Our journey began in Fez. It was dark when we left the riad at 7am. As our bus drove through town, I watched lights going on in the cafés. They’d soon be filled with men sitting for hours at small tables, drinking coffee and smoking as if they had nothing better to do.
We were headed south, and over the course of the next eleven hours, we would cross two mountain ranges, the High Atlas and the Middle Atlas, and traverse the plateau between them. Altogether, we would cover a little over 250 miles and experience two different seasons. Morocco has some modern highways, but the roads we’d be taking weren’t in that category.
By 8am, the sun was starting to break through the clouds. I gazed out the windows as the landscape quickly changed. Instead of olive trees and grape vines, I saw apple trees, oak trees, and evergreens with tall, slender trunks. “It snows here,” Abdou said, and sure enough, it wasn’t long before I noticed clumps of snow alongside the road. We were in the Middle Atlas now.
Approaching our first stop, in the city of Ifrane, Abdou pointed out the sloped roofs of the houses. Ifrane didn’t look like a Moroccan city at all. In fact, Moroccans refer to it as “Little Switzerland.” It definitely has a European feel, and it’s extremely clean, compared to other Moroccan cities. Ifrane was created during the French protectorate as a resort for the French military. It has a private (and expensive) university where instruction is in English.
Snowflakes were swirling around us when we got off the bus in the center of town. I was glad I had brought along my warm winter coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. We quickly hurried into a French café where beautiful pastries were displayed in a glass case.
Many of the large private residences (they’re more like palaces) in the vicinity of Ifrane are owned by foreigners, primarily from the Gulf States. There is a golf club and a small ski resort in the area.
Our big bus was making slow progress on the narrow winding road that led through the Middle Atlas. With the delicate frosting of snow on the evergreens, it looked like a Christmas scene.
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We stopped when a group of Barbary macaques scampered out from the forest. They seemed fearless as we scurried after them, snapping photo after photo.
We made another impromptu stop soon afterwards. When Abdou spotted the winter dwelling of a nomad family, he instructed the bus driver to pull over and rushed out to ask if we could visit them.
We quickly threw on our coats and prepared to brave the freezing winds tearing across the desolate landscape. Turkey vultures standing guard on wooden fences watched as we made our way carefully across the frozen, snow-covered ground.
We could see several structures, with some sort of plastic covering.
A dog, seemingly not affected by the weather, accompanied us to the entrance of the family’s temporary home.
A boy of about five stood outside.
The mother and father greeted us warmly in the Tamazigh, the language of the Amazigh (Berber) people who live in this area. Fortunately, Abdou was a native speaker of the language and was able to translate for us.
Displaying typical Moroccan hospitality, the couple ushered us into the main living area, where it was toasty warm thanks to a wood burning stove. A baby was propped up against a pile of cushions. The mother began pulling out blankets from a big pile, folding them and setting them on the floor for us to sit on. The father put a kettle on the fire to heat water for tea.
The round bread they served with a dish of fragrant olive oil was delicious.
We learned that this family still follows a traditional nomadic lifestyle. During the warmer months, they move around as they tend their flock of sheep. Even the five-year old is expected to help care for the animals. However, when it’s winter, they stay in this complex where there are buildings that provide shelter for their animals.
Before we went outside again, I looked into some of the other rooms in the family’s home.
Back in the bus, I contemplated the hard life of the nomad family as I looked out at the snow-covered peaks of the High Atlas mountains. That was where we were heading next.
However, before we made our next scheduled coffee/restroom stop, our bus driver was pulled over by the police for speeding. The officer claimed he was going 85 kilometers per hour when the speed limit was 80. In other words, he was supposedly going 3.1 mph over the speed limit. Abdou explained that it was no use arguing with the officer. This was a routine occurrence. All you could do was pay the fine (150 Dirhams, or $15), immediately, in cash. Later, we took up a collection to repay the driver.
It was still freezing outside when we stopped for our next restroom break. Dark clouds hovered over the ridge of the High Atlas.
Back on the bus, Abdou passed around a box of Moroccan cookies. My favorites were the soft half-moon shaped cookies, fragrant with orange blossom water and filled with almond paste.
Although I couldn’t resist eating more than I should have, I recovered my appetite by the time we stopped for lunch at a hotel in the town of Midelt, located on the plateau between the Middle Atlas and the High Atlas. It still felt like winter but at least the gray skies had given way to a dazzling blue. And the chicken skewers were excellent.
Using a large wall map displayed in the hotel lobby, Abdou pointed out our current location and the route we were traveling today. We’d been traveling since early morning but we were only halfway through our journey to today’s destination, the town of Erfoud.
Before we reached Erfoud, where we’d spend the night, we had to get across the High Atlas Mountains. Abdou suggested that this would be a good time for a post-lunch nap and I happily took his advice.
When I woke up later, we were south of the mountains and Abdou was telling us about the life of the people who have lived in this somewhat forbidding area for centuries. These fiercely independent people were traditionally distrustful of the king and resisted his control. While some continued to lead a nomadic life, many lived, and still live, in insular small villages perched on cliffs. This type of highly fortified village is called a ksar (plural ksour). The people farm in the valleys below and still use mules and dromedaries for transport. There was frequent conflict between villages. According to Abdou, the prevailing philosophy among these communities was, “If you’re not from my village, you’re my enemy.”
Finally, shortly before 6pm, and eleven hours after we left Fez, we arrived at the Hotel Chergui in Erfoud. It felt great to get out of the bus stretch my limbs. The sun was shining and the temperature was spring-like. The hotel grounds, accented with palm trees, were lovely in the late afternoon light.
My spacious room and the lavish dinner buffet were welcome surprises.
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