Quest for the Kasbah, Adventures with Purpose, Richard Bangs

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Quest for the Kasbah
By Richard Bangs

~~$ 16.95~~ $10 (ship class C)
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Featured Excerpt From: QUEST FOR THE KASBAH by Richard Bangs Chapter 1. The World Is What It Is “Kindness can pluck the whiskers of a lion” –Moroccan proverb, anonymous We sat on pillows and dipped flat bread into soup. The music of the oud went on, a patterned background for our aimless talk amidst a press of people of many hues and stripes. All the noises of the world were in that room, yet between it all we watched the plucked notes from the pear-shaped instrument curl and fold in the thick air like the smoke of a wood fire. My son Walker and I were in the restaurant of the Le Tichka Salam Marrakech Hotel, in the shadow of the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, the mountains named for the Greek god condemned to hold up the sky forever. Worn from travel we lingered over the last sips of our respective drinks, he a sugary tea, and me a glass of Toulal Guerrouane, a bright Moroccan red wine. Several yellow and brown cats were sprawled around the room, in positions that mirrored our mood. With muted interest we both looked up as the waiter poured him another cup of sugared mint tea, deftly cascading the brew from three feet above the table. “Let’s head south to the Sahara,” I suggested, looking into Walker’s young eyes, which caught the light with the prospect. It seemed an enticing notion, as close as it was. But there was a hitch: the great fence of the Atlas Mountains, which separates the upper body of Africa from the Sahara. We could magic carpet over one of the several passes in a car, but that wouldn’t be sporting. After some discussion we decided to trek over the great range, north to south, to the orange sands of the Sahara. The next day, at the offices of Atlas Sahara Treks, owner Bernard Fabry unrolled a map on his desk, then traced a route with his finger through the Central High Atlas. If we took a four-wheel drive vehicle we could crawl up the Aroundane Mountain and drop down the other side into the Bouguemez Valley, the end of the road. From there we could trek for four days over the Mgoun Pass to the other side. We would reach the road, where we could hire a vehicle to take us to Ouarzazate, the hem of civilization, the gateway to the Sahara. Bernard would set us up with a guide from the Bouguemez Valley. “But I must warn you,” Bernard said in his heavy latte accent, “the weather this time of year is quite unpredictable. Once in the mountains, if a storm comes in, you could be stranded for days, even weeks.” Groggy and feeling guilty for being a few minutes late in a culture that values the elasticity of time, we stumbled into the lobby of the Hotel El Andalous at 6:10 A.M. An hour later our guide arrived along with a new Land Rover Defender. He was twenty-two-year-old Rachid Mousklou, who studied geology for two years at the University of Marrakech, and recently, when not guiding, had been teaching other guides about the rocks and birds in the region. He was in some demand, as he spoke five languages: English, German, French, Arabic and Berber. He had the glassy black eyes of a doll, with little expression (accented by his hat) and an arched forehead. Five hours later we were wending our way up the juniper-line mountain, surging into the snow line. We lunched at the Tizi n’ Tirghist Pass (2,629’), then began the long descent into the Bouguemez Valley. The landscape was denuded, most of the trees felled long ago by Berber women collecting firewood. Occasionally, though, we passed a replanting grove filled with slender black cypress, often topped by magpies that shared the same dull color of the mountain’s south side. Our first Berber encounter was in the village of Iframe, where Mohammed, a friend of Rachid’s, bounded out to greet us in his new Nikes, a pair of Levis, a fleece jacket, and the same arched face. He invited us inside for some sweet tea and flinty exchanges with Rachid we couldn’t comprehend. .... At daybreak we were up and packed, and in the compound was an eagle-faced man named Ahmed and his mule with no name. After he strapped on our baggage, as well as food, cooking materials, and sleeping blankets, there was then a steady chugging torrent of urine—the mule’s—pounding the baked earth. It was time to head out. Rachid was silent as we made our way up a trail named “The Ambusher.” This was one of the caravan passages that enabled the transport of dates, henna, gold and salt between the Sahara and ports in the north. Slowly, we wound up the pass through several biblical-looking villages, where men with wrapped heads and flowing robes milled about in an ancient way, up through groves of juniper and into the snow, following in the footsteps of our nameless mule. The winter light was diffused and slanted, existing in its own illumination, fire filtered through water. Edith Wharton described it as a light of “preternatural purity which gives a foretaste of mirage…that light in which magic becomes real, and which helps to understand how, to people living in such atmosphere, the boundary between fact and dream perpetually fluctuates.” At one point the mule slipped in the snow and almost fell. If the mule broke a leg, he would have to be shot, and Ahmed would lose his greatest asset. This would not do, so Ahmet unloaded the two largest bags and set them in the snow. I wondered what his plan was as he continued up the hill, leaving behind two of my bags. It wasn’t until we were close to the crest that I realized my money, passport, and air tickets were in one of the bags left in the snow. I felt a stab of panic, but I was too exhausted to backtrack. After six hours of continuous walking we crested the Tizi-n-Ait Imi Pass, also known as “The Pass of the Sheep with Black Eyes,” and were faced with the stunning white comb of the Mgoun, across the next valley. The wind was howling, and as I pulled on my wool hat, Rachid wrapped his head in his blue chechia, a Berber head scarf. We all stooped behind a large rock and unpacked our lunch: cheese, yellow apples, oily black olives, walnuts, hard-boiled eggs and bread. While noshing, Rachid and Ahmed scrambled back down the mountain, returning some minutes later with my missing bags on their shoulders. Then Rachid pointed to some filmy clouds smearing the distance and somberly said, “I think we must go back. The clouds mean bad weather.” But as I surveyed the sky I saw that clouds were in the north, while the wind was blowing from the south, the direction we were headed. In fact, the sky ahead was a brilliant blue, so clear a passing jet left contrails like the score of a diamond on a pane of glass. “Rachid,” I protested, “the clouds are behind us, and moving away. The weather looks fine in front. I say we should just keep going. How far to the village where we will spend the night?” “Four hours. But we shouldn’t go on. It is too dangerous.” What was his hidden agenda? “I insist. We can do it. There is no reason to turn back,” I said, resolutely shouldering my pack and starting down the trail, Walker a few steps behind. With more reluctance than the mule, Rachid followed....

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