on the Berber trail

Apparently the Berbers are the original inhabitants of North Africa, occupying the region for at least 1000 years before the Arabs began moving West in the 7th century. There is even evidence to suggest they were already in North Africa in the Upper Palaeolithic age. Most converted to Islam when the Arabs moved in alongside of them, but entire villages of Berber Jews remained in the Atlas mountains until the establishment of the state of Israel. The Berber villages that remain in the High Atlas are something to see, and certainly give a new meaning to “upward mobility.” Like the favelas of Rio, they are constructed seemingly on top of each other at the most incredible angles. They are constructed with a variety of materials, but earth appears the most common. When I am taken into the villages to meet the Elders, I feel a bit uncomfortable, as though an incredible show is being put on. Everyone comes out to greet me. The women don’t meet my gaze, and it is only the children I manage to communicate with- they all want to touch my nose ring, attempting to verify if it is really part of my nose or not. It is the start of Ramandan, but in every village they want to serve me mint tea, or Berber bread dipped in Olive oil. I am trapped by a combination of my own thirst, their hospitality, and a sense of guilt at eating in front of people who cannot. They poverty is stunning- there is no electricity and the women labour all day in unlit, tiny kitchens which seem to reach 50 degrees at this time of year. Yet they certainly have some of the best scenery in the world, with nearly every village looking out at deep ravines at winding rivers. The geography is hard to navigate, and I wanted to close my eyes more than a few times as the driver swerved around the winding roads, giving me a stunning view of the cliff side we just might go crashing down. If the children want to go to school, they would often have to navigate these roads, which are often snow covered in winter, for 3-5 kilometres both to and from school. As a result, not all make it. Yet, they are all seemingly capable of greeting me in French and asking me where I am from. The answers get me blank stares, however, and I am left feeling like an alien who descended from his UFO at the wrong stop.