From Sand to Snails to Snow

I last checked in from our Sahara Desert adventure. We finished off that trip with a few hours at the Ouallywood of North Africa, Atlas Studios, touring the sets of all your favorite movies set in desert locations (and many unknown Biblical movies that never made it beyond the bin at Walmart). We walked like Egyptians on the Cleopatra set, visualized ourselves in The Mummy, and admired from afar sets from Game of Thrones and Prison Break. For those of you who know me well, you know that movie, television, and pop culture knowledge are completely lost on me. My evolution in that realm stopped around the time M*A*S*H called it quits. However, the kids were impressed with the trivia despite the fact that it was not exactly the Warner Bros.Tour.

Our bus back to Marrakech wound its way through the mountains without incident, and we busied ourselves with packing in a few more Morocco adventures before Foster had to head back to Vermont. We spent more time in the medina shopping for souvenirs, slurped down our first round of Moroccan snails, and made it to Oukaimeden to try some skiing in the High Atlas Mountains.

The long and winding road

After driving the winding mountain road and peering over the edge into bottomless gorges, I was already wobbly from the adrenalin rush when we reached the “resort” (and I use that term loosely). Once we arrived and paid a parking attendant to let us pass along the road, we drove past a few hotels which were probably once quite spiffy. Donkeys meandered along the road to the first parking lot. All around us, skis and boots from bygone eras were displayed for rent. Vendors rushed the car in hopes of drumming up some business. Fortunately, we had some inside intel that there was a semi-legitimate rental shop further along the road. We spotted a small building and pulled into the dirt lot, only to have a few more roadside vendors try to convince us that we’d be better off with their cheaper options. In the name of a shred of safety, I opted to spend the big bucks (which is a rare choice for me) and rent skis that at least looked as though they had been manufactured in the past decade.  Once inside the building, we were free of hassle, and the friendly guy we found there did a good job of sizing us up and fitting us with skis, boots, and poles. He never inquired about our skiing ability or weight, so I just put faith in his divining powers and trusted that the bindings would be miraculously adjusted to suit our needs.

Once we were all set with equipment, we took a minute to check out the surroundings. We were in a dirt lot across from a small shack that was supposedly the lower ticket window for the two T-bars that we could see on the novice hill directly across the parking lot. Up the road about a half of a mile, we could see the real lift dangling above the rocky slope. The whole scene was little surreal. Stone houses hugged the rocky slopes, blending in with the landscape except for their colorful doors. The sunny side of the road was snow-free, and a small stream flowed next to patches of grass. The shady side of the road was covered in snow which extended to the top of peaks that towered over 10,000 feet. The most recent snow had fallen at least a month earlier. With no grooming or snow-making, this was to be natural snow skiing at its most interesting. Every day since the last snow has been nothing but blue skies and sunshine. The sun glinted off snow that resembled frozen Styrofoam. It wasn’t icy – just solid and squeaky. There was not a tree to be seen – just jutting rocky peaks and snow waiting to be skied in any which way.

We lugged our skies across the road and fended off multiple requests from guides who were anxious to show us the ropes. We waited outside the ticket window, which was to open at 10:00. We are on Moroccan time, so there is no race for the “first chair” at the crack of dawn. There were a few other skiers milling around, but no one seemed too concerned when the ticket window still hadn’t opened by 10:20. A few skiers started walking up the bunny hill and skiing down. We could see that the chair lift in the distance had started running. The guides suggested that, if we hiked up to the top of the T-bar, we could ski the cross-over trail to the lift. However, there were mixed messages (and it could have been my Arabic skills) about whether or not we could actually buy a lift ticket at the upper lift. We waited some more, then decided to head for the upper lift line in the car rather than on foot. After piling all of our skis and bodies into our minuscule rental car, we headed up the road to explore Plan B. Contrary to what I expected, the “base area” at the lift was even more deserted than the bunny hill. There were four or five shacks selling Coke and snacks. There were two snail vendors in the middle of the parking lot, and donkeys ambled up and down the road, carrying people between the two parking lots. And, alas, the there was a ticket window, but it was closed. The lift ran smoothly up the mountain without skiers. A few people stood around waiting. The clock struck 10:40, and, at last, a man with a key opened the ticket window. Relieved to think that we might actually get to ski, I happily plopped down the $10/ticket for our full day passes (yes!), and we clicked into our bindings for our first run.  

The first thing we noticed was that you need to alternate lines in loading the lift. Although there were only about 8 skiers on the entire mountain, there were lots of people who were here to just ride the chairlift to the top and play in the snow. We alternated between skiers and walkers. Completely clueless about what we might find, we hopped onto the lift and decided we would all get off at the mid-station to assess the situation on our first run. There is something wonderful about sunshine and 50’s as you sit on a lift. Oddly, the snow was not soft, but the sky was brilliant and the temperatures were warm. We managed to negotiate the mid-station exit ramp without any catastrophes, and Foster took off down the trail. It took about 10 seconds and two turns for his ski to pop off and travel a long way down the steep slope. Fortunately, he took it in stride and one-foot-skied to the runaway ski – settling in for a less aggressive approach to the rest of the run. Nolan, Brianna, and I stared down the steep slope dotted with moguls and wondered what we were doing. We all eventually took a few deep breaths and forced ourselves to take the plunge and just keep on turning. We all arrived unscathed at the base, but Brianna was the first to feel the altitude. With green spots swimming in the snow before her eyes, she opted for a water and snack break while the boys went up again. After run #2, Foster was feeling it and took a break. Nolan, Brianna, and I headed up for a run. Finally, all four of us regrouped for a trip to the top. The scenery was spectacular all the way up. As the lift cleared the final rocky outcropping, we had a 360- degree view of both snow-capped peaks and red, rocky mountains in the distance. It was breathtaking on many levels. The atmosphere at the top was festive. “Walkers” rented skis and played in a large snow field.

When I saw the trail we would need to negotiate to ski down the mountain, my legs turned to jelly and panic set in. Brianna and I contemplated getting back on the next chair down, but with Nolan flying down the mountain in pursuit of Foster, my mothering instinct kicked in and suggested I should follow a half a mile behind them to keep them safe (altitude and fear do funny things to the brain). Five minutes later, Brianna and I had our skis off and were picking our way across the rocks to just get to the death- defying drop that someone had deemed to be a trail.  Foster and Nolan were dots in the distance. We stepped back into our bindings and mustered the courage to start down. After about ten minutes, we were feeling more confident about our ability to survive this ordeal. That’s when Brianna took a minor fall that turned into an epic slide. I watched helplessly from above as she slid, and slid, and slid. She gathered speed, she seemed to slow, she flew over the lip of the mid-station trail in a puff of snow, and she kept on sliding. The boys, who had finally stopped to wait for us, were sitting in the snow near the mid-station as she flew past. Eventually she came to a stop. When I saw her pick up her head and start talking to Foster and Nolan who had skied over and started picking up the pieces, I finally breathed again. Then I laughed, and I couldn’t stop. I stood there doubled over alone in the middle of the mountain – laughing uncontrollably.  When I finally made it down to where Foster, Nolan, and Brianna were stopped, Brianna was laughing. She had survived and was only disappointed that there was no video proof of her feat. That serious slide marked that end of the day for Brianna. Nolan and Foster insisted on one more run to finish the day. When we finally headed down the mountain and met the ambulance on the way up, I thanked my lucky stars that we had survived the adventure unscathed.

Taking the horse out for a walk at the ski resort

After a week of adventures, we popped Foster back on to a plane to Canada and set about returning to a “normal” life. It’s the end the university semester for me, so exams and grading are keeping me busy. I endured my first learning experience with Moroccan university exams. Although my classes have numbered about 100 students/class, apparently, there are at least 200 students registered for each one. Although they don’t come to class, they will still take the exam. That will make for twice the grading fun!

The first fun trick of the exam process, however, was getting my exams photocopied. I should have predicted this would be a small ordeal from the outset, when I learned that photocopying would require a “meeting.” When the first meeting was cancelled three week ago, I wasn’t too surprised. At the rescheduled meeting, I was sent away to shorten my exam so it could be completed within an hour. This week, I turned up with my shortened exam and hope that I would come away with the 400 copies that I needed. After a trip to the “paper man” to sign the necessary forms to release the paper, I took the paper to the “copier man” to wait my turn in line. Once it was my turn, I waited patiently while he used an antiquated copy machine to first copy one side, then flip the paper and feed it all through the machine again to copy the second side. He repeated the process for all five pages. About an hour after I entered the magic photocopying room, I walked out with all the pages I need for my exam with an enormous stapling and sorting job for Nolan. I will never again take a sorting and stapling copy machine for granted. Exam season promises to hold lots of new lessons and cultural experiences for me. I will try hard to find the humor in each one, and to take each challenge as an opportunity to practice the art of patience. In retrospect, yesterday’s copying adventure gave me a chance to chat with three professors I had never met before and to practice some new Darija phrases with the copier man. One of the benefits of not being able to communicate is that it cuts off my sarcasm reflex. Rather than saying what I really want to say, I am forced to say boring things like, “It’s really cold in here,” and “thank you very much.” Ah…the struggles of a foreign language…making me a better person 400 copies at a time.

Amazigh New Year Treat