The magic of Morocco

ON a bitterly cold but beautifully starlit Moroccan night, in the remote, rocky mountains of the Jebel Sahro, the last thing I'd expected to be doing was the hokey cokey.

But there I was, in a circle around the campfire, putting my right foot in, taking it out, and shaking it all about with the rest of them. After all, with temperatures below freezing, it was a good way to keep warm.

I, and 15 other trekkers on this Exodus holiday, had promised some festive entertainment for our Berber guide, Mustapha; our chef, Mouhcin; and six young muleteers.

We'd already performed a Monty Python-style Nativity play and sung every Christmas carol we could remember, but the hokey cokey had proved to be the Berbers' favourite.

The night before, Mustapha and his team had entertained us with traditional Berber songs, accompanied by the slow, steady rhythms of a goatskin drum. Their hypnotic, prayer-like songs were perfect in this mystical setting. Sadly, the same couldn't be said for the hokey cokey.

We were half way through our 12-day trek of this lesser-known desert mountain range, south of the Atlas. Our Christmas camp was surrounded by the majestic, towering pinnacles, outcrops, and the jagged outline of the Ridge of Fingers, eroded and smoothed by the elements over thousands of years to look like - you guessed it - giant fingers. Of all our stunning nightly camping spots, this was the most spectacular.

On Mustapha's advice, a few of us rose at 6am and climbed to the top of a ridge to see the sun rise. It was magical.

So far, our trek had taken us through the fertile Draa Valley, passing by the occasional tiny village of red mud houses, date palms and irrigated fields.

Winding our way down dried up riverbeds, we'd wondered how these rivers would look in full flow; for two afternoons on the trot we found out. Not only did it rain, it hailed till it hurt, and within minutes we were having to hop across rocks to avoid sudden streams of gushing water.

On day three we did the first of our optional 'Grade C' mountain climbs, billed as 'demanding' compared with the rest of this 'moderate Grade B' trek.

It had rained then, too, on and off, but when we reached the top of the 2,447-metre Jebel Amlal for our picnic lunch, the clouds cleared and we could see right across to the snowy peaks of the Atlas mountains.

The climb and descent took more than nine hours in all and, exhausted, we all slept well that night.

Apart from one valley where we spent two nights, we moved to a different camping spot every day. The tents, our luggage, and food and drink supplies were transported on a team of eight mules along a shorter route. The muleteers would have the camp set up by the time we'd finished our daily walks.

Most days, we were woken by the Berber drum at about 7am and had 30 minutes to pack away our sleeping bags, mats and thermals ready for breakfast. Breakfasts and dinners were served in the 'mess tent', basically a small marquee with a plastic tablecloth in the centre, surrounded by mattresses.

Eating cross-legged wasn't easy, but three of us had followed Exodus's advice and invested in Thermarest Chairs - lightweight frames that fit around a folded sleeping mat to give back support. By day three, most of the others were wishing they had brought them too.

Considering the limited cooking facilities, the food was excellent.

Dinners consisted of soup, meat and vegetables (courgettes, carrots, peppers) with rice, potatoes or couscous, and fresh or tinned fruit for dessert. Veggies had the same, minus the meat.

As we wound our way through the twists and turns of the valley floors, we passed Berber villages where women were laying their washing out to dry on rocks and young children played in the dusty streets.

They would watch us, and some inquisitive young boys would come closer. Shy at first, we would share a 'Bonjour' or a 'Ca va' and eventually they would be happily walking alongside us, escorting us through the village.

Sometimes on our lunch stop, Berber women, carrying babies in slings, would appear apparently from nowhere bearing handcrafted trinkets and scarves for us to buy for ridiculously low prices.

Having a local as our guide, we learnt much about the Berber way of life, their Islamic beliefs and how they survive in such barren surroundings without electricity or cars.

In some ways, I envied the simplicity of their agricultural lives. Walking between four and nine hours a day in such surroundings inspires plenty of contemplation and soul-searching, and many of us took the opportunity to make some life-changing decisions.

I made one, too, when, on our last day, we climbed the Amalou n'Mansour, the highest mountain in the Jebel Sahro, and my boyfriend got down on one knee and proposed.

At 2,712m, I wasn't sure if the altitude had gone to his head or if he'd been overwhelmed by the romance of the views, but I quickly said 'Yes' anyway.

Our remote Moroccan mountain adventure had come to an end. Tomorrow we would be heading back to the hustle and bustle of Marrakesh for a few days, acclimatising ourselves to city life before flying home.

That night, as we gathered around the campfire with our Berber friends for one last time, we shared our memories of the past year and our resolutions for the new one, and agreed that this trek had been a highlight. Then, just to keep ourselves warm - and the mule team happy - we did one last round of the hokey cokey.