"Song of the Atlas"
By. Chip Anderson
The black coils slid through my hands, cool smooth obsidian death. A hiss as loaded as a steam engine, the serpent makes a full frontal assault! I duck my head to the right and he misses my lip by only an inch. His hood in full threat display and mouth agape, he pulls back and lunges forward! Again I jerk sideways, dodging the savage teeth.
Breathless and wide-eyed, I wonder just when this snake will figure out I'm holding him in my hand. The Fakir sitting to my right leans in and whispers to me in a thick Arabic accent "Do not be afraid my friend!". Afraid!!!???
I stare at him with shock and disbelief. Afraid? I believe I just wet your carpet!
Of course this situation had been all my own fault in the first place. My confident –somewhat arrogant little speech to the gathered tourist crowd in the Marrakech market, was that these serpents of course, had their mouths sutured shut. As the native Moroccan Cobra has a highly virulent venom and is an irratible rascal to boot, wich makes them perfect for the Fakirs use as they will spread their hoods, look menacing and weave back and forth to the movement of the snake handler.
The small group that had congregated at the Fakir's blanket all stared in curious horror as I strode forward and explained to the gentleman that I would like to handle the snake, ther-by proving my theory. Well, stupidity and arrogance are often common, sometimes fatal bedfellows. A gasp from my anxious audience as I picked up the largest of the serpents, in the blink of an eye confidence and all color drains from my face, my throat too dry to yell. As Naja Haje Legionis opens wide showing no need for any orthodontry work, a small glistening spittle of venom glistens from his jaw with two near misses, no small part due to my frantic ducking and bobbing. I'm not waiting for the "three strike" rule to take effect. Regaining whatever composure and good sense I drop the annoyed reptile back on the rug and scamble out of the arena. Surrounded by people who keep asking me "Weren't you scared?". I could only repeat over and over like some lame mantra "I thought their mouths were sewn shut!?" and shake my head. I stumble off to the back table in a nearby market cafe, order a strong drink, humbled and quiet. I contemplate : Ahh! The magic of Marrakech..!?!
Where the white sands of the Sahara sweep northward, climbing the height of the forbidding Atlas peaks, before falling in dramatic fashion to gentle green plains, olive groves, figs, before finally melting into the azure blue of the Mediterranean, I found a place lost in the sands of time. A carnival of color, culture, charm and romance with medinas and cafes, merchants haggling in street markets, the scent of spices on the breeze, curry, safron…
A place where you never lose the feeling that something exotic or mysterious is right around the next bend in the road and sometimes you are RIGHT!
It's easy enough to fall under the spell of "magical" Marrakech. It was December 2007 that I found myself by some twist of good fortune to be washed ashore as it where in Morocco. My contact French ex-patriot Quentin Breusse had arranged to show me around and as I am the un-repentant sportsman he had also arranged for us some hunting and game shooting in the Beni Mellal region. I explained to him my keen interest in observing the traditional Berber tribes and their special hunting dogs the A ïdi. This, Quentin was only too pleased to do as he had spent many days pursuing game with the locals and had his own personal infatuation with these interesting dogs. The Aïdi is an ancient breed whose origin is open to anyones speculation. They are the native dogs of the Atlas mountains in Morocco, serving their Berber masters for centuries. Once (wrongly) classified as a herding breed, wich they never were, they are now understood to be a rather "do-all" canine, with distinct hound-like qualities. They are fierce gaurds for the tribes ekking out poor livings in this harsh enviroment. They are highly prized for their scenting ability, assisting the Berber in hunting, often paired with the local sighthound the Sloughi. Aïdi will track the quarry opening in full chop voice when in pursuit. As the prey is pushed into open ground the Sloughis are loosed and run it down in swift fashion. I was told that the Aïdi additionally has an uncanny ability to smell out serpents, preventing dangerous and often untreatable bites (good information after my last mis-adventure in the Market!).
The A ïdi is a medium sized dog, coming in a variety of colors, the standard calls for a height of 22-24 inches at the shoulder, a brush stern, ears are half pricked and their voice while hunting is a suprisingly melodic cry "suprising" as they are not a true Hound but I am convinced on my observations and research that they are related closely to most of the other "primitive" breeds, such as the Basenji, the Pharaoh Hound, the Laïka, the Canaan dog, Carolina dog… A few examples all of whom posess a delightful hunting voice.
So after a few days of dining, exploring and getting into trouble in Marrakech, we took our leave and headed out of town, bumping along rough roads in Quentin's van. We arrive in the Beni Mellal, "gateway" to the Atlas. Foothills of rock, poor soil, dotted with the odd fruit or olive grove, from this the landscape rises quickly to extreme un-inviting terrain, steep and un-forgiving. Most of this land is unarable. Quentin explains the Berber people settled in this area for 100s of years, mostly to avoid the Arab, Moorish raiding parties that were so common place centuries ago. Their culture developed to thrive in these badlands, a place no one else wanted! With little to farm their diet consists mostly of goat, fruits and whatever game can be brought to bag. They traditionally hunt for the hare, the boar, antelope and jackal (Africas answer to our coyote).
I was curious, as Muslims, how is it they are able to consume the flesh of the boar? Quentin remarked that hungry bellies know little faith and the boar provides much needed protein here. I suppose it's an unspoken agreement with Allah!
No words can truly express the stunning view as the sun rose that morning over the snow covered Atlas heights. We had driven quite high up into the mountains to meet up with Berber headman and huntsman Sa ïd Ben Rioud. At 8am sharp here came Saïd rounding the hairpin bends in the mountain road, 8-10 Berber herders-hunters followed along and behind their rattling truck were a large pack of Aïdi hounds. Interesting as the Aïdi are never allowed, it seems, to ride but follow along these mountain passes between hunts, running after the vehicle. Sometimes a good 30 minutes or more but they always showed up at the next draw. Of course, I imagine working everday in the unbelievably difficult ground makes them extremely fit and their pads as tough as stone.
With the excitment of anticipation that precedes any days hunt, Sa ïd explained just how we would draw this particular cover. From my vantagepoint all I could see was straight down over sharp rock, cactus, thorns. Above us continued near verticle. The tribe would drive to the base of this mini-Matahorn and with the Aïdi casting in front, several shooters chosen from the group would be in charge of taking any game that decided to show itself in range ahead of the hounds. The men had with them a collection of old shotguns for this use. Some dubiously wired or taped together, all loaded with lead ball. I made a mental note to stay far behind any of those guys!
Quentin and I postioned ourselves on a rocky outcropping, high above where the hounds would be put in.
It wasn't long before the melodic bell of the A ïdi in pursuit came ringing over the hills. Watching the cover below I had a great view of a hare running along the spine of the lower ridge. The Aïdi pushing hard all the while. These mountain hare are clever and twice I watched as the hare would double back, parallel the hounds and slip out the back door. Hounds would cast themselves but of course with game up and running their tends to be overwhelming enthusiasm from the Berbers themselves. All of this shouting and noise tends to attract other locals who show up on mule, donkey or foot to lend a hand in the hunt! Really quite a party!
Several shots echoed through the morning air and it was over. Gathering at the top of the hill, we took a 10 minute break, as Sa ïd scrimmaged, wanting to take some larger game for the larder. We loaded into the trucks and rambled farther up the slopes to an area he felt held many boar. Watching from the rear window I could see as all the Aïdi lined up trotting or running after our ancient toyota. Man! Those dogs are FIT!!! Nearly to the top of the mountain the area was covered in dense cedar-like scrub and temperatures had dropped at this elevation, making for terrific scenting conditions. Quentin and I followed on foot to an old roadbed to where it ended in a cascade of rock and a spectacular view. The valley below us climbed sharply to our position, through jagged geography and rough flora, the perfect place for wild boar or mountain goats? We watched as some locals picked their way down with their donkeys scrambling bravely over the trecherous footing, all hoping to be in on the taking of a boar and share in the bounty.
I have to say that hunting driven game with hounds is about addictive. As it gets, shivering not so much from the cool air as much as from the anticipation, straining to hear the A ïdi open. Shouts soon rang across the valley: Sanglier! Sanglier! (the Berber often use the French word for boar as Morocco was a French colony for some time and the Lingua Français is still the common spoken word). Somewhere in the distant woodlands, the sweetest sound known could be heard, rising in tempo, the symphony of hounds in full cry. The vocal note of the Aïdi can only be described as having a yodel–like quality, distinct and musical. Quentin and I listened, shouting for me to follow him. We ran, stumbled, rolled down hill into the thick forest, all the while trying to get into position to intercept the hunt! In our frantic rush, we nearly ran into the pig. I could hear his hooves rattling off the stones as he passed to our right the deafining music of the Aïdi in concert to the rear. The shouts of the Berber hunters filled the air as they hoped to turn the boar scrambling over each precipice sure we would fall to our unpleasant end any minute. We could make out the hounds heading back our way, not wishing to face down a boar in this thick stuff. Quentin and I worked up hill to get a birds eye view. At the moment we could see into the valley. The boar broke cover, heading down a long ravine towards a closing semi-circle of hunters. One shot! Two! Then the chaos of shouts, laughter jubilee. Success! The Aïdi all surrounding the quarry, sniffing, growling and taking a quick nip at the now still carcass.
Quentin and I worked our way down to the base of the hill while much congratulations were shared and doled out. Smiles and happy faces. The A ïdi themsleves looked none the worse for wear and in fact, could have gone on had we chosen so. Lying under the midday sun with a perfect hunters lunch spread out of sardines, dried beef salamis, thick warm bread, olives, figs, wine, I was content to relax as the Aïdi dozed at our feet or occasionally begging some bread or meat. These interesting dogs had certainly shown some sport today and what an experience to have been a part of it! Reliving the days hunt over with Quentin, I explained just how impressed I was with the melodic voice of this beautiful breed. Quentin shook his head in aknowledgement, staring out across the hills, he said the Berber will tell you: "The Song of the Aïdi is the Song of the Atlas", both are beautiful, ancient and an integral part of this land.
I couldn't agree more. Truly the magic of Morocco.
Chip Anderson.