Happy to be Alive Part 3 Our Family Journey to Morocco
There it is. The much anticipated knock at the front gate. Our son pops out of his seat with the urgency of a firefighter to see if they have arrived. It is the most anticipated day of all with a family camel ride followed by a trek through the Atlas mountains. My husband and I are hoping that the fresh squeezed orange and pomegranate juice from the property's orchard will make our youngest, who is running a light fever, feel up to today’s adventure.
"Which one is mine?" asks our wide-eyed son when our handsome guide -right out of One Thousand and One Nights, arrives. No answer. Unbothered, he inspects our transportation while my husband and I remain torn between splitting up the family on our last day in Morocco and bouncing our glassy-eyed four-year-old daughter through the desert. And so it is that we bundle up our sweetest of cargo and set out to explore the world’s largest desert.
Trekking through unchartered territory…virgin sand dunes…our long hair and white linen swaying in the Saharan wind…
Not.
Though it is not as romantic as I had imagined, it does prove to be an unparalleled experience that bonds our family in a way that only travel does. And if it didn't make her feel better, it certainly elevates our daughter's spirit, for she is not about to let anyone talk her into missing out on yet another adventure.
"What?" I balk when my husband announces that our car is waiting. "You didn't cancel it? It's two o'clock in the afternoon! Those roads are the most dangerous in Morocco! It’s too late now, we shouldn't drive back down in the dark!”
I am certain he only hears "blah, blah, blah." Yes, we are that predictable.
My husband, the one who found himself at age nineteen in a Western Sahara refugee camp (but that’s another story) assures me that it's safe and that we will all be fine. And with the children chiming in for me not to spoil our last day of fun, we find ourselves on the ever-winding Route 203 towards the high Atlas mountains.
Good thing my husband didn't see this in the guide books. Might have given him an idea or two.
The trek to Imlil takes nearly two hours. We stop for a bite at a restaurant, seemingly enveloped in the enormous mountain, and pay a visit to a coop run by women who invite us to take a stab at making argan oil. The experience makes our daughter, Gisella, and me feel as though we have traveled centuries back to a slower, less adulterated time and place. Hypnotized by the sublime sound of the call to prayer, we are reminded that dusk will soon be upon us and that it is time to head back to the hotel.
In all of its magnificence, the deep-saffron sunset, casting its hue over the province in one majestic stroke, fails to distract me for more than an instant. I am hanging on for dear life and asking the children multiple times if they are buckled in. The peaceful photos below fail to tell the truth about that treacherous drive down the ridge, inches from plummeting us into the ravine below. I honestly have no idea how we made it back to the hotel unharmed. No need to do that again and I hope my family opts out for life too.
True that if faced with the decision to travel through the Atlas mountains again, especially at dusk, my answer (and I speak for my children too) would emphatically be a NO. Daredevil antics aside, our family is all the richer for having taken this memorable journey. The warm welcome we received from the Arab and Berber people deeply touched us, shedding much light on our understanding of their abundant culture.
P.S. -Five months after our unforgettable visit, a bomb tragically destroyed the Argana cafe in Jemaa el Fnaa, a popular marketplace in the very Medina we visited. The title of this trilogy: Happy to be Alive, makes reference, not only to the dangerous Atlas mountains, but also to that heartbreaking event.