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Published: September 7th 2007
Morocco was rife with a wide variety of challenges...physical, cultural, mental, olfactory, gastrointestinal. You name it, we did our darnedest to beat it. Despite the tale of woe, hardships, climatic extremes and projectile vomit that you´re about to read, Morocco was one of the most rewarding destinations in our travels. Our ascent of Jebel Toubkal, highest mountain in north Africa was perhaps the highlight. The excitement builds...we´re bound for heights almost twice the altitude of the top of Australia, and it´s a challenge that we can´t wait to face. We´re travelling with our Swiss friend Andreas, and we´re grateful to have him and his mountaineering skills along for the ride.
We make it to the tiny mountain village of Imlil (1600m) by the only way we can find from Marrakech - taxi. It´s the longest taxi ride either of us have ever taken, and very beautiful. In the distance we can see the twin peaks of Toubkal against the grey, threatening sky (but our driver says it always looks that way when it´s hot...and it is HOT...lingering somewhere around 50 degrees CELCIUS in the city!)
During the last part of the approach, the flat valley
floor is scattered with small green pastures enclosed in dark grey, dry stone walls. Here and there, a solitary woman sits, robed in her bright, hooded jellaba, quietly watching her sole cow. Small groups of women and children sit in the evening shade of walnut trees. It´s idyllic and lovely - with a narrow green river winding on down the valley.
We all love Imlil immediately. It´s a tiny town where we can breathe the cooler mountain air, enjoy the quiet of the countryside and prepare for the next big day. Our Berber hosts are cheery and helpful and we devour far more of their divine tagine than is necessary, savouring the slightly burned vegetable taste. The sun sets over the lovely scene we´re enjoying from our terrace, the muezzins wail out the evening call to prayer and we divvy up the great stack of food we have acquired on our provisions trip around the village.
We sleep quite well on the floor mattresses until 3am, when the call to prayer echoes out yet again, and I´m drawn yet again to the loo, where I wonder why they seem to pray more often here than in
Turkey or Egypt.
My morning begins with one of each of the following: an antihistamine, an abdominal pain killer and a stopper (you can guess what that is if you don´t know), all washed down with some warm yoghurt. The combination works well and we´re good to go.
At just after 7am we head up the path from the top end of town, through a walnut grove en route to Aroumd. We pass locals leading their heavily laden mules down to Imlil. Aroumd village covers the hillside across the valley to our left, as we turn south and venture out of the shade into the rocky, dry river bed. I tap along behind the other two with my walking sticks, enjoying the panorama of them with their big packs at the foot of these impressive mountains. We´re supposed to follow a clear mule trail, but we´ve soon lost it. After we pass some women lugging great loads of green hay-like stuff on their backs, we head up the left side of the valley, aiming for the "very large rock" amongst many large rocks. The path is steep and zigzaggy here, I´ve taken the big pack, and
I feel it.
Once at the big rock, the trail leads us at a fairly easy incline along the valley, high above the tasty looking river that I´m starting to fantasise about throwing myself in when we make it to the top. Instead, we get to Sidi Chamarouch, a REALLY big rock, painted white - and pilgrimage destination for Muslim travellers. We indulge in a freshly squeezed orange juice, get schmoozed by Mohammed and make a date for a stop in his shop in 2 days, and watch a pilgrim woman in a pretty pink hat be borne past on her mule. The shrine and associated shops are nestled amongst some lovely cascades, and I´m keen to have lunch here but we need to push on to avoid hiking in the worst heat. It´s somewhere around 40 degrees, and despite the breeze, we´re a hot and thirsty group. The trail is very straightforward and we simply follow the sweaty mules all the way to the refuge - our destination for the day at 3200m. We arrive about 1pm and settle outside to have some lunch. I slop a tomato seed on my boot, where it dries and survives
there through all subsequent hiking and adventure for 12 days.
Andreas tells us we should try to gain some altitude in preparation for the next day. He´s soon off to explore, but Gareth and I just meander up behind the refuge, check out the waterfall and suss out the start of the summit path. Napping is good.
We´re off at 5am on summit day, fuelled by a huge dinner of cous cous and tuna sauce and a dire breakfast of cornflakes, sugar and lukewarm milk. It´s barely dawn when we set off, cross the river and climb up the east side of the waterfall. As the sky lightens, we see that it´s pretty overcast, but we can only hope that it clears before we reach the top and the alleged views out as far as the Sahara desert. Andreas sets a very slow but steady pace, and I only have one short stabbing headache, but it´s more about hayfever than altitude. After the waterfall we traverse the scree slope and venture out across the field of boulders. When the guide of a group up ahead spots us on just any old boulders, he desperately calls out
Tanger beach
A nice stroll to ease us into the Moroccan heat...not so good for swimming.for us to come back to the path, shouting "You´ll make the rocks come down!"
We´re headed for the pass of Tizi n´Toubkal. Nobody is really sure where it is, but we stop for a rest at a big rock and we figure that we´re at about 3900m, though we´re probably not that high yet, as there´s still quite a climb above us. Right near the top, we´re passing a group of 10 or so and they cut me off from Gareth and Andreas. The altitude kicks in and I find myself perhaps a little irrationally furious at the prospect of being jammed between two heaving strangers for the final ascent. There´s none of the amazing freedom and wilderness that the mountains can so easily offer (when you´re not part of a big wheezing group). I get even more frustrated when a stupid blonde girl in SHORTS (It´s COLD now!) and a huge bright blue poncho (and raining and snowing too!) keeps trying to charge through in front of me, even though I´m keeping up just nicely with the rest of her ovine group. Luckily for everyone involved, Gareth stops to wait for me as the terrain levels
out and the summit comes into view, so we reach the top together, instead of alone in the midst of strangers´arses.
WE´VE MADE IT! We´re at 4167 metres, atop North Africa´s tallest peak, and higher than we´ve ever been before. Tiny, hard chunks of snow batter us and stain our clothes, sunglasses and camera lenses with dusty spots. The temperature drops to 5 degrees and we can see nothing much of the view that´s meant to extend past the dry pinky Atlas mountains to that big sandy desert. Nonetheless, we have cause to celebrate, and we do, with choc chip cookies and orange anti-cramp mineral drink. Then it´s just too freakin´cold and we´re ready for the much dreaded return trip. Well, Andreas decides to tackle a nearby peak, but he´s already reached the top before we´ve made it down the first hideous part of the descent - loose pebbles, dust and rocks hanging on a steep slope with no stable footing anywhere. The walk up has been especially kind to my temperamental knees and I´m now trying to put off the inevitable downhill pain as long as possible. I´m terrified of falling over, or rather of skidding infinitely
Religion in a hurry
Donation box for those without the time to pray in the mosque downhill on my bum. My Dad would say that this is precisely why I do fall... twice, and then end up in tears (of frustration, not pain). Our downward progress is (almost impossibly) slower than our crawl up and when Andreas catches up to us, we urge him to continue on at his own pace. Gareth could easily keep up with him, but he sticks with me and my slow stagger. We both make it back to the refuge exhausted, and after a huge pasta meal, we crash into bed for most of the afternoon, which we spend mostly comatose. My only conscious moments involve wondering how exactly my mouth can have not one drop of moisture in it. I keep waking up with my tongue stuck firmly to the roof of my mouth, and it´s very uncomfortable. We get up to have some awful tomato soup with stale bread croutons and are ready for bed again immediately afterwards. It´s not that the hike was terribly long, it´s just that the air is so darned thin!
We have no sleeping bag or blankets, only our silk sleeping sheets. In my stripey purple long johns and t-shirt, I´m warm
enough, and sleeping contently - until....In a great rush of wetness and noise and motion I´m torn from my slumber and forced to work out fast what the hell is happening to me. So unexpected is the situation that it takes me a few moments to click - I´m being vomited on, violently and prolifically. Gareth is awfully sick and everybody in our room knows it. We get him out of his sheet and a nice English dad thankfully takes charge and helps me carry the mattress and its foul tomatoey puddle outside, to be dealt with later. I get Gareth some clean clothes and spend half an hour trying to rinse the regurgitated soup off in the icy water of the bathroom. Worried about the likely probability that he has (potentially fatal) altitude sickness, I join him in the warmer common room and start to feel a bit sick myself. We try to sleep, but by first light, he´s running to the awful squat loos with stomach problems too, and my cottonmouth has returned. My guts are still no good, but the magical Loperamide (stoppers) are saving me from the squat experience.
Andreas and I down a
bit of breakfast and I repack the bag so Gareth only has to carry the camera. It seems unlikely he´ll even be able to carry himself down the hill, but when we consider hiring a mule for him to ride, he stoically insists on walking. We start out an hour later than planned, and although I´m unable to make Gareth feel better, at least I feel useful carrying the big pack. It´s still cool when we start out, but once the sun´s out, the temperature is in the high 30s and we´re quite ready to strip off some layers. At Sidi Chamarouch, a mental goal for both of us, we can only watch as Andreas does some shopping from the wrong Mohammed. The right Mohammed emerges too late and expresses his discontent as our "broken promise". We protest that we looked for him but his doors were closed and he was nowhere to be seen.
After leaving the shrine Gareth crashes out a bit and the heat strengthens, so we shelter in the shade of yet another big rock. The dust blows in our faces as poor Gareth tries not to lose the fruit and water he´s just
managed to get down. We plod on some more, passing many pilgrims along the way. The path is relatively easy and level now, but by the time the valley comes into view, my knees are suffering. As we pick our way across the winding mule trail, through the rock-filled valley, we must look pretty haggard, and a few young lads offer the services of their mules. When we decline, they race off, hooves clattering on the loose stones.
By now I´ve seen more rocks than anywhere else in my life...every size, shape, colour and a bugger to walk on. They´re really making me feel a little crazy. Staggering through Aroumd we can barely muster our standard "No thankyou"s or "Maybe later"s to the shopkeepers touting for business. We arrive back in Imlil still with the vague plan of making it to the coast that evening as planned, but after a few phonecalls, it seems near impossible that both transport and accommodation will work out, and we gratefully decide to stay in Imlil and sleep.
Bloody marvellous experience...in hindsight.
You´ve probably noticed that we´ve been a little absent from our blogging duties recently. 17,000 kilometres of North American zigzagging road-tripping hasn´t been too conducive to keeping in touch. We´ve spent too much glorious time camping and backcountry hiking in the Rocky Mountains and the Grand Canyon, wedding hopping and enjoying the delights of American fast food all across the continent, with Nathan and his trusty steed, Spud.
Last night we made it to Quito, Ecuador...SOUTH AMERICA! This is the final leg of the Bonza Adventure, and while we have many, many post-Morocco stories to tell, it seems unlikely that we´ll have much time to chronicle them in our blog while we´re trekking to Machu Picchu (at altitude...and even higher than Jebel Toubkal!), baking on Bolivian salt lakes and glacier hiking in Patagonia. We certainly don´t have enough time to fit in all we want to before getting home. If there´s still interest, we´ll catch up on blogs and photos when we get home. So, for now, we say hasta luego. We´ll be home in 68 days.
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Nathan
non-member comment
wow
Brilliantly written as usual! Hillarious even!