Saturday 18 February 2012

Local Hospitality

It has been hectic since we have returned from holiday with report writing and parent teacher conferences.. As I am sure every teacher has experienced, you are often faced with that feeling of having worked really hard to climb a mountain of work, telling yourself that if you just make it to the top then you'll be able to catch your breath on the way down the other side. The problem is that this is usually slightly delusional. Well it is for a new teacher without resources anyway. The reality is closer to that of reaching the top only to find it's a false summit and you have another 300 metres to climb, and then another 300 metres and so on. It is this naivety and the thought of things getting easier that keeps new teachers going for the first few years. Those that don't possess this naivety or let's be nice and call it self preservation mode, quit. In fact the only time you're on the downhill straight is when the kids leave for the summer. Then it is more akin to falling off the edge of a cliff into a two month break, the first two weeks of which are spent near comatose wondering what just happened. And I only have thirteen kids.

Last week we were invited to the home of one of Nick's students for dinner. Both suffering the effects of a 700 km Moroccan drive, head colds, sore throat and three days of frantic report writing meant that all we wanted to do was curl up on the sofa for the weekend. Knowing how much effort was likely to have gone to, we wrapped up warm and headed out.

The homes in the centre of Ifrane look very impressive from the outside but many have fallen into disrepair and it makes you wonder what they are like inside. The home we were welcomed into that evening was incredible. Entering through immense double doors into a lounge bigger than our apartment we were ushered into one of the four split level sitting areas. Decked out in fine examples of Moroccan metal and wood work it was exceptionally grand. There were twelve sofas in all, some big enough to seat eight, spread over the four different levels. Each area had a slightly different theme. Where we sat there was a huge ornate table made from old carved and metal studded doors like ones we have seen and admired in shops and wondered where you would ever put them. Now we know.

As well us, their son's French and music teachers' family had been invited which was a relief for me as it took some of the pressure off me from joining in the conversation which was 95% French. My French has improved and while I am able to get the gist of nearly all the conversations, I’m unaware of details and lacking any confidence to actually respond in French. This meant when it was time to eat and I was tucking into an enormous serving of incredible pie that I missed the warning to 'not eat too much as there was plenty more to come'. When we had been invited for dinner it was under the pretext of 'to experience real Moroccan food'. I wondered what we had been eating for six months if not real Moroccan food. What we ate that evening is unlike anything I’ve every eaten before, in particular in somebody's home. We began with a salad of seafood, fruit, cheese and palm hearts. The salad was followed by not one but two enormous pies. One was the traditional Pastilla; a filo pastry patty shaped pie stuffed with vermicelli and seafood. The other was a mince beef pie topped with thin pastry and crispy melted cheese. Both of these were big enough to feed about eight people for a main meal and by this time all the children had disappeared and Nick and I seemed to be given the bulk of the portions. It was at this point that I missed the important warning about not eating too much and kept pie eating with relish thinking this was the main part of the meal and was completely unprepared for what arrived next.

Shuffling under the weight of an enormous platter, the house lady arrived at the table with our third course. This was four whole succulent roast chickens surrounding a mound of lemon and olive pearl barley. Nick requested breast and I leg, we were given one chicken cut in half. It was incredible but we were already stuffed to bursting. I managed about a third of what was on my plate. This was at the point a platter of braised veal was placed on the table. This meat was probably the most tender I have ever eaten but I was unable to do little more than pick at it. I began to be overcome by cold sweats and began to feel an attack of what Miss O’Connor aptly named 'the meats'. Thankfully the last course was a fruit platter and I could sit back and zone out while the French conversation went on around me. Life and soul of the party I was not.

The evening was a true glimpse of the grander side of Moroccan life. For all their criticisms of the organisation of the country and government, people here are very proud to be Moroccan and want to show off their culture, of which food and celebration plays a very big part. It is normal here to host parties for weddings or births that last around seven days. One can only imagine how many kilos would be gained during a seven day feast. It has taken me about a week to lose the pounds gained from one evening.

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Sadly I didn't take my camera to take pictures of all the food, but then my picture taking enthusiasm in near strangers' home would have perhaps been a little awkward.




Saturday 11 February 2012

Moroccan Mountain Madness

When you think of skiing holidays, I am sure Morocco is definitely not at the forefront of your mind. In fact to be fair the majority of people express an element of surprise at the thought of winter sports of any kind here. Little do they know that the current Super G Youth Olympic gold medallist is Moroccan. Granted he is Canadian born and is considered by many locals to be Moroccan by passport only, but it's enough to make a few people aware that the sport even exists here. Although our sleepy town of Ifrane is advertised as being a ski destination, as yet the snow has been intermittent and no lifts have been turned on. Sadly the only real ski resort in Morocco is a mere 500 kilometres drive away along Moroccan roads surrounded by predictably unpredictable Moroccan drivers. 



Moroccan roads...
The few long distance drives we have done here have not been simple. It seems that you are doomed for disappointment due to the misleading predictions of Google maps and other optimistic foreign drivers. What Google doesn't know and expats quickly forget, is that Moroccan roads are sadly full of Moroccan drivers and in particular Moroccan drivers in rickety heaps of smoke spewing metal that are otherwise known as trucks. When driving from Ifrane to Marrakesh there are two viable route options; the highway which swings past Casablanca, which takes you 120 kilometres out of your way, or the N8, a country road that takes you more or less as the crow flies. For our trip we experienced them both. On the highway your have wider open spaces and faster traffic but you are also surrounded by a great number of drivers who feel it is good driving practice to drive at high speed in the outside lane before swerving across 2-3 lanes of traffic to take slip roads. The heat combined with dull motorway driving for the majority of the 600 kilometre journey make it monotonous and hard to be aware of idiots.

Taking the other shorter option always seems like a good idea on paper. You are not faced with the congestion of the UK and could be mislead by thinking the low population density would result in a driving experience something akin to the nice flat open back roads that can be experienced in Australia, America or South Africa. Sadly, unlike South Africa where slower vehicles courteously move onto the hard shoulder when approached from behind, in Morocco these vehicles, often travelling as slow as twenty kilometres an hour, sit resolutely in the middle of the road. You frequently end up driving for half an hour at 30-50 kilometres an hour fuming and cursing yourself for the stupidity of not taking the highway. Both routes took seven and a half hours, and while one was significantly more scenic; running the length of the Atlas Mountains, it was also significantly more stressful. 

 






















Whichever route you take to Oukaimeden, you finish with a fifty kilometre climb up a narrow, crumbling, pot holed and windy road into the High Atlas. Unusually this route is terrifying whichever way you drive it. We seemed to be going against the flow in either direction. When arriving in the evening the hordes of day trippers were enthusiastically throwing their cars round the bends and along our side of the road in their haste to get back to Marrakesh, departing in the morning a few days later we faced the reverse flow making their way up for the day and again taking up three quarters of the road. It is easy to say 'stand your ground and they will move', but when one car is faced with ten, you find that no matter how much you try and hold your nerve, you are the one that ends up off the road. With vertical drops and crumbling edges this is not for the faint hearted. It should be reassuring that surprisingly there are crash barriers, but seeing that they were crushed, battered and at times hand chunks completely missing where most needed, it actually instilled more fear than calm. Do you really want clear evidence of dangerous driving and huge boulders falling down from the cliffs above?



The Oukaimeden experience...
Oukaimeden is a small Berber village made up of a large number of closed up ski chalets and a large number of incredibly basic mud brick huts. Unlike Ifrane which is kept immaculate as is it the king's winter playground of choice, Oukaimeden is Berber country. People there have little interest in posh restaurants and fancy squares, they have determinedly kept it as it has always been. A simple town with few amenities.


 
After the 'wonderful' experience of getting there, when we arrived in Oukaimeden we were just about ready for an early bath and bed. Sadly the process of getting settled in was not as simple as we had hoped. In all fairness we had expected some difficulty as we had relied on a Moroccan friend to arrange everything. You never know how these things are going to go, there is every chance that you might end up sleeping under the table in someone's lounge. Our friend Omar is the sport teacher at our school. In his spare time he is also a surfing coach and the head coach of the Moroccan national ski team. Once an Olympic hopeful, he is a barrel of a man who is possibly one of the kindest and most generous people you could meet. It is perhaps these characteristics that made it so difficult for us to get settled in. Reluctant to let us do anything, and not content with the sleeping arrangements we were offered by Club Alpin Français, he determinedly distracted us by taking us to get equipment and showing us around. Getting anywhere with Omar was time consuming. He knew everyone and greeted them all like long lost friends. Sourcing board, boots, skis and more boots was cheap but took a while as Omar had time to spare for everyone. He even took us to the home of the lift manager to introduce us and arrange for us to use the lifts for free. When we returned we were given a small basic apartment with two bedrooms, each with own loft. The shower was cold and the toilet down a ladder and stairs, but we were probably the only people in the entire chalet that didn't have to share with strangers. We really appreciated our cosy nest of four single mattresses and four blankets in our candle lit loft with a view of the mountains.

 




 
English snowboarder Ed Lee described the Oukaimeden as a mountain with 'bite'. When he travelled around the world looking for unusual places to board he found the Moroccan resort quite a challenge. Very steep to start, piste covered in ice with rocks sticking out everywhere, there are no markers and within 300 metres of starting his run he ran out of piste and hit barren rocks. This led to a slow and slippy hike back up the ice. Watching this the night before we left Ifrane filled me with 'the fear'. Having not been on a board for over two years and even then possibly one of the wimpiest snowboarders to ever hit the slopes, all hopes of an enjoyable and relaxing holiday left me at that point. Getting started on the first day I was pleasantly surprised. Not only did I remember how to put on a board and stand up without the usual necessary instructor by my side, I also managed to turn and stop with a modicum of control. I won't say grace, the bum sticks out far too much to be anything near graceful, control is sufficient for me. I fell once on the first run, and then didn't fall again until I challenged myself on the last day. Definitely some kind of record, maybe all that face planting on the wakeboard did some good after all.


 

















Although the runs were reasonably clear and the snow was remarkably good for the balmy temperature, the lifts were a big headache. There are five drag lifts in the resort, three of which work, and one of which is near impossible for a novice boarder as it yanks you off your feet. Being the busiest weekend of the year there were forty minute queues for all the drag lifts. Lifts of any description are a minefield of potential embarrassment for me on a board, and queuing up for forty minutes to then be pulled onto your face in front of the waiting masses is frustrating to say the least. There is one chairlift, but I was a wuss on the first day and it was closed due to wind on the second. Needless to say there was quite a lot of labour intensive hiking that took place. The resort is between 2600 - 3200 metres, climbing in enormous unyielding boots and carrying a board up hills at altitude has definitely done wonders for the fitness.



  











Hoi Polloi...
Where there is snow in Morocco, there exists a strange phenomena. The cold white stuff draws crowds of people like bugs are drawn to bright light. From early morning cars, buses and rickety vans make their way from the city up to the tiny village. People come from miles around to walk, drink tea, throw snowballs and take pictures of each other, and strangely all this is done wearing rented ski boots. There are few items of foot wear that can be considered more painful, and it is baffling to see rather large jelaba/burqa wearing women hike painfully up the snow in ski boots dragging something resembling a sled behind them. People were even choosing to spend there day riding donkeys and mules up and down the completely congested narrow road that ran along the bottom of the slopes. And yes, ski boots seemed to be a requirement for this too. When snowboarding down the slopes, you descend from empty space to absolute chaos. People were walking down drag lift tracks; sliding on snowboards into crowds of people; posing as downhill racers sticking poles precariously close to passers bys heads; monitors hanging on to the ends of peoples poles and running behind them as they slide out of control on the ice. Amongst this roam people shivering dressed in ridiculous clothing and kids selling things; tea leaves, herbs, bags of walnuts, candles and necklaces. Sledges are going everywhere. Donkeys, mules and people all have complete disregard for the road. We even saw some boys run around above the lifts in boxer shorts. It was like one giant cartoon poster of calamity and near misses.




While talking to other foreigners we found that there is often curiosity expressed over why more foreign tourists don't come to ski. What with the lifts not working, or opening an hour late (because nobody told the operator he was supposed to open it on the busiest day of the year) and thousands of people thinking that the best idea for a holiday is to go where there are thousands of other people slipping around on the edge of the snow while taking photos of themselves. It amazes locals that this and riding donkeys and mules through a traffic jam of people, cars and exhaust fumes just doesn't quite take the fancy of the more discerning western tourist.

The madness continued throughout the day. The kilometre drive back from the lifts took at least 45 minutes at lunch time. At the end of the day there was a traffic jam to get down the mountain. One narrow two-lane road had three lanes of traffic going one way full off impatient people who don't have foresight to think through their actions. Instead they do anything they can to get to the front of the line; cutting through car parks, driving along edge of precipices, whatever they can think of to gain two car places in the jam.














The Rewards...
Believe it or not there were many rewards for the 600 kilometre journey to Oukaimeden. The stunning surroundings of shocking blue sky, red rocks, and crisp white snow are the obvious ones. The novel site of donkeys in the snow was another. Perhaps the biggest reward of all was the relaxed nature of no pressure skiing. Unlike European or North American skiing trips which cost so much money you feel pressured to ski until you have your moneys worth, this was relaxed because we hardly spent a penny. It did not matter if I was too terrified to do anything at all. That in itself made me less terrified than usual and approach the slopes in a better frame of mind. If we wanted to stop early for beers in the sun then so be it, it was just nice to be in the sun in the mountains with beautiful surroundings.





It was with the frame of mind that I went up on the chairlift with on the last day. Perched on the edge of a rocky drop off, it is a test of nerve that requires a blank mind, or at least a mind thinking of something other than Moroccan engineering. When inquiring as to why the huge gap left between people going up the drag lift, we were told that a few years back the whole assemble collapsed on people as it was not strong enough to take the weight. Instead of resolving this issue they just spread people out. Reassuring thoughts when swinging in the wind fifty metres above sharp rocks and ice. The ride up there was just the start of the scariness. Coming off the chairlift you have to walk down a narrow slightly collapsing strip of snow to the edge of the piste. We had decided to try and traverse the piste on foot as it was a steep mess of mogally ice and powder pockets. This really wasn't thought through and was in fact an insane idea. We realised to late to stop and in too precarious a position to rectify matters, that we would blatantly be better with the sharp edge of a board on ice rather than clumpy boots with no grips. This was to be the pinnacle of my bum sliding gracefulness. To cut a long and scary story short, this run turned out to be the most challenging thing I have ever done. Thankfully after a hundred metres the run opened out into wide open piste with powder at the sides. I'm still trying to work out whether it was worth the effort or not. When drag lifts are the alternative it kind of has to be.
 



In reflection, and having survived the experience, we had an amazing time. While anything but conventional, and with the need of a complete open mind and sense of adventure, Moroccan ski holidays are probably worth a try. Where else will you see a mule carrying skis?



There are many other moments of the trip worth a mention; finding paradise with a good cook; driving around fields of donkeys and sheep on mopeds, but this post is too long already.


Thursday 2 February 2012

Winter woollies time...

Due to report writing time and an exploding never-ending monstor of a Science project, this week there has been little time left over for anything other than sleeping and trying to stay healthy. However, for those who are good enough to check the blog for updates I thought I'd share some of this week's winter wonderland pics from the sleepy Middle Atlas town of Ifrane. 

Blue sky, sun and heavy snow make for a truly magical place.

This weekend we are embarking on another mammoth drive across the country in search of some winter mountain action.