About five kilometres outside Marrakech the great Atlas Mountains loomed ahead of us: not very clearly though due to the heat haze. The road was dusty and narrow and as straight as any Roman road. We travelled along it at a steady pace, passing the peasant folk working in the fields, the olive groves and groups of Moroccans sitting by the roadside who just seem to do nothing but talk and watch cars go by.

 

The landscape of Morocco, as I knew it, was changing. I had only known the towns and cities and had seen little of the real Moroccan countryside. As we began to climb, leaving the great plateau behind us, we saw some of the world’s most beautiful scenery and people. Small villages consisting of equally small houses made of mud and stone became very much part of the countryside. So did the Berber people, who are the native inhabitants of Morocco and basically a mountainous people. The Berbers look slightly oriental with narrow eyes and pale yellow skins; they are good-looking. In every village we passed through, crowds of children and adults alike waved and chased the car along the road. Many held up pottery and polished stones for us to buy. All along the roads were bazaars and stalls, the great majority selling pottery. Very often, clouds of dark smoke could be seen rising high above the houses in the villages. This was smoke from the primitive kilns used to bake the clay pots and plates. We travelled on into some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen, with deep valleys and meandering rivers. There were women washing clothes along the river banks and children bathing.

 

Something very interesting happened as we travelled through one of the smaller villages of the lower Atlas Mountains. A young boy ran after the car and sang something through the open driver’s window. Charles immediately stopped the car and shook hands with the boy, who was equally delighted to see Charles. They spoke for a while in French and eventually we drove off leaving the little boy waving after us. Charles explained that, three years ago, he and a friend had been driving through the same village when they had met the same boy with whom he had just been talking. Charles’s friend had taught the boy a song about Hiawatha and it seems that he has remembered the song ever since, for as he ran alongside the car this was what he was singing to Charles, whose face he had remembered also. The Berbers are renowned for their incredible memories. This was amazing.

 

We stopped at a small hotel and had a drink. We sat silently looking out over the high mountains and the deep valleys beside us. Very few cars travelled along this particular road and I have often wondered how the merchants managed to make a living. I also wondered how the hoteliers managed to keep their heads above water in the summer in so isolated a spot as the Atlas Mountains. Surely one must tire of country walks.

 

We were fortunate to be motoring back over the plateau towards Marrakech just as the sun was setting. The colours of both the Sun and the surrounding sky were beautiful. Just as the sun was disappearing below the horizon so the moon (just as large) was rising over the Atlas. It was breath-taking and a sight which can best be appreciated in this part of Africa.

 

So, we arrived back in Marrakech, where the pace of life was very much quicker and the drivers just as manic. I much preferred the countryside to the towns. Mike was right when he said that if you want to see the real Morocco you should stay out of the cities.