Tag Archives: trek

Ouirgane

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(Note that for now I’m skipping a description of Marrakech…)

Driving out of Marrakech we climbed once more into the High Atlas mountains. We were spending two nights in Ouirgane (wear-gawn), a small town in a mountain valley only 75km outside of ‘Kech. With the windy mountain roads, that’s only about an hour and a half drive, so we had a fairly leisurely day. We left ‘Kech at noon and arrived in Ouirgane in the early afternoon. We were staying at the Auberge Au Sanglier Qui Fume, or “The Inn of the Boar that Smokes”. It’s a charming place, rustic with beautiful gardens and a nice restaurant.

Our group had grown by two… Ricardo from Spain and Amelia had both joined us in Marrakech. Ricardo is a friend of Sorin’s from past travels, and Amelia is of course the reason for our journey to Morocco. She’s a dear friend who has been working with the Peace Corps here for a year and a half. Our entire journey was a slow exploration of the country ending in her home town of Tiznit (tizz-nee).

We spent our first afternoon in Ouirgane wandering around exploring on foot. A small creek led down to a hydro-electric reservoir. Teenagers dove and swam across the lake to haul themselves out and sun on rocks. Old women walked down the street bent over 90°, their backs laden with loads of alfalfa or sticks. Shopkeepers slept in the shade in front of their open shops. The place is very sleepy in mid-afternoon.

But as the sunset approaches and the shadows lengthen, the village comes alive. (This is true for every city & town in Morocco, and for that matter, for most towns located in hot climates.) People come out and run errands. Road crews reappear from beneath trees to dig a little more. And when the sun goes down, the promenade begins. The street fills with people walking here and there, most just to socialize with their neighbors. In the (relative) cool of the night, the village emerges.

Up here in the High Atlas the population is mostly Amazigh (also known as Berbers.) The Amazigh are friendly and will often come up and just start asking you questions about where you came from, where you’re going, and whether you had yet visited the village. The young men wanted to practice their english. (The Amazigh are muslim, so the separation between the sexes is practiced up here too.) People welcomed us as we walked curious through the village. (Unlike other parts of the world, there is no sense of ‘what are you doing here?’ except in the curious sense.)

The next morning we had planned a trek from Ouirgame up to a High Atlas village. Mark offered to allow us to bushwhack up to the village and then return by the established path. We set out following the river uphill. At one point the path crossed a bridge consisting of a few sticks nailed together. In the middle was a large gap (probably to keep goats from crossing.) One side of the bridge dipped down in the middle a foot lower than the other side. The bridge definitely had ‘Indiana Jones’ qualities.

Having safely crossed, we continued up river another mile, where we found that we needed to cross again, this time without the benefit of a bridge. Some people hopped across on rocks, others (myself included) waded across, and the folks in sandals simply walked through the water. And then we realized that there was no where to go. An old man with a sickle working in a field told us that the way on was to walk up-river. And so we crossed again. And then again, finally finding the path into the village.

The village was built of rock and adobe, and occupied the top of one of the peaks. As we entered the village, children started appearing on doorways, watching the funny newcomers. (We are often entertainment wherever we go.) Several men asked whether we would want to come to their homes for tea, and we accepted an offer from a man whom Mark knew.

Their home had a small terrace looking out over the valley. We were brought cushions and stools to sit on, and several members of the family went off to prepare us a snack. Amelia went with them and helped shell fresh almonds. Soon we were drinking sweet mint tea while eating almonds and dipping pieces of flatbread into the richest olive oil I’d ever tasted, pressed by the family in their home. It was an incredibly relaxing stop before we descended back to Ouirgane.

That afternoon a thunder storm approached and rain came. It rained heavily all afternoon. The small creek by the inn flowed blood red and filled its bed. Side streams that were dry in the morning flooded. I walked along a bank above the flood and watched as the bank 100′ below me crumbled in the onslaught, and wondered if the path would be there when I walked back to the inn. It was, though it was a bit of a thrill ride… the path along the cliff face, normally hardened adobe, had grown soft, and with every step I wondered if I would slide down into the rushing river far below.)

I wandered around in the pouring rain all afternoon, getting soaked and taking photos. I would have conversations with locals resting under the protective branches of a tree. Lightning would strike nearby, and the thunder echoed for a long time in the hills. The air was cool and wet, and I felt more energetic than I’ve felt since arriving in Morocco.

Today is my birthday.  I’m 48.

the spring / todra gorge, morocco

nomads in the sky

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We left our hotel in the Todra Gorge early, trying to start our climb before the heat of the day was at its worst. We started climbing immediately along a rough dirt track. The walls of the gorge looked like those of the grand canyon, polished red rock veined with dry washes. The trail and the washes were filled with fist-sized cobbles, which made walking tricky. When the rains come, the sound of the water rolling rocks down the canyon, and the sound of falling stones echoing off of the canyon calls, must be deafening.

We climbed, and climbed. The trail was obviously used, and used recently. We would pass fresh dung as well as broken green shoots of some bush on the trail. The shoots had fallen off of a mule’s load, while the dung from the nule itself.

We climbed a side gorge into the sun. Todra is supposed to be a cool place, chilly to lowland Moroccans. It sits at about 4000 feet, with the canyon walls ascending vertically for another 3000 feet. But once we hiked out of the shade and into the sun, the heat immediately became intense. My hat developed a ring of sweat, and Dan and I lagged behind the group. We are not highly active people, and we were feeling it.

As we climbed a dog joined us. It was yellow, with red marks of blood on its muzzle. It followed us closely, finding a shady spot to lay down whenever we paused in our climb.

Across the gorge, a goat bleated. As we watched, an entire herd came around a corner and dropped down the wash, heading to lower ground. We didn’t see a goatherd, but Mark assured us that one was following and tending the herd.

We continued climbing, and a second dog joined the first. They were both fairly ragged, and stayed a few feet behind us. After a while we paused, and the dogs started looking for shade. Apparently there was not enough. The dogs leapt at one another snarling, their teeth bared. They fought, not 3 feet from where we stood in shock. Then I grabbed a rock and threw it, hitting one of the dogs on its foot, and scaring both of them. With a yelp, then both ran down the trail. The original one continued to follow us, but more warily… from about 100′ back.

Two hours later we had reached a peak, and were looking down over the Todra valley. Along the river was a deep green strip a quarter mile wide. Irrigation allowed for crops, and palm trees provided shade to allow the moisture to last longer. Outside this strip everything was brown scrub as far as I could see, and I could see a long way.

We dropped back down to a pass, and Mark mentioned that the mule droppings continued along the trail up and over a different peak, which probably meant that nomads were camping up there. We were game, so we heading back up again, climbing up and over the rounded mountain to a fairly flat area on the other side. As we dropped down into this shallow high-altitude valley, we could see a single large tent and a half dozen stone shelters, most with no roof.

Coming towards us was a burro, followed by a man in traditional amazigh dress. He greeted Mark in arabic, then invited us to visit his camp and have some tea. We thanked him. He continued down the mountain, and we walked through the rocks and scrub to the camp.

In camp were four women… all of the men had gone down the mountain that morning. (I think there were three men… the one who invited us to camp, the goatherd, and another man we passed on the trail.)  Their main shelter was a dark brown tent woven from goat hair. The goat hair acts like goretex… it breathes in warm weather, but when the hair gets wet, it swells and closes the gaps to keep rain out. Beneath this tent were rugs for sleeping.

On one side of the tent a fire was burning, and a young girl was boiling water. She asked us if we would have some tea, and we thanked her. She washed the glasses by pouring hot water into them, then swishing it around the inside and outside of the glasses by hand. She did this glass-by-glass.

Meanwhile our group had sat down on rocks on the other side of the tent. There, an older woman (Grandma) and a middle-aged woman (Mother) were weaving more cloth for the tent. Each of them manned a stake in the ground about 30′ apart while a younger woman (Daughter-in-law) ran back and forth with a large ball of goat yarn, making loop after loop on the stakes. Daughter-in-law was obviously the low woman on the totem pole… not only did she have the most active job, but she did it with a baby strapped to her back. Two other children peeked shyly out from the tent.

The young daughter (probably 16 years of age) brought us tea. Sweetened tea is universal in Morocco, and comes in two main varieties. There is green tea with sugar, and then there is green tea with sugar and mint. They are both very refreshing in the Morrocan heat. The tea was served to us near-boiling, and as sweet as the young girl’s smile when she served a glass to Joshua. We sipped the tea while watching the women loop the wool. The young girl made goo-goo eyes at Joshua, who was oblivious to her affections. We joked about Joshua taking a wife. Joshua squirmed.

Nearby a small herd of goats grazed in the scrub. Joshua went over with the goal of catching one, but the goats were wary. The Mother shouted instructions in arabic, which Mark translated. “Move steady towards them!” “Go for the old ones, they are very slow!” (Grandma shot Mother a dirty look.) “You almost got that one!” Joshua didn’t catch a goat, though he did manage to touch one.

We paid the women a few dirham for the tea, and for allowing us to take a few photos, then we headed down the mountain. Each of us was wondering what it would be like to be born a nomad. To get water, they walked down 3,000 feet vertically and along 4 miles of trail, then up again with the water. They did this daily. And periodically, they picked up everything they owned and moved to a different place. I’m not sure what the others were feeling, but I was feeling very lucky to have been born in the U.S., and to have had the opportunities for education that my family and my country gave me.

los nevados

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Yesterday, Shay and I took the Teleférico up the mountain for a second attempt to reach Los Nevados. (As you may recall from an earlier dispatch, we tried last Sunday but learned we couldn’t return because the Teleférico doesn’t run on Monday or Tuesday.)

This time Tyler and Jeanne accompanied us up the mountain. We went all of the way up to Pico Espejo, ritually played in the snow, and then returned to the next station down, Loma Redonda. We said goodbye to Jeanne and Tyler and headed down the trail.

The trail from Loma Redonda skirts the side of the mountain high above a hanging valley containing two lakes. The trail climbs for two kilometers to Alto de La Cruz pass at 4200 meters, or 13,776 feet. On the way, you pass through a tiny forest of very twisted trees. Though way above the tree line, this clump has found a sheltered niche just below the pass.

praying for our vans to arrive

The pass itself is windy and cold. Clouds stream through from the next valley, and someone has erected a cross. Just above us are jagged peaks dusted with fresh snow. Shay and I spend a few minutes here catching our breath before starting down the steep switchbacks towards Los Nevados.

The trails here are brutal. They descend steeply across rough and rocky terrain. The rocks are often loose, and all of our concentration was on our next step. (I wore dress shoes, as my hiking boots are safely in my car, still in Miami. This is not recommended.)

Occasionally, we’d stop moving for a moment to gape at the world around us.The Andes are spectacular. The hillsides are covered with moss and wildflowers. Huge numbers of wildflowers, in bright purples, reds, blues, and and yellows. I recognized wild iris and gladiola (!), butthere were many other types I’d never seen before.

Shay on the trail to Los Nevados

Water cascaded from the slopes around us, forming dozens of beautiful waterfalls. The cascades joined into a stream, which followed us down. We passed in and out of layers of cloud as we descended, and occasionally the sun would light up a hillside or a snowy peak.

After about 3 hours on the trail, it started to rain. Not a deluge, but a steady soft rain that lasted only a half hour. It didn’t bother us. We continued walking. We each found a burro shoe, and I told Shay to keep the ends pointed up so that the luck wouldn’t run out.

At one point Shay said “Jesus!” in the way only a bible-belt boy from Texas can call out to the Lord. I turned around, surprised by this exclamation after hours of silence. “What?” I asked. “It’s so purty!”. And it was.

Four hours into our trek we rounded a corner and saw the outlying farms of Los Nevados below us. From below we heard bizarre calls and howls. Ouuooooo! Ouoooooo! Oyyyiiiiiiii! I thought it was a wild fiesta, and later learned that it was merely the way the locals said ‘Hello’ across distances.

While walking through the farms we came across a man leading a horse. He asked us where we were heading, and I told him that we were going to a posada in Los Nevados. He asked us if we needed mules to return, and I told him that we did. We negotiated a price (15,000 Bs.) for two mules and a guide, and he said that he would meet us at the posada at 8:30 the next morning. (The conversation was entirely in Spanish, and I was quite pleased with myself at being able to keep up my end of things.)

Almost immediately I started worrying. Was I paying too much? Was this guy going to try to rip us off? And then I decided that it didn’t matter. 15,000 Bs. is about US$20, and seems incredibly cheap at that price.

After another hour’s walking we were looking down at Los Nevados. It’s a tiny town, and can’t have more than a few hundred residents. The center of town is the Plaza Simon Bolivar (of course), surrounded by a church and some homes. The entire town would fit on a single block in San Francisco. Los Nevados is perched at the edge of a canyon and has a million-dollar view.

Los Nevados

I immediately started thinking of moving there.

I can think of worse places to live. Granted, the water is probably polluted, and the nearest movie theatre is a day’s walk. But there is probably little crime, and almost zero air pollution, the temperature is nicely cool, and I can’t imagine a more tranquil place. I’ve OD’ed on cities for a while. Small-town quiet appeals to me.

We descended to the town. We wanted to stay at the Posada Bella Vista, perched on the precipice just behind the church. Unfortunately, there was a town meeting going on, and the señora of the posada was attending the meeting. We waited while representatives from the Chavez government made promises to the townspeople that probably would not be kept.

Busy Downtown Los Novados

While we were waiting, a young girl came into the garden of the posada and told us that we could stay at her mother’s posada instead. “This posada is 6,000 Bs. per night, and ours is 4,000!” she insisted, and seemed amazed when I declined her offer. It is the low season in Los Nevados, and competition is fierce.

The only other people staying at the Posada were sitting looking out over the valley. Zorn Ingeborg is a marketing manager from Cofasa Pharmaceuticals. She was born in Croatia, and had lived in Caracas for 40 years. She’d always wanted to go to Los Nevados and had finally made it on a burro from the Teleférico. She spoke perfect English. She was there with Losano and Luis Dekson. Losano lives in Mérida and works for the same company, and Luis is (I think) his son.

At around 7pm, the señora finally arrived and we were given rooms. She told us that dinner would be served at the only restaurant in town, just above the plaza, at 7:30. We show up at 7:15, but there is no one in the restaurant. We sit outside and watch the street life.

We’re finally asked to come into the restaurant at 8:00. It is a single room about 10 feet square. There’s a table in the room, with a bench to one side and three chairs on the other. We sit for a while, but nothing happens. We go out to the street and watch the kids play.

There are about a dozen kids playing in the plaza. They’re running around, yelling, chasing one another. A kid with Down’s Syndrome has been chosen as ‘the monster’, and gamely lunges after the other kids growling. They scream and run around in circles. Later, the game switches to cops and robbers. The robbers always manage to escape just as they’re being hauled away to jail.

At 8:30 Zorn, Losano, and Luis come up the road from the posada. They obviously understand something about Venezuelan time that I don’t, because we all go into the restaurant just as dinner is ready.

The first course is a bowl of chicken soup with rice and potatoes. It’s delicious. This is followed by a plate of fried chicken, tejadas (fried plantains), and rice. I eat slowly since I’m having a conversation with the others in Spanish. Shay doesn’t say a word and finishes his plate in about half the time I take.

The most amazing part of the meal was a glass of a deep red juice. “Raspberries” translates Zorn. A glass of pureed sweet sweet raspberry. I’m not a huge raspberry fan, but this stuff was good.

We return to our rooms and prepare for bed. My room is small, with a moist concrete floor. When I go to turn on the light, my hand brushes against one of the screws on the switch and current flows through me. I spend the rest of my stay switching the light on and off very carefully.

I make up the bed, and find a small brown spider living between the sheets. I flick it away, hoping it’s not a brown recluse. I go to brush my teeth. The water in the sink starts out brown and quickly becomes black. I forsake dental hygiene for the night.

The room has a single window with wooden bars and shutters. I leave the shutters open all night, and wind flows around the room. Outside it’s raining and thunder rumbles occasionally. When the lightning flashes, the entire room lights up. I cuddle under a couple of thick blankets. It’s amazingly romantic and I wish I wasn’t alone.

Breakfast the next morning was supposed to be served at 8 sharp. At 8:10, one of our burros walked by. At 8:20, the señora arrived looking flustered. She started shouting orders, and a small army of children began hauling things into the kitchen. Soon sounds of whisking could be heard from the kitchen.

While we were waiting the muchacho (young man) who ran the store next to the restaurant was standing in the doorway, talking with two kids. He lifted his shirt, reached into his pants, and pulled out a huge handgun. While I watched, he aimed and shot one of the boys in thearm. The boy seemed delighted by this, and extracted a plastic pellet from his shirt.

Then breakfast was served… omelets with cheese, arepas, and jam. We each got a cup of coffee with milk, sweet and rich. From outside, the sound of a yelping dog and kids laughing told us that the pellet gun had found another target.

Our mule guide showed up promptly at 8:30, and waited patiently while we finished our breakfast. His name was ‘Abundio’. He had a very nice smile, and I wondered in which ways he was abundant. He had brought a mule for me and a horse for Shay. He walked alongside, urging the animals on with kissing sounds and cries of ‘Hoy, Mulaaaa!’

Abundio, Shay, mula, and caballo

The ride back went fairly well. I almost fell off the mule on a particularly nasty downhill turn, but Abundio tightened my stirrup and things went better after that.

Walking and riding use different muscles, and as a result my entire lower body is in a state of considerable pain. I’m writing this in my room at the posada in Mérida. Outside it’s raining hard, and has been for hours. I try to imagine the sound of rain on the fiberglass roof of my van, and hope that soon we’ll be sleeping in our own beds once again. I’ve had a great time in Mérida, but it’s time to move on.

Ron