Eventually, we turned down a smaller path branching off from the one we had been walking on. Shaded overhead by scrubby trees and hugged by roughly manicured rose bushes and weathered fences, this trail bore us down a steeper section of the valley towards a nearly dry river. Once we’d reached the bed, we all dropped our bags to rest for a few minutes. Our guide began picking through the stones of the riverbed, looking for any walnuts that had fallen from a nearby tree. Thinking that looked like fun, and because there didn’t appear to be any hanoots nearby, I joined in to try and score a snack. It’s safe to say that I wouldn’t have made it as a caveman, since I gave up on trying my hand at walnut scavenging after opening three rotten ones in a row. Figuring my time was better served doing something else, I elected to sit on the ground and do nothing at all until someone told me otherwise. 

In short order, our break concluded, and we continued our walk through the riverbed. This was probably my very favorite part of the hike, as there wasn’t a building in sight, and we simply meandered among the rocks and the slight trickle of water winding between them, with verdant terraces set aside for farming sloping up from the riverbank and out of sight. At length, we came to some red rock cliffs looming menacingly over us—a steep, winding trail cutting a scar across their faces. Pointing to the footpath, our guide announced we had arrived at the part where we had to climb out of the valley we had slowly descended into over the past two hours. The hard-packed dirt of the previous trails had been replaced with loose soil and rocky shale, which made me curse my backpack and praise my hybrid Salomon hiking shoes. Once again, I’m exaggerating a little because I enjoy drama. The climb out was fine, and we stopped several times to drink water and take pictures for people’s dating profiles (not mine though. Sorry, Grandma). At the top of our climb, we turned to admire the view and grab some more shots for the camera roll. It was at this point I somewhat disappointingly realized that we weren’t ever going to go to the village center and see the mosque or any of the other structures up close. That was fine, though I would have liked a chance to get a little more personal with the Amazigh way of life. Still, I can understand that having a troupe of foreign students nosing around your town is probably not a super appealing idea. Instead of going further into the village, we turned and headed back along a track adjacent to the one we came in on. It only took about 20 minutes from our climb out to make it back to the house where we’d started. Removing our shoes once again, we gathered in the living room and relaxed while waiting for our meal. Of course, being that it was supposed to be a traditional experience, we were served the classic dishes of chicken tajine and couscous with vegetables. Everything was delicious, and after eating we had the opportunity to just sit around and talk for a while with no expectation of work or commitment in our immediate future. It was so peaceful. Still, all things must come to an end, and so finally we were called outside, where we made sure we had all our possessions before making the final, short walk to the vans and loading up to return to Marrakech. 

This visit to the Atlas Mountains was my favorite day in Morocco for a number of reasons, but principal among them was the fact that it was simply so peaceful. Being from Utah, the mountains are something that I have often taken for granted. They’re always there—reliable, but regular. Here, in a place where my daily experience is overwhelmed by schoolwork, unfamiliar assaults on my senses, whirlwind traffic, and a language that I still don’t feel like I know, the mountains served to cathartically reset my mind to a place where I felt completely comfortable for probably the first time since being here. Of course, there is no growth in one’s comfort zone, but I think it’s healthy to give yourself space to relish in tranquility every once in a while. That’s what these mountains did for me. It was also compelling to see how Amazigh people are living in the 21st century. I guess I was expecting something a little more akin to an Amish community, but mostly the people there dressed and acted more or less like the Moroccans in the city—just a little more surprised to see Americans. The only even slightly traditional practice I saw was a man trying to turn over his fields with a plough pulled by a donkey even more stubborn than one facing down a destroying angel, though it was a lot less vocal. So there you have it, my favorite day in Morocco as promised almost two weeks ago. I knew that my claim of posting the blog the day following the normal schedule was ambitious, but I didn’t think it would take until Friday to get it finished up. There’s a reason I write them on the weekends. Still, that means you’ll only have to wait two days for the next one (since I know people have nothing better to do than read my blog)! Regardless, this brings me to the end of another week here in al-Maghreb. Tomorrow, November begins, the start of my last full month here and the season of gratitude. I am grateful to be here, and I’m grateful to you for reading these and supporting me on this wild trip. Please be safe, take care, and be on the lookout for my next post. Happy Halloween!