The snow-capped Atlas Mountains are a constant looming presence when visiting Marrakesh. Running 1200 miles across the north rim of Africa, a dozen summits top 13,000 feet just south of the city. They serve as a resplendent backdrop to many iconic photos. I was excited that we would be taking the high road through the mountains to get to the remarkable green oasis valleys just beyond. We would have three days to explore the south before we arrived at the end of the paved road and enter the famed Sahara Desert. Southern Morocco is bounded by the Atlas Mountains to the north and Algeria to the South. The central valleys are a filmmaker’s dream. In fact, many Hollywood films feature this cinematic landscape as a vehicle to tell their epic tales, including Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven and the classic Lawrence of Arabia.
Leaving Marrakesh, our group loaded into three 4×4’s, we would be needing them for the Sahara Desert in the week ahead. As the vehicles began the arduous serpentine route up the Tzi-n-tichka Pass, the temperature dropped quickly from the balmy clime of the valley. Stopping at a rest stop, we were wreathed in clouds and the piping hot mint tea served everywhere in Morocco was a welcome warmth. Descending the picturesque road out of the High Atlas into the Draa Valley, we passed dozens of red-hued kasbahs perched on rocky promontories in varying states of decay. The road undulates through arid hills and eventually a massive gorge shaded by a blackened patina. The Draa Valley was known to the Kings of Carthage and the ancient Romans. It is the route the great trans-saharan caravans traveled from Timbuktu into Central Morocco.
For three days, I explored this mesmerizing landscape. The Draa oasis is a wonder to behold and difficult to comprehend. Precipitous rust-colored cliffs border a lush green river of date palm trees. The juxtaposition of monotone mountains with the verdant emerald ribbon of palm groves is mirage-like. At times, we would cross the oasis in our 4X4’s, immersing ourselves in the green world where donkeys laden with multi-hued blankets and women in veils picked dates.
Markets of Morocco
If I thought the medina souks were a slice of life, the rural market souks were an entirely different level of authenticity. Daily markets for various purposes take place almost every day of the week in villages scattered throughout the mountains. We made a stop in the village of Ait Ourir for the weekly donkey and sheep auction. It must have rained the night before for though the sun was shining brightly, the field was a six inch muck of slimy mud, suctioning the shoes right off our feet. As soon as I entered the crowded field, I was transported into another century. The market was populated by men only, all very serious, here to do business. It was the first time I felt uncomfortable, our group did not go unnoticed. Donkeys were trotting past me, some being ridden side-saddle by men in djellaba’s. Sheep were huddled in masses and breaking free, bleating loudly and pushing their way through our legs. Some were being chased and others roughly held up for inspection. It was comical, animals were running helter-skelter, men in robes and sober faces running after them. It was controlled chaos, transactions being made in the time-worn tradition. Surreptitiously, I attempted to take photos, I did not want to offend but this place was a goldmine of great shots. Making our way through the animal auction, we came to the vegetable market. Orange mountains of carrots, muddy piles of potatoes and squash, and baskets of dates and beans, were gathered in colorful piles as far as the eye could see. This was the only place in Morocco that I felt exposed. In fact, I noticed a man walking too close to my travel companion in front of me, he seemed to be peering over her shoulder. When I told her, she was aware, he had apparently touched her several times, each time disappearing into the crowd, before appearing again suddenly right next to her. We were grateful at that point for our Berber guide, walking close to him, he tried to shield us and moved us quickly and efficiently through the mass of humanity. Still, it was a sobering reminder of the way women are objectified in cultures all over the world.
I had an altogether different experience at the date market in Agdz, an ancient caravan town deep in the Draa Valley. The desert souk here was patronized by both men and women. We were getting close to the Algerian border and the ethnicity and clothing of the locals had changed. The turbaned vendors are descendants of the slave trade and the woman wore elaborately embroidered and sequined cloth. The energy here was intense as well. Men with craggy tanned faces and dark eyes stood or squatted in tight circles, talking, gesturing, laughing. Boxes of juicy dates were everywhere, small mounds of fava beans and wheat, spices of every color in cloth bins. Unrecognizable raw strips of meat were hanging from butchers stalls, oily smoke rising from charcoal fires. I spied two goat heads displayed on a table and I quickly shot a photo before the guy started yelling at the person behind me. (It’s apparently illegal to display these heads, as it’s unhygienic). I was particularly interested in a stall that had dried and dessicated birds and other strange animal parts hanging from a clothesline. I overheard the word voodoo and understood the purpose of the evil looking talismans. This was the stall for casting the all-purpose spell on an unsuspecting enemy.
The remote village souks are an insight into an ancient way of life in a small community. The farmers markets I visit in the States are their modern equivalent, with the friendly banter of friends visiting and vendors selling their wares, and street performers hoping for a few coins. The souks are a social event, a livelihood, a touchstone for community life. It’s the same everywhere. We humans thrive through contact and commerce. Through the sharing of stories and the haggling over food. Though I reveled in the bizarre and the strange on display in the souks, I also felt a deep kinship with the spirit of it all.
Couscous, Anyone?
Eating in Morocco is an event. There is much pride and care taken in the preparation and service of food. First, there is the ritual of mint tea(or Berber whiskey, as the locals would call it), the national drink of Morocco, symbolic of Moroccan hospitality and culture. An addictive concoction of green tea, spearmint leaves and sugar, it is poured from a great height into delicate painted glasses at each meal. It serves as a welcome gesture, an entertainment, an integral part of the bargaining dance. You will find mint tea available in the roadside stands and the tiniest shops. It is served highly sweetened, more then seven tablespoons of sugar in a small pot, making dentists in Morocco plentiful. It is a process that involves craft, ritual and patience. Baskets of fresh mint are placed next to the tea man as he sits cross-legged on the restaurant floor. A small amount of boiling water is poured over the gunpowder tea and steeped, then poured into a tea glass. The amber liquid is considered the “soul” of the tea and added back later. Next, the tea leaves are rinsed and the water discarded. The mint is treated to a boiling water bath as well to to remove some of the bitterness. The herbs and tea are then steeped with the reserved “soul”and sugar over an open flame. After boiling, the tea is then mixed by pouring it into a glass and back into the pot in a series of steps. The tea is served in a dramatic fashion, from several feet above the glass to aerate the beverage and create a nice foamy head. In the more formal restaurants, there would be a tea man, but in the souks and roadside stands, sprigs of mint would be arranged in glasses and the prepared tea would just be added.
The Moroccan salad is a delight! Different in every incarnation, it is usually served on 6-10 individual plates and consists of some variation of sauteed carrots, spiced beets, pickled onions, grilled eggplant, marinated peppers, parslied potatoes, and hard-boiled eggs. At times, the vegetables are served combined on one plate or served in small mounds on a single plate. The imaginative presentation is exciting, you never know what you are going to get. In fact, at our last celebratory meal before departure, the salad was served on 15 gorgeous plates and included fine delicacies such as brain and liver.
Soups are another Moroccan specialty, I must have had over ten variations of vegetable soup alone but the best is the traditional harira, a thick broth of lamb, chickpeas, lentils and tomatoes. This soup is usually served during Ramadan, when Moroccans break fast at sunset.
Tagines are the star of the show. Again, they are never the same. The classic conical shaped pottery is used to serve an infinite variety of succulent meats and veggies. Typically, lamb, beef or chicken is slow-cooked over a charcoal fire and adorned with prunes, almonds, olives or lemon. My favorite version was the Sikbadj, lamb with dates and apricots. Couscous is typically served on Fridays, the Muslim holy day. Chicken brochettes are also quite popular and were a delicious change of pace from the daily stews. Bread is considered sacred in Morocco and is served at every meal. Communal ovens are common, locals carry their own bread to be baked with the rest of the community.
Desserts were most often fresh fruit. Oranges trees are prolific and large mesh bags of juicy oranges are sold on every street corner. Moroccan almond cookies are a sweet/savory delicacy and pastries filled with almonds and honey are delicious.
Kasbah Country
What is a kasbah, anyway? Traditionally, the word refers to the defensive stronghold of a town. Most towns in southern Morocco have one. Square and built of pise, a rough mixture of mud and rubble pressed into bricks, there are very few doors or windows. Simple in design, they are often decorated with geometric shapes carved into the walls. The building material is easily damaged by rain and in this part of the country , there are hundreds of crumbling kasbahs and ksars scattered throughout the valleys. A ksar or fortified village, would house a community while the kasbah housed individual families.
Our first stop after coming down out of the mountains was to a crumbling yet magnificent kasbah in Telouet, a one-time royal seat of power on the ancient caravan route. Ornate details on the massive doors and delicately carved ceilings were in stark contrast to the deteriorating fortress walls. As I stood looking out through the intricate ironwork on the windows, I tried to imagine the regal splendor of the original sultans who called this kasbah home.
The prized kasbah in this region lie just ahead, just before Ouarzazate, the capital of the South. Kasbah Ait Benhaddou is the best preserved, most famous and photographed kasbah in Moroccco. Featured in dozens of Hollywood films and series(Gladiator and Game of Thrones), it is quite the sight from afar, situated on a rise and approached by a long wooden pedestrian bridge over the Mellah river. It felt vaguely familiar until I realized what I was reminded of: the Ancestral Puebloan ruins at Mesa Verde in Colorado. The same red mud coloring, the rectangular open windows, the way the dwellings seem to both blend in with and define their surroundings. Still inhabited by some families, artists line the precariously sloped streets, using natural spices and dyes to create scenic watercolors for visitors. It was easy to see why tourists travel far to come visit this place, it was a coveted spot for film producers because it was utterly authentic.
Remote Sleeps
There are some spectacular places to stay in the central valleys of Southern Morocco. Our first stop outside the town of Ouarzazate was in a brilliantly restored kasbah owned by an expat Frenchman. After a long drive, Ksar Ighnda was a welcome respite. We arrived as the sun was setting and the place glowed with an ethereal light. Like something out of a design magazine, every corner of this place was thoughtfully curated. From the exquisitely tiled pool to the chaise lounges with straw hats and blankets to the symmetrical gardens with tinkling fountains and metal sculptures, everything united to give a peaceful order to the grounds. Covered cabanas with plush couches and pillows were scattered throughout. Even the original deteriorating kasbah was imaginatively incorporated into the renovated structure. I thought I could stay here and never leave. Fortunately, the rooms were small sanctuaries of comfort as well, decorated with local art, blankets and tile.
We also stayed in a more traditional accommodation, family owned and gorgeously situated with 360 views of the Atlas Mountains. More humble, less design-centric, but utterly authentic with a generous spirit of hospitality, I fell in love with Chez Talout. Small details like blooming roses in the bird baths and a roof top patio where lunch was served amidst a backdrop of stunning beauty made this side trip to Skoura and the Dades valley worthwhile.
Our final stop in the Central Valley was at another traditional riad in the town of Zagora, the last village outpost before the macadam turned to sand. Set behind mud brick walls , Riad Lemane looks like a relic from the colonial era. Overgrown with vines and century’s old trees, each hut is graced with a magnificent wooden door. The bar here is atmospheric, dark and brooding, the Berber serving straight gin in tall glasses had a wide smile with small stubs of blackened teeth. Three men in full head to toe robes were seated and conversing quietly, only their dark eyes visible, they nodded as we passed. We ate our evening meal in a tent straight out of Arabian Nights. The ceiling was made of richly hued glittering fabric and our seats were plush cushions, sumptuous carpets beneath our feet. When I made my way back to my room, tiny metal lanterns stamped with stars illuminated my path.
It was here, on this particular evening that I felt with great satisfaction that I had traveled far. Here I was, on the edge of the fabled Sahara, poised to venture into a land where nomads and camels roamed free. I wanted to hold on to this feeling, one where I felt elated to be a stranger in a strange land, on the cusp of discovery.
STAY TUNED FOR MY NEXT MOROCCO INSTALLMENT: THE FABLED SAHARA!