Weekend in the mountains:
Many of the great experiences I have had in Morocco, condensed: trying new things, bartering, accepting invitations to tea, sharing, enjoying myself despite the absence of plumbing.
Out we went: a grand taxi driver named Ali with a United Nations baseball cap plus six of us in the car, backpacks full of food and a tent with no poles, a 10 Dirham saw for firewood. The air in the mountains is cool but the land is just as dry as the plains: scrubby, rocky, craggy heights and sharply-carved valleys. We drove out past Bir Tam-Tam (the end of the world, as far as Fassis are concerned), looking for a place called Taffert, pushed the car up a hill, and found our forest refuge. Ali, the refuge’s caretaker, called the owner for permission to let us stay; Faysal, our Moroccan friend and tireless translator, said that we were from the “Association of Peace:” magic words which got us a free place to sleep.
Tizi Boujabel, the nearest pass, was our first objective. We clambered up to survey the valley we’d conquered. The highest point wasn’t the rock we stood on but a cell phone tower, running on a generator and maintained by a Berber man who stays in a little room at its feet. He shared tea, bread, and honey, and we offered dried fruits and cookies.
Water bottles full at the icy Spring of Hunger not far from the refuge: they say its water increases your appetite. The drops of bleach we used to sterilize it against livestock droppings did not neutralize its power. The bud of an idea opened in all of our minds: buy a goat. Eat it.
Dinner by gas light, poems by star light, a fire on the lee side of the refuge to lull us all to sleep.
Visits from the authorities: the provincial governor, the local cops, forms to fill out, confirmations of our identities and intentions. They wanted to ensure our safety.
On the second day, a slow morning start, an aborted climb, ongoing discussion about this goat. We resolved to acquire one. Michael, Faysal and I lingered at the refuge all afternoon, but had to wait until evening to close the deal.
A bargaining party set out to a nearby douar. They dragged the goat uphill in the dark, walked it like a wheelbarrow, paraded it victoriously into the refuge. We took turns hugging it, lifting it, beaming, but didn’t waste too much time. It kind of sighed, over and over, after its head was off.
Next time you’re in a pinch with a dead goat you’re in a hurry to eat, call me. I can give you the step-by-step. Ali went about the job with pep, slicing and yanking and repeating, “C’est moi le docteur!” for comic relief. I think he stuck the esophagus in his mouth, puffed up the lungs and bugged out his eyes just to make us laugh. I think, when I prepare a goat carcass, I can omit that step.
The fire was built, the grilling began, and people materialized out of the woods while we crouched on logs and cinder blocks waiting for morsels. Rachid who helped us buy and prepare the goat, the man who sold it to us, Ali’s little brother, they all walk up mountains like it’s cake: in perfect darkness, wearing baseball caps and plastic shower shoes, with a bike or a dog, mish mushkila.
Liver, lungs, kidneys, testicles, leg meat, rump meat and heart: by 2 AM we had tried it all – with a little salt and cumin – and groaningly refused another bite. Despite the witness borne by its head forgotten on the porch and its skin hanging from a tree, the goat had won.
The next morning, the last one, I awoke still full and with mild fears that the Ali the driver wouldn’t come back for us, but he was good for his word and showed up early. After many goodbyes and last-minute negotiations we left with lighter bags and hearts, wended our way back towards civilization.
The whole way back I mulled over the marvel of our escape to Jebel Bou Iblane. I climbed my first mountain, sat on a plant that put thorns in my butt, drank from a spring, squatted and talked with local sidis… When we came down out of the mountains we cursed the heat, and when we came up into Fès we cursed the hubbub. Life in the Middle Atlas is hard, but the people’s warmth there had touched us. It’s a tough choice between the isolation of a mountainside and the overcrowdedness of an old medina, one I’m lucky not to have to make. When I got out of the taxi, though, the only thing I wanted to do was turn back.