The Desert Princess Does Morocco

Bearing brown sugar and chocolate chips, the Smurfs and their Desert Princess arrived in Morocco early in April. We welcomed them with open arms and wasted no time immersing them in Marrakech. In contrast to the rainy, cold weather that greeted the Smurfs upon their arrival in Vietnam, the desert sun burned bright right from the start this time around. We got busy cramming all the sights and sounds of Marrakech into five hot days in the medina with brief breaks for kitten playtime and dips in the frigid apartment pool.

The princess set to her Marrakech shopping mission right from the get-go with Papa Smurf and his credit card in tow. If it was sparkly, pink, turquoise, or shiny it needed to be felt, evaluated, and tried on. Two days netted two Moroccan “princess dresses” and ignited the quest for the perfect matching shoes.  The medina is a treasure trove of magical trinkets, mysterious boxes, and glittery gems. It’s a seven-year-old’s sensory heaven. Add the princess vibe to the mix, and it became necessary to strategically plot routes from one point to the next – taking us through residential sections of the medina rarely seen - in an effort to avoid the non-stop tactile temptation presented at every turn. We balanced medina shopping with old palaces, stinky tanneries, and tasty Moroccan treats.

Weaving a Moroccan Carpet

First tajine on the terrace

City Fishing

Princess Palace

Looking down on the Spice Market

Snail sampling in the medina

Smoke  and Lights: Jemaa el Fna at Night

After five days in Marrakech, the Smurf crew took off for a desert adventure of their own to Ouarzazate, Zagora, and the Sahara. Charmed by the enchanting image of a desert camel trek, we were reluctant to burst their blissful bubble. I had hinted at the challenge of riding a camel – possibly even stating that it was one of the least comfortable experiences of my life. Alas, you can’t come to the Sahara and not have the dromedary experience. However, there is no good reason to ride a camel for more than five minutes. Papa Smurf will now attest to that. When the crew returned to us three days later, bubbling over with desert adventure stories, Papa Smurf had a distinctly different gait. For the next two days he grunted and groaned about his camel muscles and the “special kind of pain” inflicted by Wally the camel. Mama Smurf muttered something about trauma to her nether regions and flashbacks to childbirth.

We gave the crew a day to recover from camel related suffering, and then Andy and Nolan led them to Seti Fatma in the Atlas Mountains for a day of cool rivers and hiking. The Desert Princess smoothly transitioned from city shopper to mountain goat - deftly navigating suspension bridges, rock hopping through streams, and scaling a ladder for good measure. The camels grazing near the river now held as little intrigue as a Holstein chewing her cud in a Vermont field.

Lounging by the river

The Smurfs headed off for another adventure – this time to the seaside city of Essaouira – where they enjoyed wind, sand, sunshine, seagulls, and, of course, the requisite goats in argan trees. In two weeks, this crew managed to pack in a lot of Morocco. On their final day in Marrakech, we made time for henna for the princess and a final shopping tour of the medina. It was a full two weeks of adventures, but just a taste of the magic of Morocco. With camels out of the way (and probably forever checked off the list), I can now look for other ways to tempt this crew to come back for another visit next year.

Browsing the henna design catalog

Ta Da!

Reunited with Yoka the lost desert Bunny,
we celebrated!

Three weeks of visitors has provided lots of activity on the home front, and it seemed oddly silent when I climbed to the roof to hang sheets out to dry once everyone had gone. Then, as if on cue, the call to prayer began – first at the closest mosque, and, then, one-by-one, mosques around the city joined in the chorus. I smiled to think that Morocco was taking care of me – reminding that I was not alone. An hour later, when I returned to the roof to retrieve the laundry, somebody scored in the Barcelona-Madrid soccer match that was showing in every café in town. The entire city erupted around me – cheering, clapping, and honking came from every corner. I smiled as the truth sunk in; you are never alone in Marrakech. 

The Snows of Hell

"If I were in hell, I imagine this is what I'd be doing." And so it went. Toubkal according to Brianna (less than half way up). And, Nolan, near the end of the day, "When I have kids I am NEVER forcing them to exercise. I mean, you're a good parent, mom. But, this is awful." As usual, I just smiled and assured them that some day they would thank me. I reminded them that they had hiked the Camino just two years ago. They reminded me that the Camino was flat. I had to give them that.

Toubkal is not flat. The highest peak in North Africa (at about 14000 ft) has been looming over us in Marrakech for the past 8 months. April is the magical hiking season, when the snow is melting, the desert flowers are blooming, and it's not a billion degrees below zero at the top. So, with two free days, it only seemed logical to climb. We packed up the backpacks with warmish clothes and sleeping bags and set out for an adventure.

Andy had climbed Toubkal before once in the fall, so we trusted that he knew what he was doing. We took the local bus to Imlil, spent a little time negotiating for ancient crampons in the village, stuffed ourselves with one last tagine, and headed up the mountain. Sunshine and blue skies accompanied us the entire way to the refuge, which was a five hour hike from town. We enjoyed drinks and iced our feet in waterfalls on the way up. We dodged donkeys all along the way and laughed at the herds of goats navigating the steep hillsides around us.

We finally hit snow late in the afternoon - just before arriving at the refuge where we would spend the night. All was well so far. Despite the heat, the complaining had been minimal. Brianna and Nolan had distracted each other from the task at hand. We were all happy to discover the "caminoesque" vibe at the refuge - rooms filled with bunk beds, heavy blankets, a communal dining room, and trail snacks for sale.  The relative "warmth" of April, however, meant that there were no fires burning in the fireplace, and the chill of a Vermont barn in winter settled on us quickly. Nolan made it no further than taking off his sneakers and spreading out his sleeping bag. He was asleep in seconds. Brianna managed to drag herself downstairs with us for a dinner of lentil soup and spaghetti before we all crawled into our sleeping bags shortly after sunset.

The next morning, in another moment reminiscent of the Camino, I pulled reluctant hikers out of warm sleeping bags just after sunrise. We ate a quick breakfast at the refuge (where I finally gave in and rented crampons despite my certainty that they were unnecessary), packed our daypacks, strapped on the crampons, and set out for the summit. It took about 30 seconds for the trail to get ridiculously steep. We quickly found ourselves panting to just get over the first rise in the crunchy snow. It didn't help that we could see the steep trail ahead of us continuing upward without an end. The slow trudge began. We found ourselves in sort of a worn trench of snow perched on the edge of the steep hillside that served as the trail. A small trip outside of the trench would have meant a very long slide down the mountain.

We trudged slowly and breathed heavily. There were not a lot of smiles from the under-18 crew. Upward for three hours with a few breaks for snacks and water, we walked. There was some whining. We walked some more. Then, Nolan's crampon broke. I'm pretty sure he wanted to do a happy dance and roll down the mountain. However, it wasn't going to be quite that easy. Andy sacrificed his crampon and tied Nolan's half crampon to his boot. We carried on (much to Nolan's dismay). Another 30 minutes in, Nolan had had it. Looking up, there was nothing but another steep climb in the snow. The rocky peak seemed miles away still. He and Andy decided to head back to the refuge. Brianna was forging her own path well ahead of us, so I just followed behind.

When I found her resting on a rock, she had reached the end of the snow field and was about to start up the rocky ridgeline. We packed away the crampons and set out to finish the adventure we had started. It was not an easy finish. It took 90 minutes of steep scrambling on loose rocks and gravel.  Then, there were moments of genuine fear as we clung to rocks to negotiate narrow, slippery spots on the trail when the summit was in sight. Then we were there. Morocoo stretched out below us. 360 degrees of snowy and rocky peaks surrounded us. Clouds filled in the valleys between the peaks. We were above it all. It was sunny and perfect. The mountain gods were smiling down on us. Life was good.

Then we had to get down. All the way down. The 4.5 hour climb to the summit was a 2 hour glide and slide back to the refuge. After we made it back to the snow field, we took advantage of every snow chute we could find and flung ourselves down for the ride. It was a blast. Wet, deep snow made for messy and cold fun, but it was fast and easy on the legs. We met up with Nolan and Andy back at the refuge, quickly refueled and changed into dry clothes, and, then, we all set off for the quad-killing downward trek back to Imlil. We, once again, enjoyed sunshine, donkeys, and amazing views the entire way. We dragged ourselves back into town just as the sun was setting and were all too happy to overpay for a semi-private taxi back to Marrakech for the pleasure of our warm trickle of a shower and our own beds.

We are all still limping around (two days later) - barely able to negotiate going down stairs or off curbs. It's a little too soon to ask the kids if they had fun. I know too well the answer that I would get today. I'll let the dust settle and the muscles heal before I ask that question. For me, however, if Toubkal is what hell has to offer, you can sign me up!

Sharing the Moroccan Love

Atlas makes himself at home

It's one of those reflective days. I am sitting on my balcony where it is 90 degrees in the shade. The call to prayer is echoing around me from multiple mosques. It's trying to drown out WNCS' "Sunday Morning Coffee House" which is playing aloud on my computer. It's my weekly Sunday morning dose of Vermont.  I should put away my computer. I see pictures of snow in Jericho and Underhill on my Facebook newsfeed, and I see Moroccan friends posting from the desert and the coast. I see gloom on my news tabs - Syria, Sweden, Korea, and Egypt, and I see international friends doing rewarding work all over the globe. My inbox has too many bold messages reminding me of work to be done and calendars to update. My mind wanders all over the world.

I am jolted back to reality by the pain of razor sharp kitten claws digging into my exposed ankle, as our new baby, Atlas, launches himself from a hunting crouch to scale my leg just so he can bite at my hands and sit on my keyboard. He reminds me to stay in the moment. I am sitting on my balcony. It's 90 degrees in the shade. The Muslim call to prayer is echoing around me. This is where I need to be right now. 

She made it!

It has been a fabulous week in Morocco with a visit from a dear Vermont friend - a true taste of home. And, with the arrival of my brother tomorrow, April promises to be full of reminders of Vermont mixed with the joy of sharing our new Moroccan home with those we love. As the world around us spins in what seems to be a darkening vortex, I am thankful for all that we have found here and all that I continue to learn every day.

I try hard to keep this blog personal - to leave my work world out of it. But, as fingers point and global conversations revolve around terrorism, I find myself conflicted about remaining silent about a topic that occupies much of my working day and absorbs my energy in and out of the classroom. The reality is that living and working in North Africa means that I am immersed in a Muslim country - living, learning, and teaching about national identity, religion, and tolerance at a turbulent time when the conversation always turns to ISIS. This week, I found myself at a workshop on combatting extremism, run by Moroccan students. I listened to students define "extremism" and debate the reality. They discussed whether it is realistic to think that we can put a halt to extremism. They explained the tenants of Islam to me. I listened, and I learned. They are intelligent. They are well-spoken. They are human. They are not terrorists. They are curious and eager to learn all that they can about the world outside of Morocco. 

In my world away from the university, I try to relegate ISIS to a news tab open on my computer. I return to being a mom and a friend. I like to think that I am not naïvely separating reality from my domestic bubble where we all live blissfully oblivious of the big picture. I prefer to believe that by exposing my family and friends to the Morocco that we have grown to love, I am doing my small part to spread peace, love, and happiness which will, in turn, be shared as warm memories back on the other side of the Atlantic.

To that end, we embraced the Moroccan love of cats and finally adopted one of our own from a friend at a local bike shop. So far, Atlas has been the ball of love that we all anticipated a kitten would be. Given my poor track record with Moroccan pets (Katrina the chameleon lasted 7 days), I am lucky that the rest of the crew even lets me have an occasional cuddle with him. He is tiny and feisty and, to date, still alive. I'm sensing good barakah from this little guy.

Shari's visit last week, after a nightmarish travel adventure with Royal Air Maroc (which we will save for Trip Advisor - can you give someone negative stars on that thing?), was a much-anticipated treat. When she arrived bearing tasty treats like Annie's Mac and Cheese, chocolate chips, and maple syrup, she was immediately elevated to goddess status.  After establishing that her new iPhone was, indeed, hopelessly lost forever in her first Moroccan taxi, she moved on like a trooper and powered through four packed days of Moroccan adventures.

Vermont Love!

She navigated the medina like a pro - steering clear of reptiles, monkeys, and vigilante henna artists. She photographed donkeys without getting flattened by motorbikes. She dodged hanging meat and intestinal ailments with the savvy of a seasoned Marrakshi, and she endured the stench of the tanneries for a glimpse at underbelly of the leather world. When we moved on to the coast for cool breezes and sea air, she took the scent of fish in stride. She photographed olives and argan, herbs and almonds, and carpets and pottery. She endured gusting wind for glimpses of beach camels. Then, she cooked a couscous tafaya worthy of Top Chef Arabia (with a tiny bit of help from the talented Khadija). 

It was a wonderful week of Vermont conversation and catching-up in a setting oh-so-far from Vermont. It was a Moroccan dream come true.  There is something magical about sharing a place you love with people from home. It means you have people who "get you." When we return from Morocco, we'll have stories to tell to anyone who will listen, but there will be a few people who really "get it" - who will be able to visualize where we are and what we are talking about, who will recall the pain of sharp kitten claws under the harsh glow of the bare bulb dangling from the kitchen ceiling as we reminisce about late-night French toast with real Vermont maple syrup.

Despite the airline hassles and the gritty outer edges that Morocco sometimes displays, I think there will be a little warm spot for Morocco in another American heart this week. If so...mission accomplished. I will rejoice in spreading the love one visit at a time. 

Ben Youssef Medersa

Enough of the Koranic school for one teenager

Essaouira

The magical Khadija and her cooking school

In my element. Heh.

Couscous!

Essaouira Beach Camels

A last Marrakech hurrah

Henna at the Henna Art Cafe

Medina Moment

Love