Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Feel the Fresh Air from Imlil


The polluted air, full of car exhaust, steaming trash, and scents of 2 million people, whirls and settles into your pores. A walk means nearly being smushed by a rushing car, accosted by honks, and whistled at by obnoxious boys. After a while, the noise and confusion, dry and cracked dirt, and chaos of the city wears us a little thin and we need to escape. This weekend we had the perfect opportunity to do just that, take a hike up a mountain and throw a few snowballs. 
Our group consisted of five people from our group and then eleven Moroccans, many of whom had never been to Imlil or on a hike of such magnitude. We arrived in Imlil, a small town by Mount Toubkal (the highest mountain in Norther Africa). The name means "White" in the local Berber dialect and the town was aptly named for the plentiful snow in the area.  We started through to walk up the road. To the left there were terraces that made me feel like I was in the Asian countryside, unexpectedly green and lush. The steep and rocky path led up through a number of clay block houses, adobe of a sort I thought was only used in Mexico. 

It turns out there are a number of similarities between Mexico an Morocco although they have 5680 miles of ocean between their lands. The deserts and shrubs look alike, the unique argon tree only grows in Morocco and one small patch in Mexico, the construction types are similar, both are third world countries, developed with Spanish influence on language and culture, and traditional cloths in bright colors adorn the villagers. The food is not as spicy and there is not as much corn but other than that, it would be easy to imagine myself in a Mexican village instead.

The small children, dressed in worn clothing, look at us with wide-eyed wonder, some a bright blue, uncharacteristic of most people I see. Many of the Berber people look much different than the Arabs. Some have lighter hair, skin, and eyes and I think they are beautiful. I love seeing light eyes looking out from behind a painted door or from beneath a woven shawl. Chickens scurry across the muddy paths, covered in straw. Donkeys and mules, virtually indistinguishable, stumble along under hefty loads of dirt and concrete blocks. But looking beyond the buildings, snowcapped peaks rise in the distance with a few dusty hills supporting them. Life looks serene but also rough because of the lack of development. People rely on their own labor to create community.

We climbed, plodding along and sometimes slipping on the unstable gravel. The air was fresh and chilled from pine and snow melting on the ground, streaming through the tumbling rocks. The sun was shining so that I was warmed but the breeze made my sweat feel frozen. We all supported each other and kept going, slowly mounting the rises until we made it to the top. From there, the view was tremendous of the haze and snow-covered mountains rising up, backed by the sun. Our leg muscles burned and  our water bottles were nearly empty when we reached the top and sat, staring off at opposing views. One side displayed a typical village far below and a number of twisting dirt roads down the mountain but on the other side were the perfect rows of trees buried in snow drifts. We dug bread out of our bags and rolled out kefta at a roadside hut. The old man had some tables and a few seemingly empty rooms that he invited us into so we could barbecue the kefta over some outside coals. It satisfied our tired bodies and we set out for the "easy" descent which ended in us sliding down the rocky slopes and stubbing our toes. It took virtually no time at all before I could no longer see the view from the top which was a shame considering the effort put in but by the time I reached the town below, I felt exhilarated and alive. 

Many of the Moroccans were already homesick and ready to be back in the city and when we started passing the walls of Marrakech, we smelled the familiar scents of the city and knew we were home.

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