Amzmiz-Anougel Hike

Soon after ringing in the New Year in Essaouira, Jacy, Margie, and I headed to the mountains for some hiking. We took the bus from my site south to Amzmiz, an almost-city sprawled at the foot of the High Atlas. We first roamed the large Tuesday market, ducking into a dank kebab vendor’s stall for a cup of mint tea among a crowd of weathered mountain men huddled over steaming plates of bean stew. The quarters were so tight and the ceiling so low, Margie and I felt like Alice in Wonderland. We met up with Donniell, my sitemate in Amzmiz, and spent a languid afternoon at Maroc Lodge, playing cards and sipping beverages poolside. That night, Donniell made us a delectable dinner of steamed artichokes and garlic mayo, curry pumpkin soup, and a dessert of movie snacks fresh from America as we drooled over the film Julie and Julia.

The following morning, the three of us set off on our hike. We climbed the quiet little road to Anougel, a mountain commune I’d visited once by car with Batoul from Lalla Takerkouste. As to be expected, the views were magnificent. It took us a solid four hours to reach our destination, passing a few picturesque Berber villages along the way. We walked straight to the hikers’ guesthouse I’d seen before. It had been open and seemingly busy back in June, and I’d even talked to one of the managers about costs for a bed. Now, in chilly January, the door was firmly locked and there was no sign indicating it even was a guesthouse. We were tired and quite hungry. The prospect of hiking another 4 hours back down to Amzmiz loomed dreadfully. A young man walked by and gave me a questioning look as I hesitantly knocked on the door. I explained in Tash that we were looking for a place to sleep. He said the guesthouse was closed. They must only operate through Moroccan tour guides, with advance notice. I told him I’d come in June, and I knew Batoul, who works at the Commune down the road. I also added in Tash that we were hungry or “dying of hunger” as they say in Berber. The young man seemed quite amused and said “ok”. He retrieved the key for the guesthouse, let us in, and agreed to 30dh/person for the night. The house was basic but full of charm; the walls painted a bright pink, with stripes of blue on some of the pillars. I repeated that we were “dying of hunger” and he eagerly invited us to eat at his family’s house. We met his grandmother, a short, stout woman who loved the fact that we could communicate in Tashlheet. She apparently was accustomed to seeing French hikers come through because she’d adopted the classic “ouai” when she spoke. We drank tea and ate chicken tagine with the grandmother and a group of young women in another charming pink and blue sitting room. All the houses were built against the mountain side. The floors slanted noticeably downhill and the low ceilings all had skylights.

After lunch, the grandmother invited us to visit the rest of their house. There were a series of narrow staircases and winding hallways joining several houses together. The livestock was kept somewhere at the top of the houses, interestingly enough. We sat on one of the rooftop terraces and drank in the view; snowcapped mountains and green river valleys. The women instructed us to go explore the natural spring in the canyon down the road while they heated up the hammam for us. We gladly did as we were told. As darkness fell and the biting mountain air set in, the steamy little hammam felt like heaven. Feeling clean and exhausted, we happily sat down for another tagine dinner with grandmother. We chattered aimlessly in Tashleheet until they brought out a basket of mandarins and bananas for dessert. She encouraged us to eat as many as possible then lowered her voice and whispered to me that she can’t eat bananas. I gave her a questioning look, so she glanced uneasily at her grandson watching a soccer game a couple meters away before telling me through a mix of Berber and explicit charades that they made her privates itch. I quickly muttered a translation in English to the girls and they stopped eating. I wasn’t sure I’d understood correctly, but she repeated the charades several times, adding that if her granddaughter ate them, she had no problems, it was just her. I nodded sympathetically and we eventually bid everyone goodnight before hurrying back to the guesthouse. It was unbelievably cold. We dove under a minimum of 4 heavy wool blankets each and fell fast asleep. I smiled to myself as I realized I wouldn’t be able to look at a banana quite the same for a while.