Monsieur Tranquile and the Berber Guest House 

We pulled into the Perle du Dades around six o’clock last night.  The Perle, located in a green oasis near Dades, is an enclosed resort style compound done the Berber fashion.  

As we stepped out of the Land Cruiser, a thin man in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans wearing a white turban slid by giving Ali an imperceptible nod.  Ali told us to follow this guy whose leisurely (stoned?) slow-motion moves led us to the check-in desk.  Monsieur Tranquile, as I’ve come to appreciate him, shoved a piece of paper across the desk.  It was the dinner menu listing three choices for appetizer, main course, and dessert in French.  We pointed at our selections.  Without saying a word, Monsieur Tranquile exited the office.  Ella looked at me with a shrug and shadowed him through a long courtyard past a pool, ping-pong table, chessboard with gigantic pieces, and a patio dining area featuring a dartboard poking through flowery vines.  After climbing up some blue stairs to a small courtyard landing, Monsieur Tranquile stopped by a beautifully carved wooden door and handed Ella a key.  As he walked past me he murmured, “See you later.”  But, but…when was dinner?  Where was dinner?Too late, Monsieur Tranquile had disappeared.  (It might have been my imagination, but I heard dg chuckle, “No need to worry about Monsieur Tranquile being overly friendly.  Bon chance, mon ami!”) 

Our spacious room was divided by an arch with Berber rugs and a wooden cross-beamed ceiling. 

 

Niches in the shape of Islamic arches were carved out of the wall by the beds.  In each niche was an African statue.  Curtains separated the closet space and bathroom from the sitting and sleeping areas. 

 I had some immediate questions.  Like what kind of gymnastic approach would I need to clamber into the tub and take a shower ?  And the bed on the low platform that looked suspiciously like it had been converted from a hot tub.  (The voice of my dg weighed in, “What’s the problem Mr. Hedonist American?”  “I have to crawl on my knees just to lie down?”  “That’s bed as a place of worship.”)

Okay, so I gave this weirdly designed bed a try.  I woke up at 1 AM with the left side of my body feeling paralyzed.  The hard elevated mattress was like sleeping on the floor.  

But not to fret about feeling stiff; this morning we were going on hike through the Dades Gorge and I could shake it off.

I didn’t realize the hike was going to be full-on goat.

My recommendation to anyone seventy-two or older wanting to hike the gorge: don’t…unless you like the thrill of testing your arthritic sense of coordination by taking doubtful leaps from boulder to boulder to cling to a slab of sheer rock where you end up splayed out on the jagged surface like some terrified ape.  (The whole time my dg chuckling away, “Come on, Mr. Marvel Comic Spiderboy, peel your face from that rock before you become a permanent American bas-relief!”)

Our guide was Abdul, the song-singing jolly waiter from our guest house who we normally recognized wearing a striped turban and dazzling blue djellaba.  This morning he had changed to a dusty gray and black stripped djellaba and black turban.  And, as we had Ali drive us to the head of the hiking trail, our spirited Abdul was quiet.  Thoughtful.  Later, after he had half-escorted, half-lifted us over the crevices and crumbling rock slides of the gorge’s precipitous descent,  I revised this image to be a look of studied concern.  (My dg informs me, “Abdul, he takes one look at you struggling to get in Land Cruiser and he prays to Allah, ‘Help me to not kill these people.’”)

Initially, taking the pebbly trail out of the Berber village up to the top of the Gorge was no problem.  I worked up a good sweat, but wasn’t winded.  At the crest of the ridge, Abdul pointed to the bottom of the beautiful weather-scalloped rock formations that sided the gorge.  “We go down now.  It’s easy.”  (My dg made warning noises, “Hold on there, Kit Carson, he says it’s easy, but look again.  Do you see a path?”)

The path we were on had vanished.  Abdul was making his way down a steep slope of boulders (in, as my dg pointed out, “In sandals no less!”).  Okay, he must know where he’s going.  (“Of course he does,” my dg grunts, “he’s Berber; he’s half-goat.”)

Since I was taking snapshots every ten yards, Ella and Abdul got well ahead of me.  Normally we’re close enough so that she can alert me to challenges.  Now I could hear Abdul encouraging her with professions of love, but I kept losing sight of them as they ducked and dodged and slid behind giant rocks not so much as descending as plummeting to the dry stream bed at the bottom of the narrowing gorge.

Halfway down, Abdul and Ella stop to let me catch up.  I half-stumble and slither over stone smooth as Carrara marble and miraculously land on my feet.  Abdul smiles.  “Easy now.  All flat.”  (“Then how come,” my dg asks me, “you’re looking down at where you’re going and not straight ahead?”)

As we dropped down it was not only not flat, it was increasingly more hazardous.  The gaps between boulders became wider, the footholds against the wall of the gorge more nonexistent.  At one juncture, we helped a French couple and their kid over a nasty break in the rock.  We caught them jumping down; in turn they had to assist us leaping…UP.  (My dg informs me, “Way to go, Bigfoot, you almost gave the French guy a heart attack!”)

No sooner had I deluded myself into thinking I had mastered the art of geriatric downhill tumbling than I was squeezing through clammy rock tunnels on my knees.  Flat, sure, but it’s slow going if one is crawling, n’est ce pas?

But we finally reached a stream that actually had water, and we nimbly made it across the stepping stones without a splash.  

Abdul was vocally in love with Ella.  Me he looked at with the grateful relief of someone who is confident that he hasn’t jeopardized his tip.