We were headed to the village of Imlil, high in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco. We’d been on the road for about 90 minutes, traveling from Marrakech in a convoy of four-wheel-drive vehicles. Every bend of the road provided a fabulous mountain vista. A couple of miles back, we passed the ornate gates of Richard Branson’s five-star resort, Kasbah Tamadot. That’s as far as most American groups go. It’s the obvious place to stop.

We drove past the extravagant gate of Richard Branson’s Kasbah Tamadot.

But we don’t stop.

We’re traveling on to the mountain town of Imlil, literally at the end of the road. Once noted for its groves of apple, cherry and walnut trees, Imlil is now a popular base for intrepid hikers who hire guides and mules for the climb of Jebel Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa.

This adventure happened back in October of 2012 when I was leading a group of 24 Philadelphians on an incentive travel program. The hosts were executives from a local radio station with their best advertiser clients. Everything was top drawer. In Marrakech, I’d booked the group at a 5-star, historic riad, La Maison d’Arabe. Originally a private home, it was transformed in 1946 to the first restaurant in Marrakech – frequented by the likes of Winston Churchill, Jackie Kennedy, and the Aga Khan. In 1998 it was converted into a 26-room boutique hotel dripping with Moroccan atmosphere, with flower-filled courtyards, traditional chiseled plaster and cedar wood ceilings. The location was perfect, in the heart of the medina – the oldest part of town – within a maze of narrow pedestrian streets.

We stayed in the lap of luxury at Maison d’Arabe in Marrakech

On our walking tour on the first morning, we learned that each neighborhood in the medina has five common institutions: its own hammam, bakery, Koranic pre-school, public fountain, and mosque. We grew accustomed to hearing the “call to prayer” from the minaret of the Bab Doukkala Mosque.

Over the past few days, we’d had our fill of shopping in the souks. The snake charmers, trained monkeys and henna tattoo artists in Djemaa el-Fna, Marrakesh’s main square, were no longer a novelty. We’d done a full-day excursion to the Atlantic coast, to the UNESCO heritage town of Essaouira (pronounced es-Sweera), for great photo ops, a yummy lunch at the fresh fish stalls, and (surprise!) more shopping.

The fortifications of Essaouira were built by Sultan Mohammed III in the 18th century and are lined with beautiful Dutch cannons

On the way to Essaouira, we passed the goats in trees …

Goats climb high into the thorny branches of the Argania trees to feast on the fruit (and fertilize the soil for the much-valued argan oil)

Having arranged group travel for the better part of 35 years – and about a dozen years for this particular client – I’ve learned to trust my instincts about what to include in a well-crafted itinerary. My intuition, plus a collaboration with excellent local suppliers, has served me well and provided some extraordinary experiences.

But there’s a lot at stake this time. The Senior VP who approved this destination many months ago had been nervous about coming to a Muslim country, especially since the controversial release of a film trailer on YouTube which mocked the life of the prophet, Mohammad. He and his wife are Kasbah Tamadot-type travelers, much more comfortable in a luxury hotel than the experience I’ve planned on this sunny September morning.

I hope I’ve made the right decision.

To me, it would be a travesty to drive all the way up here just to consume a gourmet lunch and fine wine in a luxury hotel like Kasbah Tamadot. Sure, we’re gonna do that – but not before we have an experience that these American travelers will find memorable, enlightening, and educational.  And (I hope) fun!

These mountains are literally a breath of fresh air. Plus, the Berbers – indigenous people of North Africa – live here. Whenever possible, I like to balance my itineraries with nature and culture. And getting some exercise, after all the food and wine we’d consumed, wouldn’t hurt!

A Berber village in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco

My best-laid plans start to unravel soon after arriving in Imlil. First problem: There is ONE western-style toilet in this little town and every woman wants to use it. Second problem: One woman has a stomach bug and is violently ill – but determined to go on! “I’ve been looking forward to this day. I came all the way to Morocco and I am NOT going to miss this experience,” she insisted.

Thankfully, my third problem is averted almost immediately: A middle-aged, overweight couple were intimidated about the uphill climb. I’d already tactfully suggested that they might be more comfortable waiting at a café here in Imlil and was relieved when they accepted my advice to stay behind.

After all my ladies emerged from their comfort stop, we divide into three small groups, following our guides Moulay, Jamal, and Youssef who each head into the hills on a different route. Each small group will hike to a different village to visit the home of a Berber family. I brought up the rear of Youssef’s group of eight.

This hike seemed like a good idea when I’d come here on the site inspection several months before. Based on that experience, I’d recommended sturdy, broken-in walking shoes for this day. I’d been told our walk would be less than about 30 minutes and wouldn’t be too strenuous. We followed the dirt path uphill, stepping around huge granite boulders and through groves of ancient trees.

It didn’t take long to deduce that this hike would take lots longer than I’d planned. I frequently made excuses to halt our progress so everyone could take a breather. We stopped for photos. We stopped to dump dirt and gravel from their decidedly un-sturdy walking shoes. But all were still in good spirits. I wondered about my VIP client and his wife – would they be in a good mood after this was over?

A curious cow watches us from her stone shelter

After about 45 minutes, we reached a hamlet of about a dozen small homes constructed with the local stone. Youssef looked at his notes and walked us over to a house and knocked on the door. It opened a crack, and he carried on a hushed conversation in Arabic.

It seems to me that conversations in foreign languages always seem excessively long. Just as I began to suspect that something was amiss, the lady of the house threw open the door and gestured to us with a smile to come inside. We took off our shoes and entered the modest little house, sitting on pillows that were scattered around the floor.

Our hostess appeared to be in her mid-thirties, wearing a flowered skirt, batik blouse, and hijab. Her hands were beautifully decorated with henna tattoos. A teapot was whistling on the wood stove.

The hands of our hostess were elaborately decorated with henna.

Curious kids checked us out. They don’t see many Americans in their village!

She poured tea for us in mismatched cups. She was shy but patiently answered all the awkward questions we asked about her life and lifestyle. After an appropriate time, we said our goodbyes and proceeded downhill to Imlil. Everyone had been instructed to gather back at the place where the convoy of jeeps was parked on the dirt road heading out of town.

Our convoy of SUVs!

I’m often told – and it’s true – that my job is like herding cats. Like a mother hen, I counted my chicks to make sure all had returned safely. And, as always, I was on operational overload – clicking through the details in my mind:

• Timing: (“We’re 45 minutes late for lunch.”)
• Counting: (“Where are the couple who didn’t want to hike to the village?”)
• Patience: (“If that lady stops to buy one more souvenir, I’m gonna strangle her!”)
• Concern: (“What about Kristie – the sick one – how did she do on the hike?”)
• Note to supplier: (“That climb was more strenuous than I expected.”)
• Note to self: (“If I ever do this again, insist that people wear sturdy walking shoes.”)
• Anxiety about my skittish VIP: (“I hope he appreciated this experience.”)
• Self-doubt: (“For me, this was a highlight. Did they get it? Was it worth it?”)

Before we climbed into our vehicles, one of the women stopped me, her face flushed. I took a deep breath and waited for a tirade of complaints. Speaking breathlessly she enthused, “Oh my God, Marilyn – the house we visited – there was only one piece of furniture!  We had to take off our shoes and sit on the floor, covered with carpets. The man poured us tea and told us all about his life. They have practically nothing – but seem so happy and content!”

And, as I exhaled a sigh of relief, she continued, “This was the most amazing experience I’ve ever had!  Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Others I spoke with afterward were equally effusive about the experience and felt that it was a highlight. Even my VIP.