The Rooftop of North Africa (part one)

This is the story of myself, a mountain, and the people and events in between.

Even at midnight I was laying in bed sweating, unsuccessfully trying to take a nap before I had to leave. It felt as if I had walked into a dry sauna on Monday and couldn't escape, whether it be night or day. After another half-hour of laying there uncomfortably I got up, dressed, and grabbed my backpack, my lifeline for the weekend. In it was a variety of "high density foods" as I called them, my two cameras, an extra shirt and socks, and two books. Soon enough, I would be escaping the heat of Fes, and enjoying the cool, refreshing air of the high Atlas.
It was really only a few days before that I had settled on climbing Jebel Toubkal, North Africa's tallest mountain. I knew that at some point while I was in Morocco I wanted to get away and relax in the mountains for a weekend. That leisurely plan developed into the idea of bagging a peak during my stay. The week before I began looking into what peaks were relatively close to Fes, the high Atlas was hours away and going somewhere close would be easier. At the beginning of the week my plan was to go hike up Jebel Ayachi, the tallest mountain in the Eastern Atlas. It wasn't the highest peak, but it was only a five hour trip from Fes and would get me out into the high country. The same day I thought I had a plan for the weekend, I decided to take a look at Toubkal. Being the biggest in the Atlas range I had to at least check out the mountain. As I read and looked at pictures, I realized this was probably one of my only chances to top the peak people come from Europe and North Africa to climb. So, of course, my curiosity and sense for adventure took over and I knew that this was where I had to go this weekend. Most other students were going to Essouria for the weekend's music festival and not everyone jumps at the chance to hike miles out and up into the wilderness for a few days.
I walked out down the stairs of our apartment building and down to the taxi stop with Batha neighborhood guard to catch my ride to the train station. So, with my two-year old Asics running shoes and a backpack full of enough to survive for a few days, I began my solo trek to conquer Morocco's highest point. I was traveling to the rooftop of North Africa.What made this journey so great was the experiences I had with people and the rich beauty of the landscape I would take in.
My train to Marrakesh for the first leg of the journey left at 1:50 am. I was surprised to see a decent amount of people at the station at one in the morning. As the string of old, outdated cars pulled up to the platform it seemed most travelers were headed for Marrakesh as well, though most likely headed for Essouria. After the train came to a halt and hissed in a sigh of relief, I climbed aboard the last car to find a compartment suitable for getting some rest. The great thing about the early morning and overnight trains are that they carry less passengers and make less stops. This allows for most compartments, even in coach, to have only a couple passengers. I stowed my backpack up on the luggage rack above the bench seat and laid down and went to sleep until morning which would bring the sun and more passengers. The funny thing about Moroccan trains is that the efficiency of the air conditioner is directly related to the sun. All the compartments have an A/C vent that blows cool air, and this particular morning was the first time I can say I was actually cool and comfortable as I lay on the orange, plastic seat. By mid-morning the sun broke into the sky and the air coming from the vents grew warmer and weaker. The man that had been sleeping opposite of me left and another man wearing a smile and a Nike baseball cap took his place. In America, the demographic of people is very diverse and for the most part, curiosity and conversation with people of other backgrounds isn't the same as in Morocco. In the U.S., if I was sitting opposite from a man from Angola or China I wouldn't necessarily feel a strong sense of curiosity or urge to strike up a conversation. Here in Morocco, if you are white, and especially someone who can speak any Arabic at all, it is impossible for a Moroccan to resist. Most people are usually friendly and the conversation presents good opportunities for me to practice my Arabic. He asked me where I was from, what I was doing in Morocco, if I liked soccer, good basic topics we could both handle with my limited Arabic. In this case I was actually Andrew from Liverpool, but I wasn't originally from the city. I just went to school there. I met a lot of people over the course of my three day trip and I usually switched between American and English nationality with the occasional German or Spanish thrown in. For one reason, its fun to be someone different when you are miles away from home and who you are exactly is of little consequence. It's an entertaining game to play that provides some entertainment on long trips. I also recalled my taxi driver from yesterday's ride to school who explained to me how bad America was and that he didn't like Americans. Needless to say, his gestures and words didn't make for the most comfortable trip to school ever. So, this morning I decided to start the day off British. The man was very nice and we had good conversation and he welcomed me to his country when he departed at his stop an hour or so later.
Only a few couple hours from Marrakesh and elderly lady came by to inform me that the next train car down had working A/C since the one we were in was growing rather hot. It was more of an order almost than a suggestion, so I took up my things and headed down to find a more comfortable cabin. I found one cabin that had a man and a woman probably both in their late twenties and sat down on the seat opposite. I decided to pick a newspaper someone had left earlier and read the sports section to see how the EuroCup and the world cup qualifiers were doing. The paper was in Arabic, and I could see I was receiving a weird look from the man across from me. Many Moroccans have no idea that any westerner, European or American, possesses the ability to read Arabic script I suppose. I chuckled to myself and turned the paper over to see if there was any headlines of importance, which there usually isn't. He soon left at a small town and the woman, who I guess had noticed me reading earlier asked me where I was from. She was a a friendly and polite woman that appeared to be upper-middle class by the way she dressed. This time I was American and we went through the usual routine that I go through with most Moroccans, we talked about the heat, and where we were going and such. She knew a little bit of English which helped when there was a word I didn't know in Arabic and couldn't be transliterated from French. She said she had learned a little when she was at University here in Morocco. I also learned she was Moroccan but was visiting from Belgium at the time. Her husband is Belgian and she lives with him in Europe. It was an interesting story and she seemed to like the weather there quite a bit more at the moment. Belgium is one of those countries that enjoys God's mercy by not having to endure the normal climatic extremes of some nations. But I guess that's what you get when you provide the world with unbelievably good chocolate. After a couple delays, our train finally arrived in Marrakesh around noon, two hours late. Such are the joys of "Moroccan Time".
Walking out of the station I fought through taxi drivers seeing me as an easy target for outrageous fares to wherever I would be going. I made my way through, responding and laughing at their prices. On the city street I hopped in a petit taxi, run with meters, to take me to the bus station. Once inside and past more grand taxi drivers looking to take tourists to Essouria, I headed for window number three, the window for the town of Asni one hour south-east. There was only one small difficulty once I reached the ticket window. It was closed. The only bus to Asni left at ten earlier that morning. My guidebook informing me of the four daily buses to the small mountain town on my way to Toubkal was apparently wrong. The mountain of Jebel Toubkal is accessed from a trailhead in the town of Imlil, two hours south of Marrakesh in the high Atlas. In between is the city of Asni. Buses will run to Asni and grand taxis will take you all the way to Imlil from either Asni or Marrakesh. It was past mid-day already, and I knew I had a five hour hike to the refuge from Imlil. For all the timing to work out I would need to get to Imlil in time to reach the refuge before dark. Opening up my guide book to a map of Marrakesh I remembered there was a grand taxi station south of the city where people would leave from for the mountains of the coast. Leaving the bus station I got into the custard colored Fiat that would take me ten minutes to the taxi station. Marrakesh was even hotter than Fes, but it was a good feeling knowing that two hours away would be hopefully cooler weather. The taxi station was a hot piece of asphalt filled with white Mercedes, drivers, and no travelers, except for one twenty-year old American college student. I questioned each person arriving in petit taxis ,while I sat in the sun, as to where they where going until an elderly group of three said they were going to Asni and I could share a taxi with them. We shortly picked up the other two people needed to meet the maximum capacity and lowest fare requirement of six passengers.
Grand taxis in Morocco travel in between cities and are old five-seater Mercedes sedans. But this is Morocco, and if you can fit seven people then you do it. The two late comers shared a seat up front while I squeezed into the back with my newest AARP eligible friends for the one hour ride to Asni. Two were elderly Moroccan women, one didn't talk much, but the other woman told me she lived in Asni and complemented me on my Arabic. The old man reminded me of a shorter, Moroccan version of my grandpa from Tennessee. He had the same work slacks and button down shirt, as well as a trucker hat which topped of the resemblance. The only difference was this man didn't talk quite as much, but that was probably because he didn't speak English. Though if was my grandpa I don't think the language barrier would have made a difference. As we entered the massifs of the high Atlas I couldn't help but smile at my surroundings. I love the mountains and I didn't think I would be seeing this part of the Atlas range, let alone climb the tallest mountain in it, when I arrived here. Leg one was finished to the mountain, now I needed to find a way to Imlil. I asked around and two Berber men said they were going to Imlil and could help me out. Not many people were out since the air raid siren, also known as the call to prayer, had just sounded for the second of the five daily prayers. Up in the mountains the pool of talented muezzins (men that sound the call) is a good bit smaller than in the cities and thus the call decreases in quality. We went into a small cafe and had tea while we compared life between the Arab cities and Berber villages. I was hungry and decided to break out one of my loaves of bread and some peanut butter. As I began to share some of my food with them I realized I must have been the first person to introduce peanut butter to them. It took me a minute to explain it wasn't chocolate and it came from peanuts, which I only knew the name for in Spanish. I think they grasped what it was and seemed thrilled at their new culinary discovery. When we finished and I asked if they were ready to leave for Imlil they explained they couldn't go today but would be willing to take me tomorrow because the reason for going to Imlil was the Saturday market. This detail had been left out earlier, but they said they would help me get a taxi. It was a nice gesture, but sitting in front of a shop next to the taxi stop, I could handle getting transportation to Imlil since it wasn't extremely complicated. After sitting in the shade for about 15 minutes a taxi pulled up and a French couple in their early fifties got out and began walking toward the row of small shops where I was sitting. Looking like they were headed for Imlil I got and walked over to meet them and find out their plans. Turns out they only spoke French, but I could communicate the word Imlil and then elaborate more details with their guide who spoke Arabic and a little English. It is a weird feeling being able to communicate with someone ethnically distant from yourself, and having very little communication with someone who resembles your own nationality. We now had four people for a taxi and after a short break and having tea once again with them we went to the taxi stop to grab transportation for the last hour to Imlil. For some reason there were plenty of taxis and no drivers, such are the mysteries of Morocco. It was in the middle of the afternoon heat and we sat outside for about an hour till we were able to find a driver and another two people to travel along with us to our next stop. Another hour climbing higher into more dramatic scenery put us in the high Atlas town of Imlil. Getting out of the taxi, it felt as if i was in Colorado but the quaint, western town you would expect to find was replaced by stucco buildings and Coca-Cola awnings. By this time of the day it was four in the afternoon and if I left now for the refuge I should ideally have just enough time to make the journey before dark. So, I gathered my pack of bare essentials I had brought along and asked some locals where the trail began to Toubkal.