Planes, trains and auto mobiles.

A warning in advance, after a few weeks off, getting back into writing mode was painful. This is distinctly lacking in eloquence.

I am sure for many people following our exploits, it appears that we are always traveling and on holiday. With a teacher's calendar and about fifteen weeks holiday a year that is something of a reality.

For our Spring Break we had planned yet another grand tour encompassing the front and the back of the High Atlas mountains. We planned to drive down the front of the mountain range, crossing over them at Marrakesh and then returning along the desert side. Due a the sad loss of a family member our plans had to be changed to include a trip home for a funeral. This could only be a quick trip as we had a friend booked on flights to meet us in Marrakesh. It was this time restriction that led us into our own version of Planes, Trains and Automobiles all so we could scrape forty hours of time at home to be with family.

Our journey commenced with a 1 hour drive to Fes Airport, where we might have had to wait just as long for coffee and stale croissants if Nick had not suggested to the incompetent woman behind the counter that it would be quicker if he went behind the counter and made it himself. We then had a 3 hour flight to Paris where we had a 6 hour stop-over. This we filled 1.5 hours of when we went into Paris to meet friends for a sunny beer in a park. Then back to the airport to wait for a 2 hour delayed flight to Liverpool before a 1 hour drive home. Door to door in just under 16 hours.

We learned two important things that day. Never buy coffee upstairs in Fes airport, it is probably one of the most uncivilised international airports in the world, and never plan on eating dinner in Charles De Gaul airport, it is only marginally more civilised than Fes airport, and you have to walk about three kilometres before you can do anything.

From Manchester to Marrakesh....

 

Up until now Fes has been the biggest tourist centre we have seen in Morocco. There are endless places to stay and guides leading tourists on winding trails through the medina. While Fes has undoubtedly the best medina, Marrakesh has got the pick of accommodation. Fes has a large number of riads, but these are overpriced and dated when compared to what's on offer in Marrakesh. Not only are the riads trendy, modern and affordable, there are also numerous kasbahs in the surrounding area offering glamorous rooms and large swimming pools for $16 a night. 

Our first night was spent in possibly the best budget riad we have seen. Riad Al Az overlooks the palace gardens and has six spacious rooms overlooking a colourful plant and cushion filled courtyard. For a change all the decorative lanterns actually got lit at dusk, bathing the whole place in a warm welcoming glow.

Djemma el Fna

First on our checklist of places to visit while in Marrakesh was Djemma el Fna, a grand square on the edge of the medina. This vast area is part market, part meeting place, part road, and at night a giant restaurant. As the sun goes down people scuttle in with tarps, poles, tables, chairs and BBQs. Smoke begins to fill the air and the party begins. There are over a hundred stalls selling more or less the same thing, barbecued meat, Moroccan salads and cous cous, and they are nearly all full. This square is the place to be. Not only is it the main eating area, it also hosts the worlds oldest street theatre. Snake charmers, bell ringers, story tellers and witch doctors all do their stuff to the constant beat of drums that come from pockets of musicians sitting amongst the chaos. Navigating through this smoke and darkness around people crowded around their performer of choice is tricky, especially as there seem to be no rules for road traffic, cars and bikes appear to criss-cross through the people willy nilly. You have no idea which way to step to get out of the way.

We enjoyed exploring the chaos and happily settled at a choice table, ordered food and watched the world go by. Sadly, and it really pains me to say this, we had not learnt from our recent lessons and got completely scammed by a wily restauranteur. Thinking back to the days of Thai street food we failed to demand a menu and as a result got brought things we had not ordered in great amounts. A meal that should have cost at most $30 cost $50. this left us with a slightly bitter taste and a now mantra of 'always check the price first', 'always check the price first'. Not the best way to have to begin your eating experience. 

Marrakesh surrounds

As well as showing Philippa around Marrakesh, we felt the best way for her to get some much needed de-stressing time was to escape the congestion of the city and head for the hills. Hire car collected we set off on our windy route up to Oukaimaden. The last time we went up to the Moroccan mountain resort there was snow. Snow draws crowds and being there on the busiest weekend of the year we were there to witness hordes of Marrakeshis descend on the snow and cause absolute chaos in a farcical way. This time couldn't have been more different. There was no snow so all the car parks were empty, the stores closed and all the restaurants deserted. Staying in the Club Alpine Français was spooky, empty rooms and corridors. You expected Jack Nicholson to jump out brandishing an axe at any minute. Apart from the shepherds, numerous wild dogs and odd hopeful ski equipment seller, we had the place to ourselves.

 

Ourika Valley

From the highs of the mountain to the lows of the valley, we drove down into Ourika valley the next day. This is a lush river filled valley filled with gardens, fruit trees and riverside restaurants where sweltering Marrakeshis escape the scorching heat of the Marrakesh summer. After the basic accommodation of the CAF refuge we were in for a bit of luxury at Ourika Garden Hotel. This is a small hotel set on a hill with fruit and herb gardens, swimming pool, two inside eating areas, and twelve terraces all for four guest rooms, each with own fire place and lounge. The rooms are rustic and decorated in colourful Berber style. During our stay here we discovered two new Moroccan favourite foods; Zaaluck – smoked aubergine salad, and beef and fig tajine. Surrounded by lush green and red poppy fields and blossom filled fruit trees with the backdrop of the Atlas Mountains with a skilled Moroccan chef at your beck and call, it is a magical place to unwind. 

Venturing out from Ourika Garden was hard, but we were beginning to feel guilty about showing Philippa Morocco fomr the inside of hotels and inside of a car. The next morning we set out with the determined air of explorers. We were going to drive up the valley and hike to one of the nearby waterfalls. Sadly as there are so many small riverside restaurants along the valley and so few tourists this year, the restaurant touts were out in force, not just being pushy but also aggressive. There is nothing that riles us more than people who lie to you to make you stop. When one man said that we had to park at his restaurant because the road ended round the corner it riled Nick so much that he stopped on the return journey just to wind the guy up. We know they are just trying to make a living, but is annoying nonetheless. In the end this onslaught from the locals squished our motivation to get out and explore. We nipped out to take our picture on one of the many precarious rope bridges across the river, the rest of the time we sheepishly viewed the valley from the safety of the car. This is a place we will return to and hike through on foot one day.

Marjorelle Gardens

One of Philippa's finds from her fanatical reading of an additively good guide book was the Marjorelle Garden. This surprisingly small garden is an absolute haven of piece and quiet. Surrounded by high walls secret garden style, and with picnics and children banned, it is really my kind of garden. Designed by French expatriate artist Jacques Marjorelle, it is this garden and in particular a distinct cobalt blue he used all over the place that he has become famous for. The garden is serene, cactus and bamboo filled with quiet corners and relaxing water features at every turn. It was for this reason that Yves Saint Laruant bought the garden in 1980 and requested his ashes be scattered upon his death. As well as the piece and quiet, it is the colours that make this place unique, as well as the blue, there are bright yellow and orange pots which contrast brightly against the green foliage. This is a photographers dream, and whether you are a fan of gardens or not, it is a must see in while in Marrakesh.

  
Last night disappointment...

During Philippa's visit I had gone to great lengths to arrange a broad spectrum of Moroccan life. We had seen traditional riad, basic mountain refuge, rustic Berber cottage and finally for our last night a bit of modern riad chic. There are literally hundreds of riads to choose from in Marrakesh, choosing our last night rooms at Jardin des Reves took a lot of research. Having been ill and more than a little lack lustre for the duration of my oldest friends visit had left me with the guilty feeling of a poor host. The thought of our last night of luxury eased this guild some as I knew that it'd be an experience even if I couldn't leave the room.

Upon arrival we were settled by the plunge pool while relaxing music played and we were served tea and Moroccan pastries. This was the riad experience I have been waiting for for a while. Sadly after about half an hour of friendly chat from the owner we were informed that they had not received our full booking and only had one room available. This was apparently no problem at all as they had an equally nice riad next door. Alarm bells started ringing at this point and sadly rightly so. If I hadn't had such high expectations of our stay I would have been quite happy with the other riad, but as it was it felt like the forgotten cousin. The finishing touches just weren't there. Sadly I completely succumbed to a major sulk and had to be put in a hot bath before I could make it out the room. A very disappointing last night's stay. 

I had anticipated lots of amaing photos from here, but what's the point of taking pictures of the place 'you nearly stayed'. Here are some from around the medina instead.

 

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.