The Berbers taught Brent Spencer about their way of life as well as this world we all share.
Lausanne, a Berber village in the Atlas Mountains
High in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, Lausanne’s small mud and rock Berber houses sat above golden, green terraces of wheat. Jagged mountain peaks surrounded the remote village, built among boulders on the mountainside. The buzzing sounds of Muslim prayer chants and the crow of a rooster permeated the air. Brightly dressed women and girls harvested wheat by hand while men sipped mint tea and boys played in alleyways between houses. Our host, Mohammed, stood on a rooftop watching us and awaiting our arrival as we hiked on the other side of the canyon toward the small community.
The journey began as I traveled in Europe for two months in the summer of 2002. I had no specific itinerary as I soaked up the cultures of Spain and Portugal. In Southern Spain, I became very interested in the remnants of Muslim culture that had been left behind centuries ago during the Moorish occupation of Iberia. I decided to catch a ferry to Morocco to explore a portion of northern Africa’s rich fusion of Berber, Arabic and French culture. Through my adventure into the mountain villages in Morocco, I gained a tremendous appreciation for the Berber lifestyle.
I set out for the mountain trek from the tourist mecca of Marrakech with Richard, whom I had met on an organized tour of the gorges, oasis valleys and deserts of southern Morocco. The tour was arranged by the Hotel Ali. We were two of nine English-speaking travelers in the three-day tour. Richard was an Australian who had lived for a year in London and was now residing in Madrid. He had come down to Morocco on a short vacation.
The Berbers make up the largest segment of the original peoples of Morocco. Today many of them have become integrated into the mainstream society, but there are still many nomadic tribes and mountain villages of Berbers that continue living just as they have been for thousands of years. Economically they have been left behind as the Arabs and French have controlled commerce and politics. After the tour, we decided to trek through the mountains to find out more about the small Berber villages of the high Atlas.
We rushed to the Marrakech bus station to catch a bus that ended up leaving an hour late. While waiting for our bus, we watched a World Cup soccer match with the locals on a television at the station. Moroccans in the city are very passionate about soccer. The excitement of the crowd in the station was just as intense as in any of the European capitals where I had seen other matches. When the bus finally left, we rode to the town of Asni to the accompaniment of Arabic music on the bus radio. From Asni, we rode in the back of a livestock truck along dusty roads to Imlil.
In Imlil, we started our three-day hike. It seemed like we went back in time as we traveled along primitive mountain mule trails. Life in the villages those trails connected was much simpler than the chaos we had left behind in Marrakech. No cars, televisions, telephones, or electricity. It was a place that had been cut off from the rest of the world. Here, nobody even knew that the World Cup was in progress.
The first person we met was an owner of a store at a mountain pass. He was alone on his roof facing Mecca in prayer when we arrived. Having always lived in cities, I envied the solitude of this man’s life. He sold me an apple soda at an elevated mountain price and returned to his roof. Just outside the store, we met a toothless man on a mule who stopped to talk with us.
Through an interesting and confusing conversation spoken in gestures along with fragments of French and English, I was able to get a picture of me riding his animal. I tell people who see the picture now that it is me sitting on my ass in Morocco. I wondered how many people back home would let a complete stranger get a picture of himself in their car. I once again envied the simplicity and friendliness of Berber life.
We continued our hike along the trail to a tiny village. We lodged in a small hostel with a cement floor and mats with blankets. There we met Marcos and Nuria, a Spanish couple from Barcelona. Both Richard and I speak Spanish, so we engaged the couple in conversation over a meal of couscous with vegetables. A Berber guide on our Hotel Ali trip had told us of a Berber legend that each language one speaks gives one another eye to see the world with. We all wished that we could see the Berbers through the eye of their own language.
Continuing along the trail the next day, we climbed to a mountain pass along a somewhat steep trail through rocky mountain meadows. Butterflies flew around the flowery bushes. Locals herded their sheep and goats. A few times, we lost the trail in the loose rocks and boulders. The occasional discarded sardine can or pile of mule dung kept us on track.
We made it in the afternoon to Lausanne. Mohammed, our host at the hostel, had seen us round the corner of the mountain and was waiting for us. Upon arrival, we read the guest book that contained comments from guests from around the world. Everybody had only good things to say about Mohammed and the village. We soon learned why.
After eating, Richard and I went out to explore the town. We sat down on a big boulder to watch the kids play. Some boys were throwing rocks at one another. About ten boys soon congregated on a bunch of boulders below a house. They were dressed in filthy, mismatched clothes of men’s sizes. Most of their laceless shoes had holes. A prize-winning National Geographic photo could have been taken from the position where we were in looking up at them. The house in the background was made of rock, mud and exposed timbers. Big sister, who was watching sternly and protectively from the doorway of another house, however, rejected the idea of a picture.
Richard entertained the boys with snapping and clapping games they tried to imitate. I showed them a finger-snapping trick I had learned when I lived in Brazil. They tried to imitate it with their awkward children’s fingers, but were unable to make the sound. They begged me to do it again, giggling and laughing each time I did. I made a few faces at them that even elicited laughs from big sister. They attempted to copy every move we made, and every face we made. The children played with us just like children from any place in the world.
They began repeating passages they all had memorized from the Koran. We copied them much to their delight. One of them had a small Koran that he kept inside his shirt. I wondered if I had somehow devoted myself to Islam by repeating the verses. I had read an English version of the Koran a few years ago out of curiosity. Back then, I gained theological insight, but being among people who lived by the text helped me appreciate the book more because I saw how it affected their daily living.
Terraced wheat fields and Moroccan mountains
After the boys left, I left Richard and sat on a large rock to enjoy the awesome mountain view. I watched the women harvest wheat by hand as they sang. Their songs echoed against the towering mountain walls on each side of the canyon. Hassan, a local teenager, sat and talked with me. We spoke in gestures and fragments of French, a language neither of us spoke well. He was able to procure some Advil from me.
Moroccans are constantly seeking tips. In the cities, they mostly ask for dirhams, the national currency. Up in the mountains, they ask for aspirin, batteries, candy, cigarettes, dirhams, and anything else they find useful. I thought of how much I take for granted. I marveled at how happy the people seemed to be in the midst of such abject poverty. When Hassan left, I met an old toothless woman with a tattoo on her chin. I played with a group of girls who threw rocks down the mountain to hear me whistle as the rock flew through the air.
I returned to the hostel to talk with Richard, Marcos, Nuria and Mohammed. I wrote in my journal that night by candlelight. The town’s one hundred and eighty inhabitants don’t have electricity. There are no roads, so the men go to Setti Fatma by mule for the market. As I reflected that night about all I was experiencing, I thought of how life here seemed more difficult and simple at the same time. I thought of how little these people get by with. I mused about how I thought life was hard since I had to sell my car to make the trip I was on. When I looked up at the stars that filled the sky, I recognized the same big dipper that I see from my house in the States. I realized then that we are all just people on the same earth trying to make our ways through life.
Richard, Marcos, Nuria and I left the next morning to finish our trek in Setti Fatma. By the time we had left, the men were already returning from Setti Fatma with their mules laden with the week’s supplies. Listening to the sound of women singing as they worked in the wheat fields, I regretted that I was leaving. We saw crowds of middle class Moroccans on weekend trips to the cool mountain town. We departed the mountains in a wild taxi ride as it sped down the winding mountain roads taking us to Marrakech.
The chaos of Marrakech contrasted remarkably with the serenity of the mountain villages. I said good-bye to Richard there and resumed my adventure. I continued my trip in Morocco and Europe for another month before returning home, but I’ll never forget the people I met in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco. They taught me more about their way of life and this world we all share.
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