Morocco - desert and Tajine, would summarise as a cliche. But also in the Atlas Mountains that run through, lies the tallest mountain of North Africa “Toubkal”.
The hike begins from the village “Imlil” at the base. We started from Marrakesh after a leisurely breakfast at the Riad and made way through the lesser used mountain road to Imlil. The landscape soon became arid and the road weaved through rocky-sandy hillocks. At one such bend, we could oversee a vast expanse, spot some quads racing through and Monaal wanted to pee - the loo with a view. At the same time, a man on motorcycle carrying a backpack passed and looped to returned back to where we had parked our “hertz-Panda”. Linguistic barriers not withstanding he opened his bag and wanted to sell all kinds of trinkets and stones, while Monaal was alerting us to the completion of her job. To politely refuse him and quickly attend to the frantic calls was a hilarious beginning of our trip. 
Soon after the mounds gave way to hills that rose suddenly and the road twisted through. The small town we passed gave us a glimpse of a place frozen in time. I missed my road-bike to cycle through these roads, with straight stretches, inclines - it would have been a paradise to bike. At a bend there was a view-point overlooking the valley as the river snaked through. The view not breathtaking but gave a perspective of hills in an arid land. Joining the main highway as it runs from Marrakesh we carried on to Imlil. The mountains became taller and the valleys green. The mountain towns have Rohm of their own, irrespective of the country or continent they could be in. Imlil had the same vibe, small shops and eateries dot the main road as it snakes through and at the distal end as we crossed a stream the town ended. 
Our place of stay “Village de Toubkal” was a short distance away from the paved road, along a dirt track. The lack of signages and the remoteness of the place made us doubt if we were headed in the correct direction. Finally we spotted a village, parked the car on a curb and walked down. Confirming that we were there, we returned with our baggage. There was no one other than us, no internet coverage and no electricity. The check in was more like a distant walk in to a room. The window overlooked Imlil and the bathroom was as big as the room with a gigantic tub but no hot water. Mentally we were prepared as we had read of Imlil, though information was scanty. Among the two people who ran this place, one accompanied us back to Imlil to show a short walking path through the adjacent village. The overflow of garbage into the stream and the path was continuous. The developing world is paying the cost of cheap plastic availability without proper disposal mechanisms being in place. The greed of companies, to market cheaper products with cheaper plastic without the moral responsibility of removing the waste in the poorer countries while upholding high principles in the developed, makes one sad and angry and almost an anarchist. 
Back in town, we headed to the cafe next to stream after a fruitless search for a pizzeria, and settled for Tajine. Language barriers can be broken effortlessly when there is a will and erected effortlessly when there is a need. After filling in our bellies we walked over to the official tourism bureau and the guides there assured us that even with Monaal on my back we could go up and down Toubkal the same day. They also suggested a three valley hike that would be long but possible. Walking up to our hotel, we discarded the idea of Toubkal as we had already read about it and the reality of the topography and trail we could see. Passing a shop, a person started talking to us regarding our plans and then offered to be our guide the next day. He spoke English and was a student, we took his number and ambled along. Adjacent to our hotel the dirt track continued as the hiking path to Toubkal. As it was noon and we decided to push along and see how it went, to make a final call. Passing along the bends our decision to abandon the plan for Toubkal fired up and the same person - Abdulrahim who volunteered to be our guide crossed our path again. Now we confirmed to him for the next morning for the three valley hike. Back at our hotel the electricity was on and there was hot water, with which we had a nice bath and headed to the dining area. Sitting on low benches with square tables along the wall there were other people as well now. A nice warm fire was on and it had started to be chilly outside. The dinner was Tajine once again, lamb was the centrepiece surrounded by potatoes and figs. Dinner devoured, we were sleeping in our beds peacefully, looking forward to the walk the next day. 
The morning was cold and the sky clear. We had a nice simple breakfast of warm local bread, butter, jam and honey with mint tea. Abdulrahim was here before time and reminded us of Shaban Lone - our guide to the Kalahoi glacier in Kashmir a few months ago. We got going soon enough and the Sun was yet finding its way to emerge from the mountain tops. The light preceeds the warmth of the day and on the leeward side of the mountains it was chilled.
The route was to pass through three valleys interconnected by three high passes, this would entail for sharp scenes and depends. But the immediate onset of the relentless climb in the chill, caught us by surprise. Monaal was soon on my back. Reaching the first pass - col - the Sun warmed us as we emerged from the shadows. It was blissful to sit in the warmth and a small shop there had fresh pressed orange juice that we gladly lapped up. Two bikers also stopped there as the road intersected the walking track; they were traversing Morocco over a month long holiday. Going down from the first pass into the valley was steep but the open path and Sun made it warm.
As the day progressed the temperatures were better and breeze cooled us. The valley was a lush green in contrast to the browns of the slopes. The spring blossomed the green and the civilisation, beyond the artificial constructs of infrastructure and availability, the norms of habitation and living are the same as from centuries before. Entering the village we crossed the stream and sheep were being tended by women who gave the generous whacks to get them moving. These women would have been as much at home in Kashmir or in Garhwal as here, in their physical attributes or attitude. Traversing the village in the narrow alleys we emerged on the other side and continued the relentless climb along the mountain side. Now we were headed to a village higher up on the side, from where we would climb over the next pass into the third valley. 
Easier planned than done, we laboured our way through the narrow path hugging the mountain side. We reached the high village and decided to have lunch here. Our guide knew some people here and one family opened their doors to let us in and share lunch. The door opened into a courtyard with some shady trees by the side, surrounding was the house structure on one side and other three sides were just walled in. In the courtyard three women sat sorting wool, to clean and then spin into yarn. We sat at a low table adjacent, under the shade of a tree to shield us from the glaring sun. The breeze was cool and we were happy to rest here. The old women picked up a few walnuts that were in a heap next to her and rolled them to us. They were milky and soft, the kernel cracking with the slightest of pressure between the hands. The lunch itself was bread, olive oil, honey which had the bees inside like fossils of amber and mint tea. Observing, absorbing and smiling was mutual between us and Abdulrahim translated a few questions and answers. Moving on we observed that the school was the only building with colour, rest were a dull grey-brown. The garbage was omnipresent here as well, and no one seemed to notice it. 
The climb was punishing and never ending, we left the green furrow that hugged the stream to exposed brown grass and rocks as we snaked our way higher. Each ridge exposed the next ridge to be climbed. After a seemingly long time, we reached the pass. It was marked by a small collection of stones, like the Buddhist Chorten. On the other side, mountain goats made mockery of our efforts by racing and dancing effortlessly. We rested on the pass, Monaal has fallen asleep while ascending and continued to sleep, I observe that she is heavier to carry while asleep. Maybe she makes no conversation and then feels heavier. We oversaw the valleys we had traversed, brown with green, cocooning within them a civilisation, tall and beautiful. The descent down to the Imlil valley was steep and punishing on the knees. 
Abdulrahim made no effort to conceal his irritation with us and I reminded him, that we were twice his age. But the same evening forgot to factor this when was suggesting an itinerary to a German couple who had been together since 40 years. Karma - would catch up with me. At the end of the trail, we were yet 5-6 km from Imlil and had to walk up the tarmac. Deepam decided to hitch a ride and soon enough a Prado stopped and we hopped right in. It seemed like luxury to be moving without further straining the tortured muscles and he drove fast and hard. Back at Imlil we got off and walked back to our hotel.
Back at the hotel (village de Toubkal) we gulped down some orange juice. A warm shower and change of clothes later, we headed back to common space. Today there was a older German couple, a dutch couple and British as well. The Tajine and soup arrived soon enough. The soup was a rich tomato Harrara with a wooden spoon that was elegant, rustic and functional. I was so impressed to request to buy 6 but due to unavailability we were gifted two which were in use. With the two spoons and plenty of memories packed in along with our luggage we slept the night to leave early the next day.
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