High Atlas Morocco - part 3 (September 2014) Strong ice-cold wind blowing down the steep mountainside is a formidable foe that my light jacket is not even trying to resist. Causa perduta by definition. Where on earth do I think I am going, with a faint flashlight in my hand, dressed in thin polo and thin jacket, and after a year during which my most physical activity was to get up from bed, walk to the desk, turn on the computer and move mouse a bit to the left and a bit to the right. Practically all other people on the trail are much better equipped, and in a much better shape. At least my hurt ego is under the impression that everyone, from the youngest to the oldest, is faster than me. I am stopping most often and suffer more than anyone else. 50 steps uphill, 5 minutes of trying to catch my breath and slow down the heartbeat. I took my first steps energetically and full of enthusiasm, which was quite surprising for someone who slept very badly the past two nights and who got up at 4AM. It is just the way things are in an overcrowded mountain hut. Five people are snoring, two others are coughing, some are opening the windows because there is not enough air, others are closing them (that is the group I am a member of) because they are cold, everyone is getting in or out of the room at a different time, and between entering and leaving, they are looking for something in their backpacks and making noise. No wonder some prefer to sleep in a tent in front of the hut, but these are again those already mentioned – better prepared and equipped. The moon has already set, while the sun is still hiding somewhere in the desert in the East, so we start our ascent in an almost complete darkness. I glue myself to a group of young British lads, who are making an appearance of knowing what they are doing and where they are going. I follow them straight up the steep scree. Strange. Other groups of flashlights moving through the dark are going in a different direction and are taking on the slope quite far away from us. I reason that since there is no proper path through the scree, everyone is walking where they feel is best for them. It soon turns out this is not exactly so. The scree is becoming increasingly steep and loose. At least the darkness is not so absolute anymore, which makes it possible to almost see what you are stepping on and to have a sense of direction you are heading in. Continuing with very slow and careful steps, we cross the scree and finally reach the proper path. Not that the path makes it any easier to walk. 5-10 minutes uphill, breathless, heart wanting to explode. A rest – to reduce the pulse at least a bit. Up again. Sharp peaks on the other side of the valley, which is already far away in the depths beneath me, are bathing in the golden rays of the first sunlight. Astonishing beauty. Come on! A bit higher up, to get a better view. Damn the heart, screw the bloody legs! Move on! Am I just imagining it or is it really becoming steeper and steeper? It is chilly. The wind continues to cut with its frosty razorblade. There is ice around the tiny stream that is spilling over the rocks. A Frenchman catches up with me. One of those well-equipped guys. With a solid windproof jacket, walking sticks, and altimeter. He tells me that we are already on 3900 meters and that we will make the remaining 300 meters in less than an hour. He is right, of course. Just a bit more and I reach the saddle. The sun hits me straight into the eyes. It takes about a minute before I comprehend what I’m looking at on the other side of the edge. Magnificent mountain! It is hard to find the words to describe it. An endless ocean of spectacular peaks, some flowing like waves one into another, others separated by deep rugged valleys. Peaks disappearing somewhere behind the horizon. Well, of course. How much of Atlas can you hope to see from one single viewpoint? How much of its 800 km length and over 100 km width? How many of hundreds of peaks can you count before you lose your numbers and your marbles? Enough of looking. Move on, up along the edge, to the summit. The last part of the ascent is both the easiest and the most difficult. It is not so steep anymore and the views in any given direction are simply divine, yet the legs and the lungs are basically defunct. The quickest climbers are already descending and enthusiastically distribute words of encouragement – just a little bit more to go, up there is fantastic! And here it is – the summit! Jebel Toubkal, 4167 metres. For the first time, I have passed the 4000 meter limit with my own feet (I have been a bit higher in Andes, but got there by bus, so it doesn’t count) and however trivial this may sound, I feel proud and mighty pleased. The tiredness is forgotten in an instant, the only feelings in my system are satisfaction over the achievement and the marvel over the spectacular views. For one more time – I’m breathless, but this time in the best possible sense of the word. Countless peaks bathe in the golden light of the morning sun. Somewhere in the distance of the East, you can almost see Sahara (you can’t, of course, but it is so easy to imagine it). Sitting on the summit and enjoying it, I start recollecting the past two days. We left the frying pan of Marrakesh in a vehicle, which most tourists avoid, although it is cheap, and the price includes also anthropological participant observation of the local daily life and transportation habits. An old and well-shaken minibus proudly and without problems performs its job of intercity shared taxi. It has no fixed departure time – it goes when it is absolutely full. Absolutely full means that all the seats are taken and there are few passengers who are standing. Almost immediately after starting off, minibus stops to pick up more passengers, strictly following the maxima that where there is room for 30, there is always room for two or three more. At certain moments, there were well over 30 of us cramped together in a minibus with 16 or 17 seats. Veni and me sat on an improvised bench behind the driver’s seat, contrary to the direction of driving, but that was super comfortable and luxurious compared to all those who were standing. They were shaking and bouncing in all directions once we left the plains and started to ascend the serpentine road up the first slopes of the High Atlas. The bus stopped in the market town of Asni. Before we had time to ask what was happening, our luggage, which was fixed on the roof of the minibus, was already moved to the roof of another van, so we followed it. We drove for additional 20 kilometres up the mountain to the village of Imlil. This is where the paved road ends and you can continue only with a jeep, a mule or your own feet. After buying some food and a 5-litre jug of mineral water (I stoically exercised my male duties by squeezing it into my already heavy backpack), we headed uphill. The well-trodden path led through forest and followed a course of a small river. After the popular picnic place by a lovely waterfall, the path became quite steep and ascended rapidly to Aremd – outstandingly picturesque village glued to a mountain slope above a deep river canyon. There are practically no streets in Aremd, but only narrow alleys and stairs, which connect different levels. We found accommodation in an immensely nice-looking guest house with large terrace hanging over the canyon below. The view towards the peaks, including Jebel Toubkal, was stunning. Everything seemed perfect. But there is a bit of hell in every heaven… In the middle of the night, Veni woke up, saying that something was biting her. We turned the lights on and a quick investigation revealed that her bed was infested with a colony of outrageously nasty, 3-4 millimetres long, bloodthirsty bedbugs. I crushed one of them – so much blood can be seen only in cheap horror movies. We grabbed all our stuff and moved to a room on the upper floor, where fortunately there were no such pets to keep us company. In the morning, we did the damage assessment. At least 150 bites – arms, legs, back, face…. Some itchy dots, which the following day turned into small bubbles full of liquid, others blood-red round spots big as a 50 cent coin. After lunch, we left Aremd. The path took us across a wide and almost flat river valley. At its end, where the valley turned into a narrow canyon, a steep zig-zagish ascent began. Following the steepest part, the wide and comfortable path continued gently uphill until the small hamlet of Sidi Chamharouch. Sidi Chamharouch is a popular place not just because it lies on the main path towards Jebel Toubkal, but is also an important religious site. A mausoleum of the local saint attracts large number of believers and the path from Aremd to here is very busy from morning to late evening. The gentle valley, which allows for a comfortable and easy walk, ends here. The path that continues towards the two mountain huts beneath the peak is steeper and more demanding, but far from problematic if you are in a somewhat reasonable shape. At Sidi Chamharouch, I parted with Veni. She did not have hiking shoes, and continuing further up would be careless. She went back to Aremd, while I continued my ascent. And here I was, on the highest peak of North Africa, enjoying every moment of it. But it was time to go down. I promised Veni to be back in Aremd in 24 hours. There was a long walk ahead. In terms of denivelation, first a 1000 meter descent to the Toubkal Refuge hut, and then another 1300 meters down to Aremd. In a horizontal perspective – about 10 kilometres. Descending is not the most fun part of the mountain hiking. The thrill and the adrenaline that pushed you upwards are all spent up, and all you are left with are sore legs. You are low on energy and walking down the steep and slippery slope is hard. I was literally dragging my feet towards the end. 12 hours after getting up and making my first steps in the complete darkness, I finally see Aremd and the house in which we were accommodated. On the terrace, I notice a small orange dot. I zoom it through the camera. Like in old romantic movies, Veni is standing on the terrace and looking at the valley I’m walking through. After a good night’s rest, in the morning, we pack our luggage and head down to Imlil. There are no minibuses, but we quickly arrange a ride in a grand taxi. In Morocco, there are petit taxis, which operate within cities, and grand taxis, which travel between cities and villages. As a rule, these cars are old wide Mercedeses and they accommodate 6 passengers – 4 on the backseat, and 2 in front, next to the driver. Mercedes is a wide car, but how wide it can be? It is cramped and uncomfortable, especially if you are sitting in front in the middle, so every time the driver wants to switch gears, you need to lift your bottom, as you are practically sitting on the gearstick. The taxi brought us back to the hot Marrakesh. We went straight to the bus station and bought a ticket to Ouarzazate. Waiting on the bus station was more exciting as you might imagine. While we were sitting in the hall, just a few meters away from the large portrait of King Mohammed VI, which hanged beneath the ceiling, a young man walked to the centre of the hall and stopped. What happened next lasted all in all about 30 seconds. He threw a large stone into the portrait. The glass it was covered with fell to the ground in tens of small pieces. The young man turned around, energetically pulled off his shirt and then just stood there, naked from the waist up, making provocative gestures and waiting for the inevitable. 4 or 5 guys jumped on him, pushing him to the ground and beating him. He was immediately dragged out of the bus station. 15 minutes later, two janitors came, collected the broken glass and took down the damaged portrait. By the time for departure of our bus, everything in the station was back to normal.
Posted on: Wed, 19 Nov 2014 08:14:02 +0000
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