You can say a lot about Estonia (1), but not that it’s a mountainous country.
Okay, Lasnamäe was built on a plateau of limestone and extreme euphemists – the type of people who’d say that Donald Trump is one sandwich short of a picnic – call the region around Karksi-Nuia and Otepää ‘the Switzerland of the Baltics’. Let’s say they’ve never been in a hundred-kilometre radius of the Alps. But even with those terms in mind, you won’t need to pack climbing irons for the highest mountain molehill in the country. Not even now that it got a few metres higher. What did you expect from a landscape pimple with the name of Big Egg Mountain? And yes, there’s also a Small Egg Mountain. Reinhold Messner already calls for his mother.
When Anete and I discussed holiday plans, I insisted on going to the mountains.
You can say a lot about Estonia (2), but not that it’s a warm country. Chances are small you’ll get a sunstroke. A vitamin D deficit is more likely. A little extra sunshine in November, before we dived into the relentless Estonian winter, was a second requirement for our trip.
Add a limited travel budget and ditto amount of holidays, and it shouldn’t surprise when, a few weeks later, we sit in a steel bird with destination Agadir. Because Morocco may evoke associations with vast Sahara vistas – of sequences of dunes, like an endless sea of sand – it is indeed the mountains that give the country its backbone.
Or better: several backbones, because High Atlas, Middle Atlas, Anti-Atlas as well as Rif Mountains lie like veins over the land. The first three are part of the mythical Atlas Mountains, a range that spans 2000 kilometre through Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia, from Agadir to Tunis. They form the natural borders between the bone-dry Sahara in the south and the more fertile Mediterranean coastal areas. And they are a dream place to romp for a boy with nostalgia for toothed peaks and dusty mountains trails.
Who is in a hurry, is already dead
Imlil is the polar opposite of Marrakesh. Gone are the noise, the stink of exhaust gases, the traffic and the pollution. Gone are the market vendors who’d sell their own grandmother at a discount price. Hello, silence and fresh air and postcard-worthy panoramas. The Berbers don’t call the Atlas Mountains ‘mountains of mountains’ for no reason. Imlil, 1700 metre above sea level, lies literally at the end of the tarmac, in the heart of the High Atlas. Snow-covered mountains attract skiers from November to April. Just don’t get started about the after-ski parties.
Many hikers use Imlil as the base for a trip to the Toubkal, with its 4,167 metres the roof of North Africa. We limit ourselves, somewhat modestly, to a few brisk hikes through nature and mountains. An Arabic proverb reads: “Who is in a hurry, is already dead.” After the madness in Marrakesh, it feels good to spend time in an environment where the clock ticks a little slower.
Mosque in the middle
We arrive in the early afternoon. After the obligatory mint tea, nuts and cookies on the rooftop, this leaves us ample time for an initial exploration. Up the hill towards a small mountain village, along dusty roads covered with dried goat and sheep shit, passing mysterious trees, clusters of stones and cemented irrigation channels. Men of all ages push their donkeys up, veiled women keep an eye on the cattle. It’s a brutal environment – harsh landscapes, rocks and valleys, rugged reddish-brown hills and footpaths that wind their way upwards, small but busy Berber villages with dry stack walls, flat roofs, and houses of dried clay.
It’s a huge cliché, but time does seem to stand still here. Because of the relative impenetrable nature of the Atlas Mountains, these villages are strongholds of traditionalism. The Berbers live with and from nature. This is the countryside of Morocco, where traditions persist, where many women and girls cannot read and where the mosque is the centre of everything. Moroccan education is amongst the worst in the world. Many children stay at home, especially in the countryside. It is not uncommon to see children in the mountain villages begging for candy or a dirham.
We continue our way over a bridge onto another slope and then we slowly descend to Imlil again. We must hurry: evenings cool down rapidly in the Atlas Mountains. And the houses have no heating. Fortunately, Said, the manager of our inn, is the sweetest person in the world and he brings us an extra thick blanket. Which brings the total to three. We crawl under those early that evening.
Tom, the Moroccan
A good night of sleep is much needed for our next day promises to be tough. Said arranged a guide for us. Ibrahim, his neighbour in the village, is a fantastic guy. His 10-year-old son accompanies us all day, the youngest of four children. Shouldn’t he be in school? No, it’s a Saturday and he has a day off. The son is a well-behaved young man, who spontaneously offers to carry our sweaters and who helps his father whenever possible.
In the forest, a mule driver joins us for a while. We climb steadily to a tea house on a mountain pass, situated at an altitude of 2.280 metres. A few Berbers slurp tea in a stone barrack, but we’re seating ourselves on the garden chairs outside. The terrace offers a grand view of the adjacent valley. The tea, supplemented with wild thyme, tastes terrific. Or I might be gradually turning into a Moroccan.
Ibrahim tells us that the government planted most of the pine trees. A matter of avoiding a repetition from the disaster of 1995, when a huge amount of rain in a short period of time flooded Imlil. People died and agricultural yields dried up for years. The mountain pass forms the tree line. Afterwards, we climb like mountain goats over desolate dusty paths, over rocks and past sparse bushes and yellowish spiky plants, until we reach the top of the Adrar Tamalroute, 2.724 metres above sea level.
Praying on the mountain top
That natural terrace offers an excellent view of the whopper called Toubkal, with some tufts of snow on top, as well as an old mine quarry across the valley. The High Atlas is chock-full of natural resources – iron, lead, copper, silver, mercury, you name it. Vegetation is scarce. The iconic animals of the past are long gone. The lions of the Atlas have been extinct for a while, just like the Atlas bears. Thanks to the son’s eagle eyes, we do spot a fox.
Speaking of bears: Ibrahim is making a few sandwiches for us. (Those who don’t get this reference should familiarise themselves with the canon of Dutch-language children songs.) Afterwards, he asks to be excused. He still has to pray and his elevated position – geologically speaking – does not release him from his duties as a good Muslim. After which he suggests to descend via a different route. Translation: away from the path, more or less straight down. We constantly slide away on grit and regularly get acquainted with the large variety of prickly plants that grow on the slope. While I am struggling my way down with the elegance of a crippled moose, the 10-year-old son darts down the slope with gigantic jumps.
Hooray, a cow!
Afterwards, Ibrahim takes us to his village, where he serves us tea in his house of clay and concrete. The village lies right in front of our guesthouse, on the slope across the valley. From the terrace of the inn, the village looked pretty decent. The reality is different: medieval houses surrounded by muddy paths on which chickens, goats and sheep roam. You can say a lot about Estonia (3), but not that it is a bad place to live.
While he cracks open a few walnuts, Ibrahim proudly tells us that his guide work allowed him to buy a cow and send his four children to school. Next year, his son will start high school – in Asni, about 15 kilometres away. He wants to become a pilot, his older brother works as a steward at Ryanair. I hope his dream comes true.
In the evening, we sit on the terrace of our guesthouse. It is half-past four, the sun has just disappeared behind the mountains and I am tired but satisfied after a long day up and down in the Atlas Mountains. And I feel like an ice-cold beer, as always after a long hike. But we are in Morocco, a Muslim country, and so beer is as easy to find as a ladyshave in Lena Dunham’s bathroom. And that’s okay, we’ll do fine with coffee and litres of sweet mint tea. It’s my motto – you can have everything in life, just not at the same time. And you can say a lot about Estonia (4), but not that its inhabitants cannot brew beer.
We stayed at Atlas Imoula, which we couldn’t recommend highly enough.
First published in Dutch on Tom’s blog.