Atlas Shangri-la, Morocco
One of my closest friends died last year. I woke one sunny, California morning, heard the news and suddenly the familiar topography of my life had changed. Apart from the incredible loss of a 48-year-old, the thing that haunted me was the many adventures Chip had intended and would now never do.
During the months afterward, I often found myself staring at a postcard taped to my office wall. On it was a photo of a Moroccan kasbah, or fortress. It stood alone on a tree-lined hilltop. Behind it loomed snow-covered peaks pressed against a flawless blue sky. To me, it was the very image of a peaceful Shangri-La. I had bought the postcard in 2002 in Marrakech. A local had told me the castle, Kasbah du Toubkal, had been turned into a Berber hotel in the High Atlas Mountains. The scene was so mysterious and luring I'd made a promise to myself to go some day.
The picture was carried around the world and pasted above my desk, where, six years later it remained, faded and forgotten. After Chip's death, I knew it was time to go to my Kasbah. And I would raise a glass to my lost friend from the rooftop.
Two Bay Area friends agreed to accompany me: Susan Burks, an artist, and Kodiak Greenwood, a photographer. In the first week of October, at the end of the tourist season in the Atlas, we arrived in Marrakech, the arrival city for Atlas travel. Our plan was to spend five nights hiking in the High Atlas staying in small, Moroccan-owned guesthouses. On the sixth night we'd end up at Kasbah du Toubkal, spend a couple of nights, then move down the road to an even finer establishment, the Kasbah Tamadot.
Despite the media hype extolling its exoticism and luxury, Marrakech is a noisy, crowded, polluted city. We'd venture into the assault of the medina in the morning, battle our way through crowds and crazed moped drivers, then dash back to the chic oasis of our small, French-owned hotel Riad Al Massarah. We'd spend the rest of the day chaise-bound on the bafflingly quiet rooftop patio drinking mint tea before venturing out to some trendy restaurant for a pan-fusion dinner. Not being sufficiently pan-fusion or trendy, I was relieved to leave Marrakech. Within three hours drive we were in what seemed like another world. The clothing changed from the tight jeans, polyester shirts and loafers of Marrakech to the long hooded robes and embroidered skullcaps of the Atlas Berber people. Villages were formed from red earth and terraced up hillsides. Mountains thrust out of the valley above umber colored gorges, towering over the palm trees and river oases of the plains below.
The Atlas Mountains cut across North Africa, running 1,500 miles though Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. In Morocco, they are divided into three parts -the Middle, High and Anti-Atlas. My castle, the Kasbah du Toubkal, lay below Jbel Toubkal, which, at 13,671 feet, is the highest mountain in North Africa. Our hike began in Oukaimeden and headed southwest over an 11,800-foot pass. We'd had New York-based Heritage Tours book our trip. We'd chosen them for their singular knowledge of off-the-beaten-path Morocco, and they delivered. Most importantly, they'd assigned us one of the most venerated mountain guides in the Atlas, Mohammed "Calal" Bouchahoud. Tall and elegant, Calal moved mindfully and effortlessly, crossing the highest ridges as if he were doing a walking meditation in a Zen garden. For me, still in a ludicrously fragile state where the mere sight of a bird wheeling in the sky could reduce me to weeping, just being in the presence of someone like Calal was a form of panacea.
With each day of hiking the scenery seemed to get lovelier, further removed, and more like the Shangri-La I'd imagined six years before. Our path took us up physically challenging peaks, into orchard-lined valleys and Berber villages. People moved slowly and purposefully. Houses were built of mud and straw, donkeys were used for transport, meals were cooked over fires, fields were planted by mule-drawn plough and children helped with the harvest. Clearly, with the exception of the occasional naked, low-wattage light bulb dangling in some lucky houses, the people were living as they had for centuries. Our own accommodations were tiny guesthouses built specifically for trekkers. Comfortable, warm and well designed we spent the evenings around a fire drinking eating excellent tagine and couscous dinners.
Village visits were a highlight. The young Berber women were mesmerized by Kodiak Greenwood, our handsome young photographer. With long hair and beard he looked like a member of a 70s rock band, which intrigued them. We began to introduce him as "Habibi," which in Arabic means "beloved" or in contemporary usage, "babe." (Listen to any Arabic pop song and you'll hear habibi used liberally). In French (French being the colonial language of Morocco), the girls would ask, "Is he your husband?" referring to Susan and me.
We'd reply. "Non."
They seemed happy to hear that.
"Your son?"
"Non!" we'd retort, although in these parts, where teenaged mothers abound, that assumption was entirely feasible.
"Ah, brother then!"
"Oui," we'd sigh, "brother." Two women traveling alone in the mountains with a man who was neither husband nor kin was just too appalling for them to imagine.
"Is he looking for a wife?" they'd enquire optimistically.
"Most definitely," we'd say.
We'd leave the village with Kodiak walking at a swift clip, several pretty girls gazing wistfully behind us.
On the sixth day we hiked back into civilization, reaching the town of Ouigane. It came as a shock to see vehicles and roads again, touts beseeching us to buy their bright carpets strung up roadside. We were met by a car and driven 30 minutes to Imlil, the town below Kasbah du Toubkal. Driving up the valley, we could see the castle on the hill. Other than having no snow on the hills behind it, it looked exactly as it had on my postcard.
Originally built in the 1940s as a summer residence a feudal chief, the Kasbah was a ruin when Briton Mike McHugo bought it, remodeling it into the 17-room Berber guesthouse it is today. The location is so awe-inspiring that Martin Scorsese used it as a Tibetan Monastery in his 1997 film Kundun.
There is no road access to the Kasbah. Mules carry luggage and guests must hike up through sun-dappled walnut orchards. With a dimly lit interior, the Kasbah had low-slung couches, Berber rugs, metal lamps, and rooms with 360-degree views of mountains, valleys and waterfalls.
Before coming, I'd read this statement on the website: "The Kasbah du Toubkal is not a hotel in the traditional sense, it is more an extension of the hospitality that stems from the home of the Berbers who run it." In reality this means that the service is slow, the food inconsistent, and, as the Berbers are Muslim, there's no alcohol license, meaning those not forewarned cannot indulge in that expected glass of wine with dinner. However, we had been told it was acceptable to bring our own wine, which is exactly what we did. I was not to be cheated of my rooftop toast.
When we lose someone we love, we tend to feel their presence at certain, random times. Whether this is some desperate human reaction to grief or a phenomenon we don't understand, it's comforting and very real. Plus, Hallmark-movie things seem to happen. The afternoon of our arrival at Kasbah du Toubkal, clouds swept across the blue sky and, for the first time that season, snow fell. Later, when I raised my glass of smuggled-in wine to Chip on the rooftop patio, it had stopped snowing and, I kid you not, a double rainbow burst over Jbel Toubkal.
Used to hours of walking each day, we continued to make day hikes from the Kasbah, heading up the valley to Sidi Chamharouch, a Muslim shrine en route to the summit of Toubkal. The story goes that Chamharouch, a marabout, or wandering holy man, is buried there. His power is so great that the location exorcises demons from the minds of the mentally ill. Muslims suffering from psychological troubles trek up here to seek sanctuary and healing. There seems a great deal of wisdom in this pilgrimage. The views are sufficiently staggering to temporarily relieve anyone's anguish.
Entrance to non-Muslims, however, is strictly forbidden, so we had to content ourselves with sitting in the little hamlet outside eating stale Snickers bars. Streaming past us into the shrine were four-year-old children and little old Berber ladies wearing blankets and rubber flip-flops. They had trudged their way up to the 7,500-foot-high spot under their own steam, making us feel greatly abashed in our waterproof boots, hiking poles and breathable fleece. Passing us were groups of international peak-baggers, earnestly plodding their way towards the summit of Toubkal. I felt momentarily guilty that I was not going all the way up, but remorse was abandoned when it stormed all night and we woke in our warm beds at the Kasbah imagining the miserable souls huddled in tents near the summit.
Kasbah Tamadot, Richard Branson's uber-luxurious retreat, was a 30-minute drive down the valley from Imlil and was where we ended our Atlas sojourn. In 1998, Sir Richard Branson came to Morocco for his round-the-world balloon attempt, bringing his elderly, go-getter mother with him. While Richard tinkered with his balloon, his mom explored Morocco. Passing a magnificent building near the town of Asni with a for-sale sign, she stopped, phoned her son and suggested he snap up the property for his next Virgin Limited Edition Hotel. Sir Richard, ever dutiful, did exactly that. Tamadot opened in 2005 after a glorious refurbishment. The moment we stepped inside the carved wooden gates and into the abundant garden it felt like Shangri-La had leapt forward, with great panache, into the 21st century. The 24-room Tamadot is one of the most blissful places I have ever been. And considering bliss these days normally comes at a gut-punching price, Tamadot is equitable, starting at around $470 a night. The service was impeccable (they began training the locals two years before the hotel opened), and the food over-the-top (the chef brought in from France). Sir Richard has done it again-established a tasteful haven against all odds.
Once inside those gates, our motivation to hike fled. The urge was to lie beside one of the two pools, have a massage in the spa, splay on a divan in the marble courtyard, dine by a fire on the outdoor balcony (with...hooray...a glass of wine or even a mohito), or lounge by the plunge pool in an extravagant tent-suite filled with exotic North African and Eastern antiques.
Personally, I had a thing for the hammam. In the Middle Ages, when barbaric Europeans bathed but once or twice a year, the Arabs had their hammams, used often. Hammams are public bathhouses, typically a domed room heated by an under-floor fire. In Morocco every city, town, and village still has multiple hammams, and visiting one is a worthwhile cultural experience.
Tamadot's hammam was a little marble temple of indulgence. Sisters from a nearby village (they remain dressed, which cannot be said of all hammams) scrubbed me with a loofah, lathered me with olive oil soap and hurled buckets of steaming water at me. I went daily, stumbling out feeling reborn.
Afterwards, I realized how badly I'd needed to feel reborn from my sadness. The purchase of that postcard, which had represented my own Shangri-La, now felt to me like more than serendipity, it felt like fate, bringing me to this place of lovely simplicity at a time most needed. In Hilton's book Lost Horizon, the inhabitants of Shangri-La lived years beyond any normal lifespan. My friend Chip did not make it that far. But maybe, just maybe, he'd been with me every step of the way. And that made me smile.