Mountain Life

‘Taxi Berber. Taxi Berber…’

Our elderly cab driver chuckles to himself as we zoom past another mule by the roadside, wearily carrying more local indigenous people on its resilient back.

The chaos we’ve left behind in Marrakesh’s medina has now been welcomely replaced by rolling green pastures, home to clusters of Moroccans living off the land. Washing is done by hand not far from the road while children run and play in the dirt carefree.

Imlil is only a couple of hours’ drive south, but once we step out of the grand taxi we’ve bartered a ride in, it feels like we’ve been transported further back in time.

Gone are the snake-charmers, beggars in burkas and motorbikes – here, the pace of life is far slower, the people more gentle. Even a stray cat politely tiptoes to where I’m sitting, hopeful of a bite from my lunch. I’d like to oblige, but this apricot tagine is even more flavoursome than the ones I’ve been eating in the city.

This sustenance is what my three new travel friends and I need. After spending tonight in a clay-house village perched over the town, we’ll set off on a guided trek up Jebal Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa.

But on our way up to our first guesthouse, the magic of the Atlas Mountains is already revealing itself. From nowhere, a waterfall grabs our attention from down below. Locals swim in its alluring pool; drinks are kept cold nearby by hoses running non-stop as a substitute for refrigeration.

Our path criss-crosses uphill to the village, a preview of what’s to come. The rubble occasionally slips underfoot, but it’s nothing compared to the scree we’ll slide down upon descending Toubkal the morning after next.

We’re welcomed so warmly upon our arrival at the guesthouse that I wish it hadn’t taken me my 25 years on earth to make it here. Women and young girls sit in a circle on the concrete floor of one of the rooms, aware of we visitors but not at all perturbed. Not far from us, a slender old man clasping a water bottle sits, peering down to Imlil as though he’s witnessed this area evolve since the dawn of time.

He is one of the only local men we see on our first day here, as two more women pass by, carrying watermelons over their shoulders. But there’s no mistaking the husky, spine-tingling male Arab voice that wakes us in the early hours. It’s the call for prayer emanating from a nearby mosque and I’ve never been less disappointed to be roused at 4:00am.

This is mountain life and I’m loving every minute of it.