Imlil
by Sarah Frankfurth

It was market day in Asni when we arrived, looking for a way to get further up into the mountains.  We waited around the bustling square for a few hours watching people load sheep into the luggage compartments beneath buses or tying them onto mopeds, until we were lucky enough to cram ourselves onto an over packed van that took us half way to our destination, Imlil, before breaking down.  Luckily, an open backed truck filled with other dusty passengers came by not long afterwards and agreed to take us the rest of the way.  At last we arrived and I felt a flood of joy and excitement that comes when you find a place in the world that feels like it could be home.  Imlil was so beautiful, like a fairytale, a magical, peaceful place.  I sat on the roof of Mohammed's gîtes where we were staying and stared at the snow-capped peak of Djebel Toubkal in front of me.  Four thousand meters high and six hours walk from there, yet it looked like it was just around the corner.  I couldn't adjust my perceptions to the reality. 

There was a river that ran through the village that looked like the thick, bubbly, greenish glass that jars of preserves come in.  The water was enticingly clean and pure as it slid and crashed over the colorful rocks. The valley itself was lush with cherry and walnut trees; long green grasses and crops were laid out like a patchwork quilt, stitched together by irises. Swarms of ladybugs filled the air and painted the dirt roads with flecks of red.  The bowl of the valley had turned green from the irrigation channels that ran everywhere, capturing the flow of the melting snowcaps from the surrounding peaks.

We walked up to Aroumd the next day, a smaller village that was even more hidden amongst the peaks.  It was perched on the cliffs, shrouded by the mountains and looked organic, like the buildings grew from the rocks where they stood.  The ground was filled with colors, from golden brown to bluish grey, purple, red, pink, and white.  A patch on one side of a slope was swirled red-pink-white and surrounded by golden earth and various greens.  The color patterns of the village followed those of the rock beneath it; yellow clusters of buildings with grey on the outskirts, orange-brown settlements and the swirled patch of red and pink houses.

The echo of a voice floated out to us as we walked along the dusty deserted road that led past the town and down a slope to a patch of trees that clung to the side of shallow stream.  Laughter rose above the splash of the water and the trees parted to reveal a group of women scattered along the rocks, washing clothing.  They stooped in the stream, their bright skirts tied up at the knees as they bent and dunked and scrubbed and wrung and talked and sang.  We stood in the shade and watched them for awhile, immersed in their tasks, in their lives, unaware of our eyes, until one woman stood up and pushed her hair off her face with a dripping forearm, looked up at me and smiled.