Morocco sits on the northwest edge of Africa, bounded on the north by the Mediterranean Sea and to the west by the Atlantic Ocean. Roughly down the center of the country, in a great, sweeping arc, run a series of high mountain ranges, dividing the country into a sort of “inner Morocco”, lying between ocean and mountains, and an “outer Morocco”, lying between the mountains and the Sahara Desert. These mountains act as a barrier to much of the moisture that rolls in from the ocean, especially in winter, when huge amounts of snow have been known to fall in the High Atlas Mountains, although not so much in recent years. Over the millennia the water from the spring snow melt has found the path of least resistance as it flowed down from the mountains, eventually coalescing into three great oases valleys that extend out to the Sahara, bringing life to a parched landscape. For a thousand years and more these oasis valleys have served as transport corridors for the huge camel caravans coming out of the Sahara from fabled Timbuktu. Along these caravan routes a number of oases towns sprang up at strategic points, and became vital stopovers for the hardy travelers making the arduous journey out of the desert and over the mountains.
One of the most important of these oases was Skoura, the last stop coming from the desert and before the difficult climb over the mountains, or the first stop after crossing the mountains heading towards the Sahara. Camels, although well suited to the two month journey across the desert, are not suited to the mountains, so in Skoura caravans of over a thousand camels were unloaded and the goods transferred to donkeys for the grueling climb over the mountains to Fez or Marrakech. Blessed by a confluence of several water sources in the area, the palm grove was first laid out by Sultan Yacoub el-Mansour in the 12th century, and greatly expanded by use of khettaras, an ancient system of irrigation involving underground channels. The oases eventually grew to include tens of thousands of date palm trees, as well as fig, tamarisk, birch, olive and pomegranate, covering an area of some 15 square miles, and providing shade for the cultivation of fruits and vegetables, as well as shelter for over a hundred species of birds. Naturally the oases came to have enormous strategic value, and many kasbahs, or fortresses, were built throughout the palm groves by the powerful families who controlled the caravan trade. Today the centers of commerce and transport have largely moved on from Skoura, leaving behind a peaceful scene like something out of 1001 Arabian nights. Dirt paths wind through the palm grove, from which all motorized traffic is forbidden. The kasbahs still remain, some in use, some converted to hotels, and some abandoned and crumbling, silent reminders of a prosperous past.
In my travels, and my research for travels, I occasionally come across a place that fires my imagination. It’s not always the headline places; it’s usually not, but rather some off the beaten path little place with a good story. I like a good story. So here we are, with only nine short days in Morocco, and two of those days we are not spending in Fez, or Tangier, or Casablanca, or Rabat, or the Sahara. We are spending them in the sleepy little oases of Skoura…
Our lodge takes its name from the Arabic word for water: L’Ma. It is an oasis within an oasis, with manicured gardens, a pool, and numerous private resting places scattered throughout the grounds, all in the middle of nowhere. It is so far off the beaten path that it’s where Nowhere goes to get way from it all. After breakfast we set off through the palmery to find the Kasbah Amridil, one of the most famous in Morocco. In spite of my notoriously bad sense of direction, my trusting wife followed along. I promptly steered us into a dry river bed, where we trudged through loose sand and rock under the hot sun instead of under the shade of the date palms. We did eventually find the Kasbah Amridil, where we were allowed to wander through on our own. Many of the rooms still had primitive wooden furniture and clay pottery and cookware, giving us a little sense of what life was like in its heyday. I did much better on the way back, so we were able to wander through the palmery and admire the many old kasbahs, known as some of the most beautiful in Morocco, scattered among the date palms. Occasionally we would come across green fields, still irrigated by the ancient system of khettaras, and able to thrive under the shade of the palmery.
It was a beautiful hike, though long and hot, and after nine miles I felt as if I was skating on thin ice with Lynn, so I got us a bottle of wine and found a shaded spot in the garden. And so it came to pass that two simple old people from Grove City, Ohio, spent the afternoon lounging in the shade of palm and olive trees in an oasis garden in the desert, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, serenaded by birdsong, as the Moroccan sun crept toward the Atlas Mountains. I recited the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam to her:
“Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse-
and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness
-And Wilderness is Paradise enough.”
She laughed at me with her eyes. I kissed her, and for a few magical moments we were young lovers again.
Edit. Author's caution: Written while drunk on love and wine.
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