Trekking in southern Morocco, Sunday January 11th

Keith woke early and surprised some locals when he appeared at the spring with a bucket to collect water for the toilet. He walked around the area to stay warm. I woke at about eight o’clock when we had breakfast of omelette, tea and bread. We thanked and farewelled the family members and Youssef II, and set off on our trek. The water in some puddles was frozen and the wind was icy cold.

We crossed the road and headed off over the mountains, along a little path that was one person wide. It was a fantastic feeling to have nothing man made in view – just the vast and bleak mountains and their glorious textures and colours. Youssef was walking very fast and I had a little trouble keeping up as I wiped my weeping eyes and dripping nose. We were 2400 metres above sea level, so it was probably my cold that was affecting me, rather than the altitude, but I did feel a little breathless. After a while we passed a village, and could see a part of a long wall. When we asked Youssef about it, he told us that it was the wall that marked someone’s land, where no-one else could go, and that a house would eventually be built in it. Youssef was not very communicative, but he did tell us that he had been very cold in the night.

We walked for quite a long time before we headed downhill and into a gorge. The river rushed along through it and was washing over the stepping stone crossings. At one point we were clambering along the cliff wall, and it was quite difficult for me but I managed with Youssef’s help. Youssef decided that the mountain crossing that he had planned a little further on would be too difficult for me and said that it was no problem because we could go the other way, by the road, at that point. I asked Keith if he would like to go over the mountain with Youssef and I could meet them later coming via the road, but Keith said that we should stick together.

The gorge became narrower and the river crossings more frequent. Soft flaky snow was falling. Youssef was trying to find more rocks so that I could cross at one point when a man on a donkey came along. Later Youssef told me that he was the Immam of the next village; a friend and a neighbour of his aunt. After some talking, the man agreed to take me on his donkey up the gorge to the aunt’s house, where I would wait for Keith and Youssef. Getting me up onto the donkey was a major task, but once I was up there it was quite comfortable because I could put my feet into the open panniers and hold onto the man’s waist. He was wearing a marvellous semi-circular hooded cloak of tightly woven dark brown wool to keep him warm. We trotted away, leaving the others to negotiate the river with their longer legs. The gorge was a different place from the muffled perspective of the back passenger on a donkey, but it was very beautiful, with oleander bushes fringing it in many spots. The Immam made sure that I was holding on well whenever we went uphill and I was in danger of slipping off the back.

It was a surprise to the aunt and her family when we arrived, and I dismounted on a rock outside her door. Nevertheless, she took me into the family room where some boys were watching television. I was deposited there and after a while Youssef and Keith arrived. Youssef had hurried to arrive, leaving Keith behind and unsure of what streets to take or where to go once he came to the village. He had to ask people on the street which way a man had gone.

We met the wives of the aunt’s two sons, one of the sons and the grandchildren, and the Immam was there too. We had a cup of tea and then we seemed to stay on forever. Lunch appeared - a Berber omelette for us and a tajine for the family. There was a warm, friendly atmosphere but the television was showing continuous coverage of the war, in Arabic. We could see the images but understand nothing. The family and Youssef were talking about it. At no stage were we included in any of the conversations, so it was a bit like watching a play rather than having any part in it. The only time Youssef spoke to us was to say ‘Happy?’ or to answer a direct question from us. Eventually I coaxed a little boy called Mohamed to come and sit on my knee, and then we were a little included because motherhood is revered and respected everywhere. He was the sweetest little boy and just snuggled in.

We set off again, coming out of the gorge and up onto the road not far from where we had caught the bus the day before. Youssef walked ahead of us and only spoke if we asked him something. It was not so far to the village where we had had a glass of tea the day before so we were surprised when he suggested stopping there for tea. We said that we didn’t need any and could walk on, but if he wanted to have a rest, that that was fine too. We stayed there for ages while Youssef caught up on the hash smoking that he had missed during the morning, due to having run out. He talked with his friends, and with us to push further tours. He said that snow on these mountains meant that the road to Marrakesh would be closed for the bus, but that he could drive us and we could stay at his friend’s place. We said that we would be taking the bus in the morning to Marrakesh and that we would not be taking any other tours. If the bus couldn’t go, we would wait for one that did. From this point on, the lack of effort towards us seemed to degenerate into disinterest and even contempt. Perhaps he had seen us as rich tourists who could be milked for more and he was disappointed, but lack of sleep may have been affecting him too. At any rate, he asked me for medication for the absent shop keeper who had a headache so I handed over my only three paracetamols. After that we were just sitting there waiting for him to finish, as precious walking time passed by.

At last we left and from then on we seemed to be perpetually about five metres behind him, no matter how fast we walked. At one point he stopped to make another walking baton for Keith but I explained that we could not take them away with us even if we wanted to, because of the Australian regulations. We were now in the country we had walked in yesterday, and it was different, yet just as beautiful, seeing it from the other direction. We walked on and on and on. When Youssef stopped to go to the toilet, he told us to just keep going up the road. We walked for at least three kilometres without him, which gave us a chance to discuss his behaviour. Ultimately we thought that it is best to have some time with a guide before employing him, to check that he is able to be the sort of guide that you want and that your combined language skills would be adequate. The fit here with us wasn’t perfect, with all of us speaking only some French, and us wanting more that just someone to follow into unknown country. No doubt the people who wrote in his comments book had had great times, with different expectations from the beginning.

When Youssef caught up with us, he suggested that we flag a ride if possible. That seemed a good idea since it looked as if we might not make it back before dark. No passing vehicles stopped for a lot further, but we kept walking on. Eventually we were lucky and, piled into a taxi, we were driven at least six kilometres, but maybe more, to Youssef’s village. We scrambled back up the hill to his place and gratefully warmed ourselves by the heater. His sister-in-law had prepared a delicious meal so we had an early dinner. Keith paid the last part of the trekking fee. Youssef said that we could repack our bags and give him things that we didn’t need – ‘for the poor’. He said that we could give him our medications since they are expensive here. We could also give him some money for continuing his building projects and that hat is what tourists do.

It was when we discussed the bus that the atmosphere completely changed and Youssef turned nasty. He said that we would need to book tickets that night for the bus in the morning, with the best one being at 7 a.m. He could drive in and do it, for an exorbitant cost that he claimed was only for petrol. He also gave the bus ticket prices at way above what we expected them to be. He was so nasty when we queried the prices that I just wanted to get on the first bus and leave. I did ask him what would happen if we gave him the money he claimed was the cost of the tickets and it turned out to be less. He said that he would give us back the difference. You can see by this that we no longer trusted him. We gave him the money and he left to buy the tickets.

When he returned he told me that the price he had told us was the correct one but that he had been able to get it cheaper as a Moroccan. I did not really believe that since it was a big company and not just a private bus company. He asked me to give him Keith’s walking boots while Keith was in the shower but I refused. The bus tickets had the price written on them. When Keith asked for the change, about $A20, Youssef said that he was keeping it as a charge for the trip to take us to the bus tomorrow. It all went downhill from here, with us reminding him that that was included in the original agreement and him saying that we could make our own way there since it would be too early for him to take us unless we gave him more money. We were ten kilometres from town in a place with only occasional passing taxis. He raved on about his costs, and what he had paid the families and how we should pay more, particularly aiming it at me, as possibly the softer touch. He went on about being a poor man, as if that gave him the right to be dishonest. In the end he agreed to take us, and said that we could knock on the house door to wake him up. He told us all about other generous tourists again, and I said that we were not other people. He left, but almost immediately popped back to remind us to give him things for the poor and some money to help with his buildings.

We were completely nonplussed and the ugly scene left us feeling very uncomfortable. Even though he had not been the greatest guide for us, we had enjoyed the trekking. We had paid him a lot of money for what the tour turned out to be, but we had chosen to do that. Now we felt that we were dealing with an unscrupulous man who to some extent had us in his power. We couldn’t understand why he had suddenly agreed to drive us for no extra cost, although Keith thought that perhaps he still hoped we would give him more money. I was glad that I was not alone in this situation, since Youssef had been quite aggressive and overpowering. We went to bed, but not to sleep, as each of us re-ran the conversations and thought of what we should do. At last I dropped off but Keith worried on. At 3 a.m. he asked me if we could just leave very early and take our chances on other transport, since he never wanted to see Youssef again. I had thought that we could report him to the tourist police if he tried any more tricks and I wanted him to say ‘Happy?’ so that I could say that I was not. We decided to do Keith’s plan, and if no-one came by, to put mine into action.

A Berber nomad hut: sheep and shepherd share the same space for warmth during the night. There is not enough feed for the sheep to stay for long in one place.