Language and Identity: Are Catalan and Tamazight in a Similar Struggle?

Last week I wrote a bit about my journey through the maze of languages present in Morocco. I wrote about how moving from one language to another or incorporating, for instance, more French in Darija can change people's perception of you. As I reflect even more in these listless days of Ramadan, I realize that Morocco is not alone in this state of flux.

The debate is out on whether encouraging or allowing other languages or dialects to thrive foments dissension.  If the country's administration is a control-freak, then it can certainly look that way, but if it applies a more laissez-faire approach, it may find that it has more to gain culturally and economically in the long run.

In my last trip to Europe, I found out that some parts of Italy and Spain are in a somewhat similar predicament to Morocco. When I visited my friends in Italy, I found out that although Italian is the predominant language of all Italy, there are a number of dialects that are widely spoken. My friend had just moved from the south of Italy to Rome and expressed difficulty understanding the Romans who he said were not speaking Italian but some sort of Roman dialect. When I hopped over to Barcelona, I was greeted with a mix of Spanish and Catalan. I found Catalan written on all the buildings, street signs, city maps, and restaurant menus alongside the Castilian Spanish (castellano) equivalent. At a party, I could speak Spanish to anyone there, but as soon as I'd finish the conversation, that person would turn around and speak Catalan to his/her friends. In Matarò on the Costa Brava near Barcelona in the Autonomous Region of Catalonia, I got to hang out with a Dominican family who had migrated there a little over 5 years ago. Their son who came to Catalonia at a young age told me that he was already fluent in Catalan. I asked him about his classes. I was curious to know about the effect of the reinstatement of Catalan as the official language of Catalonia on the educational system. He told me that he is taught every subject from math, sciences, and history in Catalan. He is taught Catalan as the primary language. Castilian Spanish still forms part of his core classes, but it is regarded as a second language only to be studied and used within that class. He also has the option of a third language as an elective for which he chose English.

His father who has been living there for over 7 years told me that he hasn't even attempted to learn it.  His reasons are that everyone can understand his Castilian Spanish just fine and why would he learn a language that is only spoken in one region of the country. His sentiments sound similar to the Moroccans who can't understand why I have devoted so much time to Darija when it is only understood in the streets of Morocco and only vaguely understood in much of the Arab world. According to one of my Catalonian friends from Barcelona, he said that after the death of Franco--a fierce nationalist dictator who took over after the Spanish Civil War and went about repressing many dialects and languages while making Castilian Spanish the predominant tongue--a lot of dialects and languages have experienced a renaissance. It's unclear where this rebirth of languages will lead. It certainly changed my perception of Spain from a homogeneous Castilian Spanish speaking country as I was taught in primary school in Venezuela to what is really a linguistically heterogeneous country of many languages and dialects.

Flag of Catalunya

Like the Moroccans who feel more attached to their Rifian, Tamazight, Tashelheit, and other native languages, many Catalans feel that it is imperative to speak the language, to promote its use, to teach the language in school, and to gain recognition politically because the language is not just a tool for communicating, it defines who they are, what they believe, where they come from, and how they perceive the world--for a recent article on language and perception, check out this link from NY Times, Does Your Language Shape How You Think?.

From an economic standpoint, one could argue that it is a waste of time and resources to learn a language that is not widely used. I remember thinking back in high school that I wanted to learn French rather than German because according to my textbooks, there seemed to be more parts of the world shaded in as francophone countries than there were for German.  I justified my choice thinking that it would be more likely for me to use French than German in my future professional career or for traveling. If I was to look only through that lens considering only the present state of things and disregarding the past and the future, I would posit to Catalans and to the Amazigh that indulgence in their respective languages is detrimental to their economic success. I would ask why they would push for use of a language when Castilian Spanish is the lingua franca in their country and in much of Latin America. I would ask some Moroccans why they would seek to teach Tamazight when nearly everyone around them speaks Darija and when the demand for French, English, or Spanish is growing as the country continues to liberalize their economy.  From an outsider's point of view without much background on how Catalan and Tamazight had been suppressed, it would seem that those advocating the use of their language are living in the past and perhaps jeopardizing their future.  What is difficult for many outsiders to understand is that they have a different view of the future shaped by their native language that sees new economic opportunities.

Singing English with El Cuatro would sound a bit discordant

When I look at the debate through my own personal experience with my struggle to hold on to my native castellano, I can sympathize with their feelings.  When our family moved back to the U.S., I was eager to learn English so that I could make friends and survive in school. I was only ten years old when we made the move. Fortunately, my brain at that time was in absorb-and-repeat mode rather than in need of conjugation or other grammar rules, and I was a lot cuter back then so mistakes were regarded as funny rather than potential offenses as they are sometimes perceived now. Consequently, as I learned more English and was surrounded by an anglophone environment I slowly began to lose the fluidity of my Spanish, and with it; I also began to lose a part of who I was.

One example that I think illustrates how my Spanish language upbringing shaped my perception is apparent in how I feel about the game of baseball.  For example, when I first arrived to the U.S., I could narrate a baseball game in true Venezuelan fashion describing every movement and every finite detail in dramatic form giving every pitch, swing, steal, double play, and home run a plot that would crescendo to a climax and would conclude with commentary about the angst or elation that the player must have felt at the end of the play. Bear in mind that all of this is spoken at spitfire, breakneck speed--if you have the opportunity to hear a Spanish language broadcast of a Major League Baseball game, you'll see what I'm talking about.

This play by the great Omar Vizquel would
most certainly bring a shower of beer

The game of baseball takes on a different light in Spanish, and I was forgetting this. The Latin American Spanish narrating drives people to a frenzy while the U.S. narration of the game is slower, more relaxed, with lots of statistics, and definitely not as colorful. I totally understood why my girlfriend could not watch a game with me. In my mind, I still heard the voices of the broadcasters painting every play in typical melodramatic telenovela style.

When I go to a U.S. ballpark, I always feel something is missing. People would drink their beers at U.S. stadiums; in Venezuela, you bought some beers to drink and others to spray the crowd after every big play, most certainly after every home run, and even more so after a win. Even today, if I have the choice of a Spanish or English broadcast, I always choose Spanish. Why? Because to me, the frenetic Spanish language broadcast describes the game in such a way that it makes me reminisce to my days playing street ball in my old barrio neighborhood. The baseball game is the same for both the anglophone and Spanish-speaking public, but their views of the game, the passion, the anxiety, and the excitement are felt and exhibited in different ways.

I believe Catalans and Amazigh would feel the same way about their poetry, their music, and other means of artistic expression. Translating it would take away much of the beauty. Suppressing the language would be a form of suppression of expression. Having to describe their world in a language that originated somewhere else under a different environment and different social structure would perhaps distort, be insufficient, or incompatible with their current understanding under their native tongue.

When the repression of the Catalan language was lifted, Catalan re-emerged and its emergence did not dampen its economic prosperity; quite the contrary, Catalonia was and continues to be one of the most affluent of the Spanish autonomous regions.  Catalan literature, poetry, radio, film, newspapers, and other forms of media came out into the open and were welcomed by the Catalonians.  The absence of Catalan print was a suppressed demand.  Could this also be the case for Tamazight language?  It could very well be.  So actually from an economic point of view, it may be that promoting Tamazight may have the effect of generating more domestic economic activity as the local population now has media that speaks to them and speaks for them.

If I had a vote in this matter, I would vote for both the Catalonians and the Amazigh to continue to promote their languages. Variety is the spice of life. I don’t think Tamazight is confusing the kids. It’s probably confusing them now because the pedagogy, still in its inception, is confusing, but in time, a sound curriculum will be developed, inchallah. Differing worldviews and forms of expression are needed and I believe there is plenty of room for them in our global village.

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Here's some additional reading from Maghrebia, a tri-lingual online news portal on everything Maghreb, that speaks to the struggle of Amazigh in gaining recognition.

Amazigh rights issue pits Moroccan Berbers against Islamists

Here's another article.  This one comments on the drive to improve the pedagogy of Tamazight.

Activists call for qualified Amazigh language instruction

As for language resources, if you plan to be in Catalonia, picking up a few words will earn you some brownie points from the locals.  Colloquial Catalan: A Complete Course for Beginners (Colloquial Series)

Lastly, just to give you a taste of Venezuelan narrated baseball, check out this YouTube video of a couple of home runs hit by a couple of players from Los Leones contra Los Magallanes during the final playoff series:

The Shamal Series Honorable Mentions: Volubilis, Oulmes, Mehdia Beach, and Mouley Bousselham

Continuing on with the Shamal Series, I'd like to present a few travel options that I think are worth a stop if you have the time.  I write these entries to let people know about other places other than your well-known tourist-magnet cities like Fez, Marrakesh, or Essaouira, in the hopes that you may have the chance to have as good a time as I had visiting these sites.

1) Volubilis (To Moroccans, Walili)

Actually, this first site is perhaps one of the most popular tourist spots in all of Morocco and draws thousands of people from around the world every year (The next site is out of the beaten path; I promise).  Volubilis is one of the largest ruins of Roman civilization in the Maghreb.  It is set in the middle of a wide open expanse of farmland.  According to my Rough Guide to Morocco, the Romans chopped down the trees in the region to make room for the cultivation of wheat and other grains and for olive trees that to this day border the hillside.  The place is pretty big and you do get the sense that you are in the midst of what used to be a vibrant commercial center.

I think what is cool about the place is how different the architecture and the layout of the city is in comparison to the medieval-esque medinas of Morocco.  The Romans expressed themselves artistically through imagery and exalted their nobles; as such, they created some very elaborate stone-pixel mosaics to enshrine for centuries to come those they admired. A sharp contrast to the Muslim cities where Islam prohibited the construction of statues and mosaics of faces, bodies, or any figure.  In their place, their medieval cities are adorned with intricate geometric kaleidoscope like mosaics and calligraphy.

Mosaic of the Athlete

The mosaics of the various city nobles are also impressive.  I've been told that watching the sunrise or sunset over the ancient city ruins is amazing.  For sure, don't go when I went at the height of the day when the sun is bearing down on you.  There are only a few trees around for shade so plan accordingly.  There is a nice cafe near the entrance with some trees, and across the street you can find a few gift shops and hanuts selling all sorts of snacks and even some ice cream.  

To get there, go to Meknes.  If you're arriving via grand taxi from Rabat or Fes, you'll be dropped off across the street from the bus station (gare routière or maHtta d kiran).  If you arrive at either of the Meknes train stations, take a petit taxi to the gare routière.  Just below the gare routière (not the CTM one), you will find grand taxis that run to Mouley Idriss about 30k north of Meknes.  Fare was 10DH in 2010 for your typical one butt-cheek sitting space.  The grand taxi will drop you off at the city square where you'll find plenty of station wagon taxis with signs to Volubilis charging around 5DH for the 5K ride.  For the return trip, you could tag along with other tour groups back to Meknes.  You could also trek back to Mouley Idriss and from there you can find plenty of taxis heading to Meknes.  A lot of taxis frequent the road picking up passengers on the way back to Meknes.  We boarded one of those taxis and paid the same amount we would have paid had we left from Moulay Idriss.  How do you know if they're in the business of picking up passengers? You can flag them down or just wait to hear a beep, which can mean two things: I have room for you or you're about to get run over.  Just be alert.

2) Oulmes

This little town is the site of one of the finest finds in all of Morocco: the Source Llala Haya, provider of the best tasting effervescent mineral water in all of Morocco.  There are a number of ways to get to Oulmes.  I went by way of Khemisset.  From the main Khemisset grand taxi station, small passenger vans called (transits or stuffits--no kidding and they do stuff them to the brim sometimes) head out to Oulmes.  The ride there is a little bumpy and curvy as the transit winds through the mountain ledges and plows through the hillside.  Once out of Khemisset, all you can see is wheat farms, cows and sheep grazing, and rolling hills and mountains dotted with shrubbery trees.  It took about an hour or so to get there.  We chilled out with some fellow PCVs for the night and then headed out early morning to the source.  We took a small transit that cost 4DH to get to the site of the bottling facility.

From there it was a 3K downhill trek zig-zagging all the way on a paved trail to the source, and on the trail you get to see up close the shrubbery trees dotting the rocky mountainside.  Upon reaching the source, you cross a river to what looks like a small shaded campsite facility.  There are attendants there who welcome you and give you a 2-minute tour of the facility basically showing you where the water is coming from and the room where a couple of bathtub-size pits have been dug in to accommodate those who wish to experience the magical healing powers of the thermal waters of Oulmes.  The water is streaming in and emptying out so it seemed pretty hygienic.

Johnny performing a do-it-yourself baptism at the source

I didn't take a bath, but I did wash my head a bit, which was wonderfully refreshing after the brief hike.  At the site, they got a few picnic tables overlooking the ravine.  Later on, I was about to drink straight out of this water hose by the picnic tables, but the attendant told me that the water at the campsite was unfiltered and was kind enough to give us a couple of Sidi Ali water bottles free-of-charge.  We then hiked up back to the bottling facility and from there we took the transit ride back to Oulmes.  

The bottling company has a hotel offering thermal baths, and my PCV friends said that the restaurant there is also very good.  For more information, see the link below:    

http://www.oulmes.ma/indexfr.htm

3) Mehdia Beach

As a pisces, my connection and attraction to water are stronger than most.  Luckily for me, the ocean is only about a three-hour train ride away.  It's a luxury and one that I indulge in whenever possible.  Every here and then I get the chance to go to Rabat for some official Peace Corps business and on such occasions I make sure a trip to the beach is on the agenda.

Mehdia Beach is the ideal spot if you want to get away from the hustle and bustle of the capital city and relax in the laid-back atmosphere of this beach resort/fishing town.  The beach is fairly long, the water is calm, although the surf can pick up later in the afternoon and onto the evening.  There are plenty of cafés, restaurants serving a range of seafood and fried fish, and hotels and maison d'hôtes for every kind of traveler, and it is not packed with tourist, but mostly locals.  The only downside is that it can get a little trashy from time to time, not people-wise per se, but just lots of litter, so watch your step as you stroll through the beach.

Perhaps the reason why it is not so tourist-heavy is  due to its somewhat remote location, but by no means should it discourage anyone from going there.  It's actually very easy to get there even with public transportation.  From Rabat, take the train to Kenitra Medina Station, the last stop on the urban rail lines that run every half hour from Casablanca.  Upon exiting the station, make a right towards the stairs, climb up the stairs, make a right at the top walking down until you reach an Oil Libya gas station, from there make a left and walk straight past all the hanuts until you reach the end of the block, and then look to your right and some orange grand taxis should be there waiting for passengers.  Normally, once you reach the Oil Libya gas station you should be able to see the taxis, but right now the square where they congregate is under construction.  If anything, just ask the hanut owners for the mahtta d taksiyat d Mehdia and they'll point you in the right direction.  Taxi fare was 5DH.  Train ride from Rabat was 15DH, and all in all, it should take you no more than an hour from the Rabat Ville Station to the sands of Mehdia.

4) Mouley Bousselham

If you still feel like getting even farther away from the city, a trip to Mouley Bousselham can probably soothe the most erratic nerves.  Because it´s a little bit further out, you see even less tourists and certainly more locals.  To the west is the beach and to the south is a beautiful lagoon and marshland called the Merdja Zerga that is frequented by a whole array of migratory birds, egrets, and even some flamingos.

Last time I was there, the beach had some rough waves and strong undercurrents.  It was closely guarded by lifeguards.  I mainly saw some families playing near the edge of the water and a good number of fishermen laying out multiple fishing poles and then chilling back on a lawn chair. The lagoon empties onto the ocean so I imagine that it is safer to swim.

I stayed at Hotel Miramar on the oceanfront, one of the cheaper options in town, but I don't recommend it.  The rooms are big.  They have a bedroom and a salon with ponges ideal for a small family.  They started at 250DH for the night, but we bargained down to 200DH.  One could  probably go a bit further.  The hot water in the public bathrooms never worked morning or night and at night the terrace is used as a pool hall with chabbi music blaring until 1-2AM despite requests to have the music lowered.

It was funny to hear the locals in the other rooms saying that there were foreigners in the hotel.  Mouley Bousselham is one of many sites Moroccans make a pilgrimage to in order to honor their various saints and tribal leaders of the past.  The Marabout of Mouley Bousselham rests prominently next to the grand plaza on the oceanfront.
    
Food-wise, many restaurants are serving all sorts of grilled or fried seafood for reasonable rates.  One piece of advice is to stay near the oceanfront and away from the lagoon side as you get closer to the night.  Just moving out of the ocean breeze for a bit can land you a good number of mosquito bites.  Overall though, a nice, clean, and quiet beach to calm the nerves.

To get there from Rabat, take a train to Kenitra Medina Station and upon exiting make a left and walk towards the grand taxis going to Mouley Bousselham.  The fare was 40DH and about an hour long.  They take the toll road to Tangiers for much of the way. You are dropped off about 1k from the oceanfront. As you get near it, you'll be presented with various maison d'hotes options from various faux guides that may actually be better than the hotel options.

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I think this about wraps up the Shamal Series.  There are still a number of places in northern Morocco that are worthy of individual entries namely Chefchaouen.  I actually went there, but just crashed the place for only one night.  Inchallah, I'll have the opportunity to visit and hike a bit in the Rif Mountains.

I've yet to talk about my trips to the south of the country.  I hope to highlight a few of them such as: the desert trek, the Todra Gorge, the palmeries, and some of the beaches near and around Agadir.  It's been quite an experience to see so much contrast in the landscape from marshlands to a sea of desert dunes, coastal plains to towering mountains, and an oasis of palmeries in the middle of a desert wilderness.  Moroccans are lucky to live in such a country.  I hope everyone has the chance to see what I have seen and to marvel at the beauty that perhaps a deity or the cosmic forces of the universe has created.

BssHa (To your health) on your travels!

Language and Identity: Finding My Darija Self

When I was confirmed for a post in Morocco over two years ago, I thought, "Great, I'd finally get to put my three years of high school French into practice."  After all, Morocco, according to my old French language textbooks, is one of those countries on the world map that is completely shaded in showing the extent of the French language around the world.

When I applied to the Peace Corps, I did state a preference for North or West Africa.  I was looking forward to enhancing my limited French-speaking skills, which at that time consisted of speaking Spanish while contorting my mouth to an "eu" sound and adding a nasal tone to every word.  I got by when I vacationed in France so I hoped that I would have the same luck in Morocco.

Soon after accepting my post, I got a chance to speak to the Desk Officer for the Mediterranean region about some of the tasks outlined in my NGO Development Volunteer position.  She told me that my French would come in handy, but that I would be learning darija.  I thought, "What! I never heard of darija?"  But wait, I read that Morocco is a francophone as well as an Arabic-speaking country, right?  I asked the desk officer if I should start studying a little Modern Standard Arabic (Fusha) and I was told that it could help, but that I still wouldn't be speaking Fusha with the locals--what a bummer and I had just purchased a Learn Arabic in Three Months book from Berlitz.

Then, she said something even more surprising.  She said that if I work with women weavers in the Atlas Mountains that I may be learning a Berber dialect that is only spoken in a particular region.  But how could this be?  My French textbook has all of Morocco completely covered, not with a whole bunch of blotches here and there.  A French teacher at my old high school confirmed that during a month-long excursion in Morocco that she had no problems getting around using her French.  She reassured me that I would indeed use my French.  I didn't know who to believe.  Surely, the Peace Corps officer must be right.  How could I not believe my old French teacher? Did the textbook publishers get it all wrong?

I decided to do a little research of my own.  I learned that the lingua franca is darija (Moroccan Arabic) for most of Morocco, but that French is still the predominant language of business and of higher education, Modern Standard Arabic (MSA) is the language of government, Classical Arabic is the language of religious practice, and that there are large pockets in the Atlas and Rif Mountains and in much of the south where different Berber dialects like Tamazight, Tarifit, and Tachelheit take precedence over darija.

Shortly after confirming my post, Peace Corps sent all the future Morocco volunteers a brief 20-page survival booklet of Moroccan Arabic words accompanied with audio, which gave me my first taste of darija.  I compared it to the Modern Standard Arabic that I had already learned in three months (not really, but I did go through a few lessons), and noticed that they sounded like they were related, but still considerably different.

Usually, in these moments of utter confusion, I try to find some sort of reference point in my brief past that I can draw parallels to.  I scoured my brain for something similar, but there were very few links.  Growing up in Venezuela, I was taught Spanish (Castellano to be exact) in school and we spoke Spanish at home.  Every region of the country pronounced things a bit differently, had words that were only in use in that area, or had a different cadence to their speech, but for the most part, we understood one another almost completely wherever you went.  There is street slang that I have to learn every time I visit, but even its use is infrequent and sometimes looked down upon as lewd or uneducated.

Like Venezuela, here in the U.S. English is pronounced slightly differently in the north than in the south, there are words that are more or less in use in certain areas, and there are definitely various cadences.  The U.S. has some small pockets where various groups of European, Asian, or African descent heavily influence the main language, but their dialect or use of their language of origin remains fixed to that location or region.  Those small language enclaves I had visited in the U.S. and Venezuela were the only thing I could roughly match to the Atlas and Rif Mountains' enclaves that continue to speak their language despite repeated incursions from various empires, dynasties, or colonial powers.

My Moroccan tutor was surprised to learn that I found it odd that there would be a language that is widely spoken, but not written and that there would be different languages in use for business, religious teachings, and for official government communication.  He knew that the U.S. did not have a similar system in place, but he thought Venezuela or other Latin American countries would.

Our mutual astonishment is grounded in our upbringings.  I grew up in two cultures where there was one predominant language for all.  He grew up in an environment where he learned to speak darija from his parents and everyone around him, was taught to read and understand Classical Arabic from his religious studies in school and at the mosque, started to write MSA also from primary school on, began learning French as a second language at school as well, grew up hearing both French and MSA in Moroccan television broadcasts, and upon graduating from high school switched over to the French-based university curriculum.  He also grew up watching television broadcasts from other Arabic-speaking countries that had, like Morocco, a spoken, but unwritten dialect.  He knew that Venezuela was colonized by the Spanish; so like Morocco the colonial tongue would have a big influence on the country. However, he thought that perhaps some of the indigenous languages had survived and had created something similar to their darija.

His questions made me even more curious about how the two cultures I grew up in had somehow established a single, dominant language.  I thought of Venezuela's past and how it came to be colonized.  Fray Bartolomé de las Casas recounts in his Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies details how vibrant indigenous population were overrun by zealous Spanish explorers in search of treasure and Christians who sometimes offered salvation of the soul at the edge of a sword.  Those who didn't run deep into the bush became wards who were then put to work in the plantations or in search of the mythical Sierra Dorada.  Some members of the priesthood were more amicable than others and taught the indigenous population Spanish and other sciences, but for the most part the Crown's interest was not in educating the populace, but to extract the country's riches to fund its ongoing wars.

In addition to guns, swords, and other supplies, the Spaniards brought over a number of diseases that the indigenous population had little immunity to; as such, the indigenous community began to die off in the thousands.  The colonial powers were focused on gold, but later realized that most of the land could yield large sums of money if properly cultivated.  To replace the indigenous folks, they began importing people from Sub-Saharan Africa.  

The Spanish colonizers mingled with native and black women who were regarded as property and concubines, and soon a large population of different shades of brown began to emerge.  Black male slaves also took native women as wives.  In many parts of Latin America, there were five prevalent categories of people that emerged: peninsulares (from the Spanish peninsula), criollo (per Oxford Dictionary, a person from Spanish South or Central America, especially one of pure Spanish descent), mestizos (per Oxford again, a man of mixed race, especially one having Spanish and indigenous descent), indios (indigenous), and negros (black).  Where one fell in this spectrum entitled one to certain rights and privileges such as: access to land, credit, education, inheritance, or even one's outright freedom. There were clear advantages to bearing children with certain groups of people. 

With such pressures to assimilate, the languages and spiritual practices of indigenous and African groups were regarded as inferior or uncivilized.  The only way to climb the social ladder was to refine one's castellano (Castilian) and to marry up to a whiter shade or as close as possible to a direct descendant of Spain or of another European country.  To some extent, this manner of thinking still lingers in the minds of many Venezuelans and other Latin Americans, and it's sometime reflected in entertainment media and in language.  The colonial legacy that brought with it great technological advancements also brought disease, a social stratification system, and a religion that combined had the effect of nearly exterminating indigenous and African languages and culture in many Spanish colonies.

(To get more background on the similarities and differences between the Spanish and English approach to colonization, I recommend Juan Gonzalez's Harvest of Empire: A History of Latinos in America.)

The U.S. had a somewhat similar start.  The Europeans that settled in also brought a host of diseases that wiped out large segments of the indigenous population, large waves of migrations from Europe forced indigenous people further inland, and later wars and forced removal decimated their numbers even further.  Then, upon being cornered into various territories, the U.S.  government put in place a forced assimilation policy.

The Africans that arrived in the slave trade to replace the indentured servants or the Native Americans that fled the encroaching colonists slowly began to forget their languages and spiritual practices as generations passed.  Some plantation owners of European descent also forced themselves onto native and African women or were concubines thereby creating different shades of brown folk; however, unlike Latin American social stratification systems based on ancestry and colorism, the U.S. in the late 19th century and through Jim Crow made law a "one-drop rule" that essentially said that if one of your ancestors is black or you have a single drop of black blood, then you were black. 

Sometimes I wonder if this is the reason why there's perhaps a bit more solidarity among the African American community as compared to the Caribbeans and Latin Americans of mixed descent and perhaps why remnants of their influence on the English language, diet, and the manner by which they practice various forms of organized religion still persist today and are more pronounced than in former Spanish--the subject of a future research paper:-).

When I briefly summarized over several hundred years of history to explain how the Spanish colonists had established the colonial language as the lingua franca in Venezuela and how in the US the concept of Manifest Destiny believed by many forced Native Americans and their languages into smaller confines, my tutor shared a bit of Moroccan history.  He said that the Berbers or Amazigh people had been in what is now considered Morocco and much of north and western Africa (Maghreb) for centuries.  The Phoenicians established ports and the Romans came and went, but the Berbers remained.

Then came the expansion of the Islamic Empire around the 7th century, which brought Arab culture and Islam to the Amazigh.  The empire established itself as the authority in many urban centers, but left the mountain folk pretty much on their own.  Arabic being the language of the Koran (i.e. considered to be the language of God) became the language of the intellectual centers of the Maghreb (Name for the region encompassing what is now known as Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Mauritania).  Mosques and Koranic schools were built across the country, but from what I've read or what I've been told thus far there was no concerted forced assimilation policy to eradicate Tamazight, Tarifit, or Tachelhyt or Shilha.

I also have not read about any epidemic or forced migration that wiped out large segments of the indigenous populations.  Ali, my tutor, told me that white, black, or brown, are all considered equal in the eyes of Allah (God).  Regarding Arab administrative control, the history and culture pages in my Rough Guide to Morocco stated that some of the Berber tribes put up a resistance to fend off Arab control, but then years later Berber kingdoms and dynasties were the ones who were claiming to be following the straight path, established control in the Maghreb and as far as Al-Andaluz (Southern Iberian Peninsula), and built prominent centers of learning to promote Islam.

Sometimes I wonder if the geography of the region with its mountainous terrain had something to do with the preservation of Amazigh languages and traditions.  That's possible--in Venezuela, the few places where indigenous languages are heard are in its dense forest regions or other rough terrains that the colonizers did not dare go into or left alone out of laziness.  Did the religious scriptures have an effect on how those spreading the faith treated its new converts?  Maybe.  The expansion of the Islamic Empire seemed different than the colonial expansions into the Americas.  


Some comparisons can be made between the colonial expansions of France and Spain into Maghreb territory and that of the Americas, but it seems as if their incursion was not as ruthless.  My Rough Guide to Morocco said that the French and the Spaniards came to put in place their administrative structure on the people of the Maghreb.  The French did institute a policy to proselytize the Berbers in the hopes of gaining converts and therefore allies, but from what I've read thus far it did not do it at the edge of a sword and the project failed miserably.

Abdelkader Ezzaki from the Faculté des Sciences de l'Education of Université Mohammed V presenting a speech at the World Congress on Reading in 1988 said that the French exerted influence on the educational system (not that there was a huge infrastructure to speak of) making French the primary language and downgrading Arabic to a second language.  Similarly, the French did try to control the mountainous region, but they were rebuffed by coalitions of Amazigh tribes who fought to remain independent and uphold their language and traditions.  The Rough Guide continues by saying that the French argued that their expedition to the Maghreb was a mission civilisatrice or civilizing mission, which sounds quite noble from a Western point of view, but it was more a rationale to promote the Westernization of the people.  However, years later a unified nationalist movement soon replaced their brief ruling stint.

Upon gaining their independence from France and Spain, the nationalist movement in Morocco reformed the educational institutions, but its efforts could only go so far.  Asserting that the newly formed Kingdom of Morocco was an Arab state, it began a process of arabization that changed government communication from a mix of French and Arabic to MSA and restored the status of Arabic in the school system as the primary language.  Business with France continued with little disruption.  However, without much of an educational infrastructure before or even after the protectorate period, many Moroccans aspired and still do for the opportunity to study abroad in France or in Europe.

There is still a lot of debate among Moroccans about the arabization process.  One of our language and culture facilitators (LCF) told me that the government's implementation of the reform was poorly executed and has left students unprepared for university studies that are mostly conducted in French.  Another LCF pointed to the lack of printed or even electronic texts of the latest scientific research in Arabic.  In most cases, most of the new scientific research is produced in English for which a French copy can be found in most cases, but an Arabic copy is usually unavailable.  Furthermore, because France is still Morocco's number one trading partner, having poor French-speaking skills can severely limit one's employment chances. 

Amazigh Flag

To add even more complexity to the language conundrum, a rise in Amazigh pride has gained prominence in the political front.  These groups have called for reforms in the educational systems.  With the support of the government, they created a Tamazight language curriculum, and they have pushed for more acceptance of the language in various media outlets.  I remember one time sitting next to my ten-year old host brother who was doing some homework at the time.  I asked him if I could peruse through his school books, and he nodded with a smile.  He had a mathematics workbook in Modern Standard Arabic, a  language workbook with passages of the Koran in Classical Arabic that he was required to trace and recite, a French language book that was all in French even the instructions, explanations, and definitions, and lastly a Tamazight language book also entirely in Tamazight.

As far as media outlets go, the Institute Royale de la Culture Amazighe inaugurated a new Amazigh language television broadcast not too long ago.  One time while chilling at a cafe in Immouzzer Kandar, a stronghold of Imazighen pride, I got the chance to speak with a journalist who stated that he was in favor of Amazigh activists who were proposing having the constitution and other official government communiqués translated into Tamazight.  Ordinary citizens and organized groups are continuing to push for more recognition of the various Amazigh languages and with more awareness about their efforts, I can only see their movement expanding.  

For most foreigners, the language mix in Morocco seems indecipherable.  Almost two years in and I still can't figure out what some people are saying to me.  Because of my Arab look, I usually don't get the patiently pronounced darija that some of my fellow volunteers of European or Asian descent get; instead, I get confused looks, and an exasperated and impatient darija.  Even after explaining that I am an American and that I'm learning Arabic, most of the locals still argue that I must be Moroccan, have Moroccan parents, or have Arab roots somewhere.  They may be right.  Who knows? My mestizo bloodline might have some.

Some people, upon noticing my dazed look, switch to MSA right away because naturally they think that as an Arab-looking person, I must be able to understand MSA or since I said that I was studying Arabic that I undoubtedly would be studying MSA.  When I tell people that I'm not Moroccan or from another Arabic speaking country, they automatically switch to French because the official second language in the country is French and I must have received some French-language training in order to work in Morocco.  When I tell them that I'm learning Moroccan Colloquial Arabic (darija), they in turn give me another confused look and ask why.  When I explain that I am working with a community of artisans, they ponder the response, but are still confused as to why a university graduate would devote time and energy to a language that is not written, but just used on the street--what I just described above is what I usually encounter with every new person I meet and as you can imagine this getting-to-know-you process can get exhausting.

As soon as I hired my tutor early in service, I practiced this one phrase saying that one of my goals during my two years was to speak darija fluently, which goes something like "bghit ntkllm lugha l3rabia bttallaqa.  It's an impressive feat for any volunteer that does and those that do, without a doubt, get royal treatment from Moroccans.  As I progressed in service, I gained a decent competence of basic verbs and phrases of darija and got some Fusha words to impress my listeners from time to time; however, when I stopped studying on a regular basis for a variety of reasons, I began to rely more and more on my broken French.  With newspaper and media outlets available in French language and easy to follow French language resources available on the net, I began to devote more time to refining my French.  I even exchanged English lessons for French lessons on pronunciation.  My counterpart noticed that I had reached a darija plateau and saw that I was devoting more time to French; so, she began making use of her French with me more so than before.

It felt good not to be stressing about not finding the darija or MSA word for what I already knew in French.  We got work done.  The delegate at the artisana appreciated my French-language reports.  When I ran into strangers, instead of explaining the who, what, how, when, where, and why of my odd situation, I switched to French when I couldn't find the word and immediately people would switch to French thinking that I was another Moroccan émigré.  I felt bad that my darija was slipping, but I felt I was moving forward faster on goal number one of Peace Corps: to provide technical expertise to our host country nationals.  I did feel that by not telling my story to the everyday stranger in darija that I was perhaps faltering on goal number two: to help promote a better understanding of the American people on the part of the peoples served.  However, I justified my new emphasis on French by thinking that it was welcomed more because I could do more.  

I did not make a complete break from darija to French.  I still used the darija I learned during the intensive language training and with my tutor, but I would rely more on French.  Coming from a background where my mother emphasized maintaining the purity of the Spanish language rather than incorporating the spanglish of some of our more assimilated Latino friends, I felt that I was corrupting both French and darija.  Even though darija is basically a mix of French, Tamazight, Spanish, and MSA, I still felt I should remain true to it and use the darija or MSA equivalent when at all possible.  

Then, in September of last year exactly a year into service, I got to spend sometime in Rabat and got a chance to talk it up with Rabatis and Cassawis at an event sponsored by USAID called the Forum de la Société Civile that exposed me to a different type of darija.   At first, when I heard various participants speak in the general forums, I was surprised that these educated individuals could not complete a full darija or MSA phrase without injecting some French into it and vice versa.  I thought surely the French language purity dogma had made it across the Mediterranean and into the predominantly francophone Moroccan university system, but there was no strict adherence.  The entire forum carried on as such.  On my downtime, I revisited the old cafes and boulevards that had once seemed so strange and intimidating and just listened to the hustle and bustle of the street that was now somewhat understandable.  I realized how heavy in French the Rabati darija was.  Yet, it wasn't like they would stop to search for the appropriate French or darija/Fusha word to complete a sentence. No, instead, the French and Fusha was intertwined into a darija that was distinctly theirs.  Some would even roll the "r"s in French words rather than pronounce them with the classical hard, raspy back of the throat sound.  After that week in Rabat, I didn't feel as guilty anymore about corrupting either language, but then I began to think about the image that I was giving off by not making the effort to speak darija or to insert the proper MSA word in absence of a darija equivalent.

I asked some of my town friends and colleagues to give me some feedback on my darija.  Some thought that I sounded much like the Moroccan émigré who perhaps grew up or has been living abroad for quite some time and has forgotten a great deal of his/her darija.  Others said that they regretted that I was not working to improve my darija or expand on my MSA.  A few friends said that they were disappointed that I had not learned Tamazight well.

After hearing their opinions, I asked them to explain their opinions.  Some said that by not learning to speak darija well that I was missing out on getting to know the culture, the sayings, the jokes, and the Moroccan camaraderie.  Knowing more MSA would let people know that I'm a scholar of the Arabic language and would raise even more eyebrows because most foreigners that come to work or travel through Morocco speak French.  My Amazigh-pride friends told me that Tamazight in all its forms is the original language of the people of the Maghreb, not Arabic.  They acknowledge that Arabic is the language of Allah, but they don't necessarily believe that they should shelve their language.

Some of the older generations who studied under the French protectorate system can speak French quite well, but as the colonial tongue, they somewhat resent its use.  Young people I've spoken to at dar chababs, youth centers similar to Boys and Girls Clubs, who are influenced by Western mass media don't mind using French, and some are extremely eager to learn English to improve their employment opportunities.  Their answers to my questions reflected the long history of conquest and reconquest by various empires, dynasties, and colonial powers.  Their suggestions reflected their affiliation to their culture of origin.  There was no general consensus just a lot of pros and cons from different people who share a nationality, but have different backgrounds and experiences.

Here I am delivering a brief account of my work in Darija.
It felt like the longest 5-minutes of my life.

As I near the end of service, I didn't reach my goal of speaking darija bttallaqa (fluently), but I am not disappointed.  Just like Morocco is a big mishmash of languages, I feel that my language competency reflects this mix.  I can't complete long statements in French without inserting some darija or some MSA words, and vice versa.  Then again, there is no single darija.  Just like Venezuela and the U.S., each region has its cadence and places emphasis on certain sounds and syllables.

Darija is a living dialect. I'd say it is a language incorporating the words of the region's early inhabitants, those who have come and gone, and those of its neighbors.  Interestingly, when I started allowing my French to mix with my darija in seamless fashion, I began to be complemented on how well I could speak darija.

The other day I couldn't help but smile when I heard my counterpart, who has been working with U.S. American volunteers for the last eight years, use English words in the middle of her darija discourse to explain some of the concepts of Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) to some of her coop members.  French like Spanish is encountering a flood of English words.  Last time I was in Rabat, I heard English words pronounced with a French accent to describe some business jargon.  Could English be the next language to be added to the long list of languages that are part of the Moroccan language soup?  Who knows?

For those volunteers or foreigners that are on their way here, I wish them luck in deciphering Morocco's language matrix.  It's going to be difficult at first so don't beat yourself up.  Moroccans themselves are trying to figure it out.  Enjoy the linguistic journey.  There will be ups and downs, valleys and plateaus, and contemplations about who you are and what your use of language portrays.  At the end of the day, most Moroccans will admire and applaud your effort to join them on a journey that they know all too well.  Pay close attention to their advice.  You won't learn overnight.  On a long journey like this one, you have to take it swiya b swiya (little by little).

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I have a few links posted in my "French and Arabic Language Resources" side column that offer free Fusha and darija (Moroccan Colloquial Arabic) lessons.  If you have a few dollars to spare, buy a copy of the Al-Kitaab series, which is by far the definitive guide for learning Modern Standard Arabic.  You may not ever speak it in the street, but it will come in handy for reading and for attending official government meetings.  Good luck!

Just About On Top of the World: Climbing Mt. Toubkal

This July I embarked on a journey to climb as high as I possibly could in Morocco.  I had already gone to the center of the earth by way of the Grotte Friouato near Taza so it made sense that I would need to do the exact opposite.  I would have attempted to climb Mt.Everest, but it's not in Morocco so I had to settle for the highest peak in North Africa, Mt. Toubkal.

Summiting Mt. Toubkal, one could say, is a PC Morocco must.  It's on the circuit of must-see sites and activities that a lot of volunteers commit to doing before the end of their service.  With only five or so months left for me, I penciled in the journey for mid-July.  Some volunteers had said that the climb was not at all what they expected from the second highest peak in all of Africa.  Some were able to go up and down the mountain in a weekend without feeling much pain.  Others said that it was one of the toughest things they had ever done.  I was hoping that I would fall somewhere in the middle.  Both said, though, that the climb and ultimately summiting was well worth any pain they felt.  I did a little training to prep my self.  Three weeks prior to the climb, I began running 3-4 miles every other day and threw in some hills from time to time.  I felt I was in decent shape to take on the mountain.

The journey began at the Mohammedia train station where the day prior I had visited a couple of camp sites for the upcoming Camp GLOW.  Satisfied with the outlook of the camp, I took off to Marrakech where I would spend the night and then head out to Imlil, the launching point for most trekkers.  My Rough Guide to Morocco and several blogs recommended that trekkers spend the night in Imlil to acclimate to the elevation so I left Marrakech late morning hoping to get into Imlil sometime in the afternoon.

A PCV who had summited the mountain twice already and knows how tight our PC budgets can be suggested a cheap route to Imlil, which was to take a city bus from Marrakech at the Sidi Mimoun bus station to Tahanout (about 45 minutes and 7-8Dh), from Tahanout one could take a grand taxi to Asni (another 30-45 minutes), and then from Asni one could hop on another grand taxi to Imlil for another 30-45 minutes.

In all, I spent 22DH for the entire trip and it wasn't too unpleasant.  The city bus to Tahanout was in good shape and not too packed.  From Tahanout, we asked the locals for directions to the grand taxi Asni pickup spot and walked over there.  We saw grand taxis on the opposite side of the road dropping off passengers, but nothing came our way for about 20 minutes.  With no sign of a grand taxi to come and not wanting to wait for one in the hot sun, I and several others hopped on a semi-truck that was headed that way.  We didn't flag him down.  He honked at the group of people gathered at the spot, which was the driver's way of letting us know that he was in the business of taking passengers along with the rest of his produce.  We actually got the deluxe treatment sitting in the cabin.  I was a little cramped, but it was better than another guy who had his legs open-wide straddling the driver's seat--it looked like a painful 45 minute groin stretch.  Once we reached Asni, the truck driver just asked for the standard fare, which was around 7Dh.  Upon disembarking, I shook my legs a bit to restore them back to life, chilled out a bit at a really shady cafe with some scruffy characters typical of a pit-stop town, and then proceeded to the grand taxis heading to Imlil (8DH).  Finally, the Asni to Imlil stretch was a cool ride as the taxi coasted through the lush river bed of the Ait Mizane Valley.

I spent the night at a gite advertised in the Rough Guide called Chez Mohammed.  There are a lot of lodging options from refuge-like accommodations featuring rows of bunk beds in a general area to simple and luxurious private rooms.  When I asked around for the gite, not a lot of people knew about it, but they knew the landmarks that led to the location. So I walked towards the landmarks and kept asking people who kept saying a not-very-specific "Sir l-hih", go there.  I finally ran into a small sign on a light-post that pointed to the place.  I followed the arrow and then I arrived at another fork on the path divided by your typical Moroccan apartment building.  I didn't think that building was the place because it just looked like someone's home so I went around and asked some guys who were working on an irrigation channel, but they also had no idea where it was.  I went back to the same building, knocked on the door, asked if that was Chez Mohammed and lo and behold it was.

One of the ladies that greeted us who I presumed had to be related to Mohammed took me to the second floor and gave us a Vanna White presentation of the rooms.  They were simple rooms.  At that moment the place was vacant.  The price was better than the bunk-bed dorm accommodation: 50DH per person, per night, for a private room.  The only bad thing was there was no hot water.  They had a hot water heater, but at the time it was out of service.  No biggie, though.  Over the last year or so cold bucket showers have been the norm so I went ahead and used my fine-tuned zen meditation techniques to get through the initial shock.  The place did not feel like a hotel at all.  It literally is Mohammed's pad as its name says.

The next day another PCV and I headed out around 8am.  The ladies at Chez Mohammed held on to a few items that we did not want to take along with us.  We were told to follow this one road and so we did for about 30 minutes until we realized that we were following the wrong river valley.  We walked back and then made a turn onto the east trail toward Amrend.  We followed an irrigation channel until we arrived back at the Ait Mizane Valley.  The east trail is a rockier and steeper climb than the wide-open west trail, but it is ten times cooler under all the trees.  Plus once you begin to emerge from the trees, you walk straight into the small mountain village of Amrend.

Upon reaching Amrend, we crossed the bridge to the west trail.  We stocked up on some more water and snacks.  The Rough Guide advises one to stock up in Imlil or Sidi Chamarouch, but I would only advise people carry what they need for the trek to the refuge and not worry about what they will drink at the refuge.  Granted, the refuge will charge you 15DH as compared to 6DH at Imlil for a bottle of Ain Soltane, but I would gladly pay the extra 9DH (just a little over a dollar) for the convenience.  Every 1.5 liter bottle is a little over 3 pounds.  When one is climbing for 4-6 hours straight, every little pound begins to feel heavier and heavier as one moves along.

Once we passed Amrend, we arrived at a huge dry river bed.  We followed a path that cut across the river bed and led one directly to a welcome sign from Morocco's Ministry of Water and Forests that announced the start of Toubkal National Park.  From there one begins a gradual ascent on the side of a mountain zig-zagging along some steep passages.

There were tons of people moving through the trail, both on the way up and down.  It wasn't just foreign tour groups, but also a good number of Moroccans who were making the pilgrimage to Sidi Chamarouch, a small village painted all in white resting right on a mountain ravine through which flowed to what I assume to be the Ait Mizane river .

One lady who was on her way down was touching different rocks on one side of the mountain trail and with every touch she would say "Allah" (God) to which her daughters following right behind would echo and touch as well.

Lots of mules were passing through with not just trail gear, but huge suitcases.  Apparently some foreigners decided to bring every piece of luggage with them--rather inconsiderate when most hotels and gites will gladly hold onto whatever one doesn't want to take along.  The porters who pulled or pushed the mules along the trail were bookin'.  We tried keeping up at first, but we quickly felt too out of breath to keep up.  The sun was also bearing down on us so I decided to slow it down and save my reserves for the steeper ascent that was to come.

The 2-3 hour trek to Sidi Chamarouch was a little exhausting because of the heat, but it wasn't to tough a climb.  The Rough Guide forewarned us that from Sidi Chamarouch and on, it would be like jumping on a StairMaster for the next three hours.

We picked up some more water for 8Dhs per bottle--only a 2-3 dhs difference from Imlil.  All the soda and water vendors had an interesting way of refrigerating their drinks.  They had all their drinks stacked on a wall with punctured water hoses up top spraying the cold mountain stream water onto them.  It worked not only as a fridge, but also as an AC unit.  The drinks were cold, and sitting next to that wall and feeling that cool mist on our faces was absolutely refreshing.  The soda's were a little expensive, about 10Dh each, which is still not much of a markup (3-4dhs).

After resting our feet a bit, we immediately began the steep climb past the village and onto the trail towards the mountain refuge.  The first half hour was pretty challenging as we zig-zagged up the face of the mountain.  After that rough passage, the StairMaster goes down to a medium grade as you climb gradually while heading south on the face of the mountain walking parallel to the river of the Ait Mizane Valley.

About three hours later following the white marks leading up to the refuge, we finally arrived at base camp.  There were two facilities available: a French Alpine Club refuge and another fancier spot called Refuge Toubkal Les Mouflons.  We checked out the French alpine site and it was packed to the brim with various European tour groups and it was smelly and the price was 90DH per bunk bed, per night.  Les Mouflons offered bunk bed accommodations as well, but it was cleaner, smelled better, less crowded, felt warmer, and the staff was nicer.  Price-wise it was only 30Dhs more, still a bargain in dollar terms and well worth it.

At the crack of dawn (7ish), we began our ascent to the summit.  We got a couple of hiking sticks to steady our journey.  The staffer that gave us the sticks told us to follow the red dots this time.  He pointed to some people that were already on the trail and at first glance I thought that these people must be hugging the mountain because it looked so steep, but then I looked behind them and saw that there was visible trail cut into the mountain.

My only advice to people on the ascent is to follow the red dots like your life depends on it because it literally does.  At one point in the trail, we went off on a bit of a tangent and found ourselves in somewhat of a precarious situation.  We got to an area where there was a number of big boulders and a lot of loose rock.  Because we lost track of the red dots, we got a little scare from a couple of slips we took and had to use our spidey skills stretching our legs and arms to find solid ground to push off from or to grab onto.

At one point during that brief rough stretch, I remembered the heroic moves of Sylvester Stallone on Cliffhanger and let out a grunt like he did as I pushed off from one rock and onto another.  Eventually we made it back to safety, hamdullah.  My heart was pounding so fast mainly because of nerves, but also because of the altitude change.  Lesson learned! From then on, I thought of of nothing but red dots.  

Both the view and the climb were breathtaking.  Every 15 minutes or after going through rough spots, I stopped, took in some deep breaths, and allowed my pounding heart to revert back to a normal rhythm.

In these much-needed pauses, I took in the scenery.

This being my first ever mountain climb, I was taken aback by the magnitude of the mountain ridges that criss-crossed one another, the jagged peaks, the barren terrain, the thorny bushes that somehow had eeked out a living in this hostile environment, the snow that still lingered in the crevices of the the mountains, and the clear blue sky.

As we reached the summit, the trail just got a little more slippery.  People that had already summited were slipping and sliding down the mountain some face first and not for fun either.  I made sure of every step, but with so much loose scree, it felt like you had to take three steps for one step of progress.

Reaching the summit was a glorious moment.  I heard the Chariots of Fire theme music in the background as I approached the summit in the slow motion baby-steps (sometimes in all fours) I was reduced to over the last half hour.  Upon arrival, the Hallelujah Chorus--a bit out of place in an Islamic country--also came on out of the blue.  

We chowed down some snacks, took some shots, and took in the crisp cool air of the mountain top.

At the summit, we were met by some Spaniards that we chatted with the day before at the refuge.  We also ran into a group of young Moroccans whom we had passed and that passed us throughout our ascent and who were part of an association from the Agadir region dedicated to doing recreational activities.  On one of the ledges of the summit, there was also a group of Moroccans who were playing some Bob Marley tunes on their cellphones, were waving a flag with Bob Marley's face on it, and smoking a little hashish to celebrate.  It was an interesting mix of people.

About an half hour later, we began our descent back to the refuge.  I tried not to follow the example of those individuals that were sliding face-first down the mountain; so instead I leaned back, tried to take some sure steps, and whenever necessary I'd crouch down and do a one foot slide or butt slide down the loose scree portions of the trail.  I followed the red dots like a horse with blinders.   About an hour or so later, we finally spotted the refuge.

My legs were already sore from the previous day's hike to the refuge.  Most of the PCVs we spoke to had summited and then descended all the way to Imlil on the same day.  Some took advantage of a porter who hauled their stuff.  Not being in any kind of a hurry, we decided to chill out another night at the refuge and start back first thing the next morning.  My legs were grateful.

The hike back definitely took less time and was less tiring.  We saw the sun rising over the mountains. Some shaggy goats grazing.   The weather was a lot nicer on the way back too.  We made it back to Imlil in about 4 hours and then took a grand taxi straight to Marrakech for only 30Dhs.

Although I couldn't climb to the top of the world mainly because the mountain is not in my PC host country, I can say that I got about half way there.  Mt. Everest stands at a modest 8,848 meters (29,029ft) while Mt. Toubkal stands at a remarkable 4,167m or 13,671ft.  It's a notable feat in my eyes.  A great journey and another site I can now cross off the list.

Trip Essentials

Transpo: According to the Spaniards we encountered, they took a grand taxi from the Marrakech Airport to Imlil for 300DH (This is the standard fare when one books a taxi as private transport).  Usually, that taxi driver has to stop at the gendarmerie (police station) to explain that he is going outside of his route and get permission.  The better option is to go to the grand taxi station near Jmma El Fnna and book an entire taxi paying the standard 30Dh per person if you don't mind sharing or paying six fares worth 30DH each (180DH total) to book the entire taxi to Imlil.   If you don't mind taking in some more scenery and are in no rush, take the route I took from Marrakech to Tahanout by city bus (7DH) from the Sidi Mimoun city bus stop also near Jmma El Fnna, then hopping on a grand taxi or semi-truck from Tahanout to Asni (7DH), and then finally getting on another grand taxi from Asni to Imlil (8DH).

Accommodations:  Despite the cold shower, I still recommend Chez Mohammed for Imlil.  They have a number of rooms and a large living room with lots of ponges that could accommodate large groups.  They also offered to cook us a tagine for 50DH, which is about the same price we paid at the village's terrace restaurant.  It doesn't feel like you're in a hotel at all, but more like someone's home.  The surrounding area is quiet and away from the village traffic.  At 50DH per person, it's a great value.  Phone: 0524-48-56-16.  If you decide to go there, when you get there ask the locals about the school.  Mohammed's pad is 200 meters up the road from there.

At base camp, the Refuge Toubkal Les Mouflons was a great spot not only to rest, but to meet other hikers.  They have all inclusive packages that include meals.  We just paid for the bunk bed and ordered a tagine for one of the nights, which cost us 100Dh.  The bunk bed cost 120Dh per night.  The showers had hot water, but only one person could be showering at a time.  Staff was friendly and their hanut was well stocked with water and all sorts of snacks.  We didn't make reservations, but if I were to do it again, I would.  Large tour groups can arrive and take over entire rooms.

Gear: Ascending during the summer is a whole lot easier than winter.  No gear is necessary other than just a fine pair of hiking shoes with good traction, a couple of layers of clothing, and a windbreaker/rain jacket.  There's a lot of loose scree from the refuge to the summit so a couple of sturdy hiking sticks can certainly help in balancing and also to push and pull your way up the mountain.  The refuge loaned the sticks for 50DH each, which I thought was kind of steep.

Guides: In the summer, I don't think there is a need.  One can easily follow the white marks, which begin from Amrend all the way up to the refuge.  To the ascent, the red dots clearly mark the path one should take.  The winter is a different ballgame.  Because of snow, one may need to take alternate routes to the refuge or to summit that may not be clearly marked or as easy to follow.

Here are a few other links on Mt.Toubkal for your reading pleasure:

So supposedly there's going to be an ultra-marathonesque event around Toubkal in September 2010.  On my way down from the summit, I think I saw someone training for it.  As I took baby-steps down the slope supporting myself with my trusty hiking stick, there was this one guy in short shorts with a water bottle in hand who was literally sprinting down the mountain hopping, skipping, and just bouncing off the boulders like a street acrobat. Check it out: http://www.toubkalchallenge.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toubkal