Here is a nice article written by one of our customers about our pioneering Walking with Nomads trek…..thanks Lewis!! (Departures May and September 2012)
I am by nature, wary of ‘organised’ or ‘packaged’ holidays. Amongst mountains in particular, I prefer solitude or at most, the company of one or two friends. I avowedly adhere to the Marx brother’s contention of not joining any club that would have me as a member. Yet my wife and I had signed up for an organized trek through the Djebel Sarhro not only with a group of strangers: but a team of muleteers; a cook; a guide; a family of nomads and several hundred sheep and goats. How did it come to this?
Several years ago I’d read an article about a small, Marrakech-based company, that organized walks with Berber nomads as they moved from summer to winter pastures. It had looked interesting and I filed the article away. Perhaps now that we were heading out to the High Atlas this would also be a good time to try something different. We could enjoy the luxury of being led over unknown terrain, it would toughen us up and get us used to the culture, language and the demands of trekking – a gentle aperitif before the heavy main course of the High Atlas. And so we enrolled with Charlie Shepherd’s Epic Morocco and a week walking with the Ait Atta through the Sarhro region of south eastern Morocco. I was finally persuaded by a notice Charlie had put in his information sheet:
‘This departure of Walking with Nomads is classified as an exploratory trip as the route taken may vary according to the requirements of the nomads and their flocks. This should be understood by all participants. Please also be prepared to experience a way of life that some may find particularly tough.’
Okay! Fine by me then!
The Ait Atta are a semi-nomadic tribe of Berbers native to the Djebel Sarhro where they spend eight months of the year, before migrating north to the High Atlas mountains to escape the heat of the summer months. Their income is derived from managing flocks of livestock, a precarious living in a country affected by drought. Their migration route is governed almost exclusively by the need to find pastures to graze their flocks of sheep and goats. We would join them during the last week of their migration from the High Atlas back ‘home’ to the Sarhro in the autumn. Sleeping in our own lightweight tents and having our heavy baggage carried by mule or camel, we would cross the Djebel Sarhro from north to south.
There is probably some rule of thumb which dictates that the further you travel from home the more exotic the destination, the more foreign the experience. Morocco in general and Marrakech in particular turns this rule on its head. A three hour flight from Britain flings you into another world entirely. Another time another place, smells, sounds, colours and light. Marrakech for me is the nearest you can get on this earth to Terry Pratchett’s Ankh Morporkh: a ready smile; an openness of spirit and a grasp of French will go a long way towards helping you have a positive experience. In the Hotel Grand Imlil we met the other four fellow travellers, our cook, Mustapha and our guide, Rachid. They were in the midst of completing the purchase of provisions. We must be packed and ready to go at 7:00am the next morning.
The ten hour trip took us over the Tizi n’ Tichka, not so much one pass as a series of passes. It was here that my own mind, formed by a long acquaintance with the Cuillins and the Cairngorm Plateau began to appreciate that the High Atlas was truly a magnificent range of mountains. The Djebel Sarhro was a very different affair. This area lies further south than the Atlas, lower lying, nearer the Sahara, both rough and beautiful in its own way.
As we bumped down the last few kilometers of track towards out gite, the skies darkened, the very air thickened. Tagdilt was where that we would be transferring our baggage onto the mules and meeting up with the muleteers. The gite looked reassuringly like a Redesdale fortified farm, presenting thick blank walls to the outside world – a darkening, rock strewn plateau with glimpses of figures on the horizon. Were they Armstrongs or Elliots? If they were the Ferniehurst Kerrs we were in trouble! They turned out to be our mule team. The muleteers presented as a rakish, roguish looking crew who eyed us up as suspiciously no doubt as we must have been looking at them. Through the following week we began to appreciate them better as a most helpful, humorous, courteous and yes, roguish band of fellow travellers.
The days that followed were a voyage of pure delight. Night time temperatures were a comfortable 10˚ – 15˚C. We would awaken at dawn and after a substantial breakfast, be on our way accompanied by a large swarm of sheep and goats. The Berber women were responsible for the herding and the route finding. The children wearing only plastic sandals on their feet, glided across the craggy mountainsides, chirruping and yipping, keeping the flock moving in the right direction. We gently picked our way through rock and boulder strewn high lands following ancient paths and tracks. Although semi arid, there was never the sense of desolation and wilderness of the Scottish Highlands. A distant slash of vibrant green would indicate a tenacious small-holding where maize or barley was being grown. The pace we travelled at was very much that of the animals: five to seven hours each day; seven to ten miles distance through rugged terrain that was both varied and delightful. This allowed time to talk, to look around or to go off and explore. At the end of each march a handsome late lunch was set out in the shade of a rough woven Berber tent. Some of the party would attend to the daily bread making, a rough unleavened bread, hot and tasty – made for wiping up the juice of a tagine. I joined in rebuilding the corrals where the herd was kept each night. Working together is a good way to connect with people. Much laughter was generated in comparing Berber walling techniques to Border dry-stane dyking. Was I becoming competitive?
We passed from the northern boulder strewn slopes of the Djebel Sarhro, with its precious springs and small occasional streams, fantastically sculpted juniper trees and jumbled peaks to the southern side. The southern slopes spoke of the great desert not far to the south. Bluffs and mesas rose up around us. As we marched over arid stretches of dust and shattered rock the midday ritual of mint tea was hugely welcome. Each day, Saiin found some luxuriously shaded corner and set a fire of a few twigs. The boiling water was transferred from his blackened kettle to silver tea-pot and thence to individual glasses. He presented each of us our drink with a deep sense of ritual and genteel hospitality.
‘Bismillah!’
‘Bismillah Sa-ha!’
The last camp left intense memories. Our descent from an awesome gateway of vertical rock down to the camp was achieved in temperatures of around 35˚C – the highest of our march. We were glad of the early finish and the cool shade of the rough-woven awning. The camp lay in a vast amphitheatre of bluffs and cliffs. In the balmy heat of the setting sun, Rachid took those who wished to do so, high up onto one of the bluffs for a last evening ritual of vervain tea. That night around a roaring fire we barbecued and enjoyed the singing and dancing of the Berbers. And the stars! Hamdullah! The stars!
Arriving back in Marrakech was truly the return to the flesh-pots. If the famous Djemma El Fnaa at night seemed exotic and a far distance from our High Street, it also felt an equally great distance from the tranquillity and quiet majesty of the Sarhro. It is beyond explanation as to how easily we slipped into the timeless, daily rythms of the nomads. The shift back towards urban life left us dazed, emotionally jet-lagged. We had to remind ourselves that the walking with the nomads was supposed to have been a ‘mere apperatif’, the easy acclimatization for the rigours and heady delights of the High Atlas. We felt replete and yet the main course was yet to come.
Our time in Morocco gave us an appreciation of what an incredible variety of trekking terrain exists all along the High Atlas. But our Djebel Sarhro walk taught us that beyond the inevitable draw of Toubkal there is a varied, huge and as yet relatively unknown terrain. It also left us knowing that in small hamlets and on hillsides which bear no official name, we have friends who we will see again. Inshallah!
