skiing in Morocco!
Written: Dec 01 '99
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Product Rating:
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Pros: wild experience, exotic land- beautiful,
Cons: no snow-
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| kristenulmer's Full Review: Oukaimeden |
"You're going skiing in Morocco!" exclaims a friend over dinner at a Salt Lake dive. He stops chewing his won ton and stares at me, slack jawed and concerned. "Were you able to get a visa?"
What!? Cold syrup rips through my veins. We need visas? But… the flight's tomorrow!
"Haven't you heard about the kidnappings?" he continues with alarm. "Jeez! Don't you read the newspapers? It's been everywhere. Clinton's thinking of intervening and the locals are mad as hell."
I feel sick; We're gonna get abducted in the name of Allah and paraded through the hot desert tied on the back of some drooling camel. I hate that.
The room starts to swirl. Suddenly this "friend" points at my face, throws his head back and starts spraying a fountain of pork and saliva into the air. "Awwhh, Hek Hek Hek" he laughs, like a retching wart hog.
Ha ha, funny guy. You fooled me there. Whoo boy do I feel stupid now.
Sadly, the ridicule gets worse, much worse.
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The Marrakech Palmeraie Golf Palace bell boys disbelief is obvious as they scoff at our 100 pounds of ski gear. The young caddies on the Golf Course heckle in Arabic every time we turn our backs (with a French accent no less- which makes it worse). Apparently it's an oxymoron (with an emphasis on 'moron'), much like 'bad-sex', to have a 'Moroccan -ski vacation.'
Okay, I accept traveling 10 thousand miles to the hot desert to ski may seem stupid. But the high, cold Atlas mountains are now only 47 miles away, and someone told us skiing, GOOD skiing, is indeed possible in this swami and bathrobe capital of the world. Apparently, Government subsidies have resulted in several euro-style resorts, and tomorrow we make our first pilgrimage. So there!
Yet, Joe and I do feel a bit idiotic today, panting like blow fish in 90 degree heat, following these condescending caddies. It's March and we came to ski. We've never played golf in our lives.
"We play because we're tourists, and golf is what tourists do" Sam points out. Fine. Joe and I keep swinging at ridiculous little balls. We know though, he's really here for the photo op. Morocco is so drop-dead gorgeous the entire kingdom belongs in a museum. Any visiting photographer, ski oriented or not, is guaranteed to lose his mind; taking pictures of every exotic golf course, sculptured chunk of camel dung, or women's bath house that gets in his way.
Morocco boggles our minds. The walls, floors, counters, columns, ceilings and furniture are all decorated with a stunning cluster of single tile chips or plaster carvings, each smaller than 2 square inches. This amazing symmetry of swoops, grids and colors look perfect from a distance, but up close you see the work is completely hand done! Who built this country and how bloody long did it take?
Muslim tradition invades every corner of life. Our bedside tables each bare a glued gold coin pointing out the direction of Mecca. (Initially I figured it some sort of complimentary casino chip- I'll surely burn in hell for that one.) Depending on their religious intensity, men often memorize the Koran, or women drape themselves completely in black and walk behind their husbands (because the shape of a woman distracts the man, then he can't pray). To ensure a good husband and many children; women press their hands against ornate windows behind which a descendant of Mohammed lies. Sexual intercourse is considered dirty, and one must wash their entire body immediately afterwards.
Everything, not just the religion, seems mysterious. The music is sexy and intense. The belly dancers all dress and look like Cher, only 30 pounds heavier. Some of the most luxurious hotels in the world are found here, including The Mamounia, where Winston Churchill used to stay and paint for months on end. And golf is, of course, played alongside wealthy princes and sheiks.
"These cameras are firmly attached to my anus" Sam warns, meaning he's retentive about his gear. That's perfectly sane; the most exotic photo op of his life could be ruined by one, erratic golf swing. Between shots, Joe and I try to keep our hands jammed deeply in our pockets. Being so obedient can't last though. It's just too much fun to be this bad at something. Five holes and two hours later, ground keepers run crazily out of the way, all three of us dive from bush to bush pretending land mines are buried in the open spaces, and bad shots warrant lying face down in the grass sobbing: "Why! Why?" Now the caddies point and laugh right in our faces.
For a brief moment, we forget the real reason we came to Morocco. A nearby whooping crane stands, hidden and poised. Then at the exact moment Sam winds up for the best swing of his life, the bird offers her opinion of our golf talent:
"HaaaaWWW, YUCK YUCK YUCK!"
Smiles wither. Shoulders slump. Sam can't stop his swing in time and severs a chunk of dry grass into the air. Our humility is back.
Can't we just please go skiing…
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"Guess what! There's tons of snow down the backside!" I yell, running back to the lift top. Joe drops his jaw in astonishment. "Yeah!" I continue, "Some kids are making a zipper mogul line down the left. And the Burton team's here filming a movie!" Joe starts bouncing up and down eagerly, shouting "No way! No way!"
"BAWhahaha" I laugh, like a hyena. What, are you kidding? There's no Burton team, no zipper line. The ski area of Oukaimeden is reduced to just one moving chair, painted orange and yellow like Ronald McDonald's butt, slowly creeping up the crumbling, brown hillside. Other lifts and rope-tows sit quietly on the hill, ugly like rotten dinosaur corpses. Under the lift, two dirty patches of snow, perhaps 250 vertical feet each, 100 feet wide, lie between deep gullies. These are the only places to ski. At the lift top there's another little patch of snow, and a few sad kids are using plastic bags to sled down a groove. They can't seem to stay on course and eventually skid through mud on their faces.
Joe slumps his shoulders and his trade-mark howdy doody grin vanishes. Now I feel bad for mocking him. As if we aren't suffering enough…
We ski the patches while two local 'guides' looking for work, dressed in 70's stretch pants and antique Nordica boots sit on boulders and badger us in Arabic. They probably say: "You came from America to ski this? And we thought the camels were stupid."
We shuffle through dirt back to the Mercedes, and instruct our suited driver to return us to the Palace. Spirits are down, but at least the chauffeur has the control to keep his "I told you so" under wraps.
The mountains are huge and crumbly, the road winding and steep. One mile from the lift we see the caves again. Dug deep into a roadside cliff, the entrances are marked with sculptured rock walls. Obviously constructed to house humans, this is probably where the ski bums live. (And four people in an Aspen condo for two think they have it rough.) Above the cliff, 200 feet up, are a gaggle of sheep grazing calmly on the edge.
The Moroccans eat lamb like popcorn. "Hey!" I scream. "You're doomed! They're gonna EAT you. Jump! Jump!"
"Nooo" Joe begs. "Don't listen to her!" While we counsel the sheep, our driver starts to chuckle. We realize the day isn't so bad after all. Any skiing, no matter how dirty or brief, is always fun. Paying two dollars each for a ride 2000 feet to an elevation of 10,825 on the highest lift in Africa is intoxicating. And this place on a good snow year would be a gully-jumping, backcountry-exploring (ahem) Mecca. Ski mule trekking is supposed to be a hot ticket, and Morocco brags excellent mountain biking, surfing and rock climbing.
As for the sport of golf, despite the Yuck-yucking yesterday, something strange happened. All the stars must have aligned, someone probably sacrificed a cow, and Mohammed invaded his body, for I'll be dammed if Joe, in the first game of his life, didn't accidentally make par.
Maybe we're not so crazy for visiting after all.
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Every night we eat dinner and watch a band play the sexiest, most intense music I've ever heard. Again tonight, seated in chairs, appearing no more animated than the living dead, is a violinist, a tambourine guy, and a drummer who's hands move faster than a blizzard in the desert. The sitar player, looking exactly like Horshak on 'Welcome Back Kotter', squats on the floor, wailing some desperate Arabic blues. What's he singing; My dog left me? My wife doesn't understand me?" Sam thinks it's "Ohhhh, ey weesh ey hud a chaaair like de oddur gize in de band." Either way, the music makes me want to spin in circles with my face to the sky and arms outstretched with lust and passion until I collapse weeping to the floor.
No wonder the women like to belly dance. But why are their bellies so fat? With all that action why don't they have a six-pack by now? Must eat too much lamb. And speaking of lamb, let me take this time to express my disgust over the local meat staple. Unless it's concealed in a tub of mint jelly, lamb tastes as putrid as the animal smells when it's alive. Sam loves it. Cripes, someone has to eat the stuff, it's everywhere.
But I digress. Belly dancing! A new girl steps onto the floor; her head remains perfectly still yet her hips start flying all over the place. I sit peacefully, trying to eat my couscous, when suddenly she rushes across the room and shakes her fringe three inches from my mouth. Whoa! Just like a Vegas table dance. Should I put money down her top or what? Better not, they say belly dancing's a traditional art form. I look into her seductive, chubby face and decide it's the essence of what makes women beautiful.
Through the week fire eaters, acrobats, body contortionists, and balance artists show their talents over dinner- acts derived from Southern Moroccan tribal culture. Just our luck, they usually insist on audience participation. But it's strange, we always seem to become the main attraction; Joe is coerced into rolling his stomach like a vomiting beer drinker, another time I attempt a series of high-speed front walkovers and almost break my back, and Sam does his 'flying knee dive', which involves dropping abruptly on his patellar like John Travolta and stifling a cry of pain. (OH! That's gotta hurt.)
Once, the performers join us for dinner and convince Sam to guzzle massive quantities of the local hard fig liquor, although I'm certain there's a conspiracy. "Tourists from America?" they say to each other in Arabic. "Let's sell them monkey urine and tell them it's traditional." Using the same collaboration, Joe and I are put through an elaborate, traditional "mock" wedding ceremony. Mock my ass. Chances are, at death we'll be horrified to find each other waiting at the pearly gates to spend eternity together.
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"Shut up! Shut up! Shut UP!" I scream into the hazy morning.
We're in Fez now, at a cheap hotel. Couldn't take the Palace anymore, those 'yuck yuck' birds started following us everywhere.
All last night a pack of dogs howled right under my window, and a nearby rooster, some real overachiever who couldn't just do it's thing at dawn like every other rooster, shrieked at random "awk gak-gak GAAAW!" While still dark, the building next door began emanating a nebulous chant: "mumblemumblemumble" from a thousand different voices. And now, the second dawn hits, the town insomniac, one nerdy guy with an obvious harelip, comes over a cheap loudspeaker and starts screeching words from the Koran. The static sets the dogs off again, the rooster really explodes this time, and I lose it.
Call me a narcissist, but I think this country is just a plot to drive us crazy.
Fez, founded in 792, houses a holy city within called the Medina, which is considered one of the world's cultural treasures. It consists of a tangled maze of 10,000 streets, some too narrow to fit Sam and his camera gear. (Our idea of hell is to be a city Postman). In 25 square kilometers live 250 thousand people, all their donkeys and a whole lot of chickens. It's not unusual to find 30-40 family members living together in a small house built with resilient walls made of earth, chalk and water dating from the 11th century.
Imagine a eternal, cluttered, open-air shopping mall. The noise and cluster is so hypnotic it's impossible to avoid stepping in donkey dung with our open toe sandals. Mules are the standard work beast in Morocco, and they're also the most miserable animals in town besides ourselves. To turn right, the owners punch 'em on the left side of their heads, to go faster, slap 'em in the balls…
Religion invades every city pore. Mosques, some from the 9th century, all traditionally coexist with a fountain, bakery, market and public bath. One such Mosque, converted from a University, has hundreds of separate entrances, each with a designated purpose: this one for women, another for lawyers, those without shoes, the blind, the dead, holy men, criminals, witnesses to the acts of criminals- you name it. Another Mosque used to be the town dump, but was built by a rich man to apologize to the townspeople for marrying a prostitute. He sired 325 children during his lifetime.
Fez is fascinating, but our patience has hit crack-pipe bottom from the constant rush of local hustlers asking if we're hungry, lost, lonely or in need of help carrying bags. The international signal for money: a thumb and forefinger rubbed together with a seedy, glazed look, has reduced us to walking wallet status. Joe remains cool but firm. Sam is ready to strangle every beggar on the street.
Who are these Moroccans, really? Trying to make a living is important, but it's impossible for us to understand this culture when our energy is spent maintaining mental sanity.
I feel better though after my scream therapy. Besides, today we check out the ski area of Mischliffen, one hour from Fez. The rental car is bulging with ski gear, and we approach the morning like dewy-eyed virgins waiting to be dazzled.
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Alas, infidel, will we ever learn? Of course the place is deserted. Giant cedar trees line the road, sometimes filled with obscenity-screaming monkeys who throw branches at the car. A 400 foot 'bunny' hill, with an alarmingly steep 40 degree face and such a flat transition I'm sure local skiers are all tongue-less, faces us beyond a long, flat meadow. Snow-depth markers 20 feet high are jut out of the ground in places, looking as confused as we are. Trash and plastic bags roll like tumbleweed across the field.
We sit on an old wall and listen to a million grinding crickets and the breeze through the trees. Dung beetles creep around looking for a snack, and a few lazy bugs float through the hot air. Malaria is obviously more common than a face shot.
Suddenly a desperate donkey scream pierces the barren valley. "Braaa Hee! Bra Hee!" What the hell? It sounds like it's being slaughtered. Someone help the poor creature!
"No way" Sam sighs, defeated. "That donkey…he's laughing at us too."
Recommended:
Yes
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Epinions.com ID:
kristenulmer
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Member: Kristen Ulmer
Location: Salt Lake City, Utah
Reviews written: 25
Trusted by: 91 members
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