In Awe of the Atlas

Omar was probably five feet tall, give or take an inch. His arms were like elongated rocks, rough, not river-worn. He used them to pull Jenny and I up over their real-life counterparts, little nasty guys that skidded beneath our shoes as we climbed toward a waterfall in Morocco’s Ourika Valley. No valley like I’d ever seen— a scrubby, sunburned crack of earth in the Atlas Mountains, but a distinctly beautiful crack, caulked by the bluest of skies.

Jenny and I were wearing skirts. Not a smart choice for a day-hike— but then, we were supposed to be strolling by the sea in the old Portuguese port-town of Essaouira, snapping pictures of sixteenth century ramparts, munching prawns. Not climbing to a waterfall in the Atlases after a rogue taxi driver and an overbooked bus left us with a change of plans. But five minutes into our drive to the Ourika and we knew we’d made no mistake: the landscape ran like a fast motion reel of Technicolor beyond our windowpane, dry and brittle earth yielding to something redder and richer, something undulating, something raw. And at the end of the road, the carrot-colored dwellings of Setti Fatma, and Omar’s ruddy face.

We hadn’t known what we were going to do in Setti Fatma; in Morocco, not knowing usually means getting talked into doing something else. Omar immediately offered to guide us to the waterfall for a small fee and we agreed, imagining a leisurely walk through the almond terraces we’d glimpsed from the car. We ambled by a water bottle sculpture garden and an alabaster trinket vendor sheathed in the fine white dust of his trade, but only a few minutes later we were short of breath, working our way up a rising trail. I was wearing sturdy leather boots, but Jenny was rocking saddle shoes and the terrain wasn’t treating them kindly. Every time she slipped I panicked, wondering what we’d gotten ourselves into. But Omar was always there, all five solid feet of him, and those five feet pulled and protected Jenny a long way.

At the waterfall we relished the spray, letting it hit our noses and cheeks while Omar looked on with amusement in his round black eyes. On the hike back he spoke in quiet tones about the history of his village, and though Jenny still slid, Omar’s knowing hand was still there to catch her. When we finally reached the village, splashing through a thin ribbon of river over prehistoric egg-like stones, we knew it was time to pay Omar, to say our good-byes.

But we were unwilling to give him up.

Setti Fatma sprawled around us: thin men leaned against their camels, awaiting paying riders; huts spilled over with gleaming jewelry and dishware; Berber tapestries flapped like oversized Tibetan prayer flags in the breeze. Everywhere there was something demanding our attention. But in this brief moment, at the conclusion of this most beautiful day, it was only Omar we cared to give it to.