This blog has never been a guide book. I don't recommend Morocco for everybody, I recommend her for the deserving. I will miss Morocco for an incalculable number of reasons, but the following matter to the blog;
Easy Things to Miss:
Drawn-out greetings
The neglect of personal space
“Magharba” the only way Moroccans say 'Moroccans', and no one else
Fes, the biggest small town in the world
Commercials during Ramadan
Bitching about mild, comparatively pleasant weather
Praising G_d for bad weather
The fact there are no trees around my house that do not bear fruit
Subsistence agriculture, generally, especially amongst those who don’t need it
Buying great organic veggies for no money off the muddy ground in souk
Unloading animals from trucks w/ non-chalance
Carrying things for old ladies
Open, respectful affection among men (kissed lots of cheeks)
Making wordplay jokes in Arabic and Tamazight
Learning how to plant wheat with draft animals
The fact that none of this was a big deal at the time
Saying hello to the room/bus/café/anywhere and getting hello back
The bad-ass history of Berbers in Marmoucha
Living in a 100% Berber town
The worldview of illiterate women
Gaining a new appreciation for women, here and in the West
The “guesting” culture
Never ever ever running out of small talk
The 1985 Mercedes Benz Taxi
Explaining a part of a man’s language to him
Learning from my village, and how they scratch it out
Becoming friends with old men with great stories
Putting Shabekia in my harira
Dakshi li kayn, dayn ag illan; how else could you end a sentence in NAfrica?
My go-to jokes… for when I’m in a tight spot (TWSS)
Being endeared instead of feared for my size and demeanor
“Casa sport, kaysift lqbur, blla passport, qabl lftoor.”
Having full conversations with my hands in Moroccan sign language
A few really cool American people
My water project, and knowing I made people’s lives easier
The knowledge that no matter how bad a day gets, you can just go drink tea
Hammou
Aheydus
Teaching my village “That is what she said” and having them use it fluently
Goat shoulder and plum at your wedding!
Shiba, na3na3, l3ashoob camliin in your tea without special request
Hanging out at the Ministry of Health and talking shop
Getting respect from the new Volunteers
The Traveling Sink
The fact that I, once again, lived where you vacation
Barreling through the Northern desert on an old French train
Having that train derail and having to walk
Spending nights on the road with friends
Treating Fes like Las Vegas in the winter
Marjane (admittedly)
The fact that I lived on an apple orchard in a desert country
4 full seasons in Marmoucha
Finding a bomb during a toilet survey
Teaching in my schools, and getting good at it
Getting the replacement that I wanted, and being right about him
Good sleep
Facial tattoos, especially those of my host Mother, Fatima
Making fun of Guigou
Unpretentious gastronomy
Never having to worry about where you will eat or sleep, anywhere, ever
Jerry-rigging everything, and making it work
Not having running water, and learning to appreciate the resource
Dispelling or properly ameliorating myths/fairytales/rumors about life and people in Europe and the US
The Barbary Macaque
No cars, anywhere, really
Being held in high regard by the village, and being asked for help in tough situations
Encouraging bright young students who don’t get much encouragement
The looks on faces when they really can’t figure out why you speak Arabic, Berber
Being asked to prove that I am an American National
Watching large groups of grown men completely F simple tasks up
Being assigned simple tasks around the family farm
Doing the books for the apple farm, and learning a bit of the business
Learning something at 9:00, applying it at 9:03
Discussing important, sensitive, world issues and nobody takes it personally
Working with educators
Doing health education
75
Doing my laundry in the river with the women
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Next New Thing
Living in a remote part of the Middle Atlas in Morocco, I have become accustomed to a certain pace of life. What I expect out of a day, week, or month has been re-calibrated to bled living. Looking back on my life in the United States, I am foxed by my productivity. I could complete a number of tasks simultaneously (Americans even have a name for that), and many in a single day. Work, school, social life, exercise, personal hobbies, and random adventures could fit into a single 24 hour stretch with 7 hours to spare for sleep. Here, one hopes only to achieve a simple goal like grocery shopping, bathing, or holding a meeting with work counterparts. Time allotted to a recognized form of western social interaction like drinking a beer involves a multi-day commitment. A quantifiable performance of professional duties like teaching a class, holding a meeting with local government, or communicating with superiors in the Ministry requires a series of informal meetings, chance encounters, and the development of professional-looking documents stating “Purpose” to satisfy a lumbering post-colonial bureaucracy.
Motivated, educated, idealistic young American Peace Corps Volunteers are well-suited to rise to this challenge, but that doesn’t mean that some of the local “chill-the-fuck-out” attitude doesn’t rub off in the long-run. Successful completion of a day’s goal before lunch often meant I spent the afternoon hiking, watching movies, or drinking tea at my neighbors and watching Arabic-dubbed Mexican soap operas. This pace of life is quite agreeable, especially when your mediocrity is praised by locals as hyper-productivity.
In the last few months I have made some moves. Got into a grad program at the American University in Cairo, secured a fellowship, made the necessary arrangements therein. In May, the group of PCV’s I came to Morocco with left, I stayed due to the fact that I was in the USA convalescing from the broken leg for 4+ months and need to satisfy the 24-month commitment. In the time since they left, I have dealt with the business-end of my year-long potable water security project that has created or improved access for 600+ (and did some other cool stuff), helped organize and fund an environmentally-themed summer camp in a local town, began a sanitation survey for our commune with my replacement, and wrapped up a health education curriculum for the local primary schools.
In the next month I will finishing my service, saying all the necessary goodbyes (including a very tough one), giving away all my stuff, doing medical check-ups, leaving Morocco, going to America for 2 weeks to see a lot of important people, and then going to Cairo to find an apartment and start school and work.
This is a significant acceleration of pace compared to the last 2 years. After a few busy hours and a heavy lunch, I begin to feel the gravitational pull of my couch, cat, computer, and cold coffee. To combat this and order my affairs I started using two modern devices; a calendar, and a clock. I have been giving myself tasks and times by which to compete them. Yield is up, leisure is down. After 2 years of integration, assimilation, capitulation, and relative relaxation I am getting my wind and legs back.
Soon I will have running water, reliable electricity, a home that protects from weather, internet, graduate level-courses to attend, a vehicle to drive, and a bunch of really fancy humans around me getting really stressed out about a bunch of things that aren’t really that big of a deal. I will be tempted to say things like “hey man, be thankful for all this” and be the victim of an aggressive ocular assessment.
Not to say it isn’t overwhelming, but I really am thankful for it. My days are now filled with mandatory duties with direct consequences. My job is to get a bunch of different places that are far away from each other and make the best out of it all. While I am satisfied with what I have accomplished in this country, I have learned much about what I understand as the minimum requirements of happiness. That is, by meeting basic material requirements and building a sturdy scaffold of good people around you, you can be happy. Beyond that, invented and in-bred expectations force people to measure life, grade themselves, and freak out.
Soon I will step off my last sheep truck, get out of my last ‘85 Benz, take my last French colonial train from the sweaty Gare de Fes, take my last Petit Taxi ride, and step onto a 747 again. I couldn’t be coming from a better place. I couldn't have a better mindset. I’m pretty stoked, and really thankful.
Motivated, educated, idealistic young American Peace Corps Volunteers are well-suited to rise to this challenge, but that doesn’t mean that some of the local “chill-the-fuck-out” attitude doesn’t rub off in the long-run. Successful completion of a day’s goal before lunch often meant I spent the afternoon hiking, watching movies, or drinking tea at my neighbors and watching Arabic-dubbed Mexican soap operas. This pace of life is quite agreeable, especially when your mediocrity is praised by locals as hyper-productivity.
In the last few months I have made some moves. Got into a grad program at the American University in Cairo, secured a fellowship, made the necessary arrangements therein. In May, the group of PCV’s I came to Morocco with left, I stayed due to the fact that I was in the USA convalescing from the broken leg for 4+ months and need to satisfy the 24-month commitment. In the time since they left, I have dealt with the business-end of my year-long potable water security project that has created or improved access for 600+ (and did some other cool stuff), helped organize and fund an environmentally-themed summer camp in a local town, began a sanitation survey for our commune with my replacement, and wrapped up a health education curriculum for the local primary schools.
In the next month I will finishing my service, saying all the necessary goodbyes (including a very tough one), giving away all my stuff, doing medical check-ups, leaving Morocco, going to America for 2 weeks to see a lot of important people, and then going to Cairo to find an apartment and start school and work.
This is a significant acceleration of pace compared to the last 2 years. After a few busy hours and a heavy lunch, I begin to feel the gravitational pull of my couch, cat, computer, and cold coffee. To combat this and order my affairs I started using two modern devices; a calendar, and a clock. I have been giving myself tasks and times by which to compete them. Yield is up, leisure is down. After 2 years of integration, assimilation, capitulation, and relative relaxation I am getting my wind and legs back.
Soon I will have running water, reliable electricity, a home that protects from weather, internet, graduate level-courses to attend, a vehicle to drive, and a bunch of really fancy humans around me getting really stressed out about a bunch of things that aren’t really that big of a deal. I will be tempted to say things like “hey man, be thankful for all this” and be the victim of an aggressive ocular assessment.
Not to say it isn’t overwhelming, but I really am thankful for it. My days are now filled with mandatory duties with direct consequences. My job is to get a bunch of different places that are far away from each other and make the best out of it all. While I am satisfied with what I have accomplished in this country, I have learned much about what I understand as the minimum requirements of happiness. That is, by meeting basic material requirements and building a sturdy scaffold of good people around you, you can be happy. Beyond that, invented and in-bred expectations force people to measure life, grade themselves, and freak out.
Soon I will step off my last sheep truck, get out of my last ‘85 Benz, take my last French colonial train from the sweaty Gare de Fes, take my last Petit Taxi ride, and step onto a 747 again. I couldn’t be coming from a better place. I couldn't have a better mindset. I’m pretty stoked, and really thankful.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Adventures Near the Home and Tamarmoucht
For over 5000 years, North Africa has been inhabited by Berbers, or Amazigh. For at least that long I‘m sure, Berbers have been yelling at each other in a slew of unintelligible guttural sounds and hacks that confuse and frustrate the untrained ear.
For a majority of those working with the Peace Corps Health and Environment Sectors, Berber is the lingua franca of our work. Assigned to mostly rural (and thus predominantly Berber) areas, those who wish to integrate into their communities and perform meaningful work are charged with acquiring working ability in these languages. For many, it is too large of a task. A language with no similarity in sound, usage, or structure to those we are familiar with, Berber is often impossible to learn.
For some reason unknown to me, I have an affinity for the language. After being assigned to an extremely isolated corner of the Middle Atlas mountain range, I discovered that my area had its own distinct language in which pronunciation, verb usage, structure, and nouns were completely different and bore little similarity to the Berber spoken in other parts of the country or even that which is spoken in the greater Middle Atlas region. Tamarmoucht, as locals call it, is an insane mixture of Berber and Arabic with organic and imported elements. Upon my arrival here, I was pretty intimidated by how very different it was to the Berber I learned in training, and how it apparently followed none of the “rules” of more widely spoken dialects.
I cannot estimate how much time I have spent studying the dialect, but during my first six months I know I practiced and studied at least 20 hours/week on vocabulary. I also spent countless hours chipping away at conversations of limited substance with my host family, with whom I stayed for four months.
Well over a year later, I have gained a deep appreciation for the richness of the language, and have more fun speaking it than I ever imagined. I am no longer limited by tongue- and throat-tiring pronunciation and constantly changing verb usage. I can think of 5 ways to say “chop wood” in Tamarmoucht. I was once interviewed on a Berber-language radio show about a cultural festival I was working at. I love speaking Berber.
Like many other things in life, Berber language abilities snowball. Once you learn a little, your desire to learn more increases. The more you desire it the harder you try, and the harder you try the better you get, and the better you get the easier it gets to keep getting better and better and better. Although I personally do not believe it is possible to achieve total fluency in Berber, I think you can become something resembling a fluent speaker. Lately, though I am white with blue eyes and blond hair, look, act and dress “western” or American, people have been asking me where in Morocco I am from. This is an extremely gratifying question to be asked, and one I often indulge by asking people to guess by the way I speak and look. The answers I get are hilarious and fun.
The best thing about speaking Tamarmoucht is open doors. In this region, I feel I can go anywhere and do anything and be taken care of because Berbers just want to sit and hear me talk. To the north of my Commune lies a vast expanse of rough mountains, rivers, forests and high plains. The existing human infrastructure in this region is cursory, and reflects well-worn nomadic routes more than trade connections. Exploring on foot in these areas is insane. With language, I can walk into any far-flung village and be invited into homes, where time has stood still for decades. Most of the families survive on herding and traditional crops, and work from sun-up to sundown. Talking with these people and contributing my services as a health educator for a few hours is one of my favorite things to do in this country.
I am always fascinated by how far I do not have to go from my home to find adventure and feel like I am in cultural outer space. Often there are things happening within one hundred meters of my home that I have no understanding of.
My next near-home adventure is going to be trekking out to the high plains about 20km from my house to meet up with some semi-nomadic herders. These families walk between 100 and 300km seasonally to green pastures in the Middle Atlas region, carrying everything they need on mules and their backs. They build their wool tents on high-altitude plains and next to springs and stay until it is too cold to stay so high. During longer treks, I have run into a few families and been invited into their tents for a meal. They often lobby for me to stay. I never take the invitation because it would be a huge stress on their supplies to feed an extra big mouth. I am planning to take 4-5 days, pack in some food for a family, show up at a tent and stay there, doing whatever chores or duties they assign me.
For a majority of those working with the Peace Corps Health and Environment Sectors, Berber is the lingua franca of our work. Assigned to mostly rural (and thus predominantly Berber) areas, those who wish to integrate into their communities and perform meaningful work are charged with acquiring working ability in these languages. For many, it is too large of a task. A language with no similarity in sound, usage, or structure to those we are familiar with, Berber is often impossible to learn.
For some reason unknown to me, I have an affinity for the language. After being assigned to an extremely isolated corner of the Middle Atlas mountain range, I discovered that my area had its own distinct language in which pronunciation, verb usage, structure, and nouns were completely different and bore little similarity to the Berber spoken in other parts of the country or even that which is spoken in the greater Middle Atlas region. Tamarmoucht, as locals call it, is an insane mixture of Berber and Arabic with organic and imported elements. Upon my arrival here, I was pretty intimidated by how very different it was to the Berber I learned in training, and how it apparently followed none of the “rules” of more widely spoken dialects.
I cannot estimate how much time I have spent studying the dialect, but during my first six months I know I practiced and studied at least 20 hours/week on vocabulary. I also spent countless hours chipping away at conversations of limited substance with my host family, with whom I stayed for four months.
Well over a year later, I have gained a deep appreciation for the richness of the language, and have more fun speaking it than I ever imagined. I am no longer limited by tongue- and throat-tiring pronunciation and constantly changing verb usage. I can think of 5 ways to say “chop wood” in Tamarmoucht. I was once interviewed on a Berber-language radio show about a cultural festival I was working at. I love speaking Berber.
Like many other things in life, Berber language abilities snowball. Once you learn a little, your desire to learn more increases. The more you desire it the harder you try, and the harder you try the better you get, and the better you get the easier it gets to keep getting better and better and better. Although I personally do not believe it is possible to achieve total fluency in Berber, I think you can become something resembling a fluent speaker. Lately, though I am white with blue eyes and blond hair, look, act and dress “western” or American, people have been asking me where in Morocco I am from. This is an extremely gratifying question to be asked, and one I often indulge by asking people to guess by the way I speak and look. The answers I get are hilarious and fun.
The best thing about speaking Tamarmoucht is open doors. In this region, I feel I can go anywhere and do anything and be taken care of because Berbers just want to sit and hear me talk. To the north of my Commune lies a vast expanse of rough mountains, rivers, forests and high plains. The existing human infrastructure in this region is cursory, and reflects well-worn nomadic routes more than trade connections. Exploring on foot in these areas is insane. With language, I can walk into any far-flung village and be invited into homes, where time has stood still for decades. Most of the families survive on herding and traditional crops, and work from sun-up to sundown. Talking with these people and contributing my services as a health educator for a few hours is one of my favorite things to do in this country.
I am always fascinated by how far I do not have to go from my home to find adventure and feel like I am in cultural outer space. Often there are things happening within one hundred meters of my home that I have no understanding of.
My next near-home adventure is going to be trekking out to the high plains about 20km from my house to meet up with some semi-nomadic herders. These families walk between 100 and 300km seasonally to green pastures in the Middle Atlas region, carrying everything they need on mules and their backs. They build their wool tents on high-altitude plains and next to springs and stay until it is too cold to stay so high. During longer treks, I have run into a few families and been invited into their tents for a meal. They often lobby for me to stay. I never take the invitation because it would be a huge stress on their supplies to feed an extra big mouth. I am planning to take 4-5 days, pack in some food for a family, show up at a tent and stay there, doing whatever chores or duties they assign me.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Winter, Reflections on 2009
We can all reasonably expect the New Year to be “different” from the previous year. For me, I have found myself hoping my year will not be as intense as the year before. I guess it is just me wanting my life to slow down. I can honestly say that I thought 2009 would be that nice, easy year.
A year ago I spent New Year’s at a friend’s house with a small group of people. The next day I made the familiar journey back to my house in Marmoucha where I was beginning the first stage of a water project that continues to this day. I taught some lessons in some rural schools before making a trip down to the Marrakech region to snowboard for my birthday. At Ouakaimedden, I bought a snowboard to bring back to Marmoucha and ride the many peaks around my house. I even got to do a first descent on my birthday. That week and those adventures is documented in an earlier entry titled “3 Close Calls.”
My 4th close call was the real thing. Broke my leg, got medically separated from Peace Corps. At this point, I knew 2009 had no plans to make things easy on me.
In the 4 ½ months away from Morocco I had 2 surgeries on my leg. In the healing time, I went to Colombia and Venezuela. This trip allowed me to live day-to-day, forget about my potentially permanent disability, try to forget about losing Morocco, and prove to myself that I could deal with the lows of life the same way I deal with the highs: by myself. A couple months in Latin America and then I was back in the USA. The best part of breaking my leg, and one of the reasons I have found peace with the event was that I got to hang out with my Grandmother while I was home. When I got healthy, I would have a light surf session in the morning in the freezing New Hampshire waves, and then go hang out with my Grandmother. It was perfect.
After months of struggling with Peace Corps, I finally got to return to Morocco. I picked everything back up and it was like I never left. Work went smoothly and I couldn’t help but think everyday that I had missed out on spring and done irreparable damage to my project’s progress for not being there for so long. The regret will always be there. Even as I write, none of that time spent injured and exploring seems real. I can’t believe that happened.
I unintentionally got into a relationship with an American girl here in Morocco. It is not my style to not be single. In October I took a vacation and met this older woman in Barcelona. There is only one way to describe what happened; I fell in love with her. Then I left her in Barcelona and came home to Morocco. I’m really glad it happened because now I know what that feels like. I will never mistake some other feeling for love. Its like having litmus test in my pocket, I will never fake myself out. Unfortunately, she was getting married so yea that didn’t work out.
Summer passed and November came. I went to Cairo to start planning my next life step, which also doesn’t seem real. When I got back my best friend in Morocco closed her service and went back to the USA. Not fun. Later that month I lost my Grandmother to cancer. Though I knew it was coming, and I had been preparing for her death for a long time, when it happened I felt thousands of miles away. I was.
I felt like I was flopping around like a fish. I didn’t know how to feel about being in Morocco, about my work, about my community, or about my future plans to be away from my family again. I expected someone to kind of swoop in and give me advice, put my head right, remind me of who and where I was. I shouldn’t have expected that. As I mentioned in an early blog, when it comes down to it, you have to pick yourself up and you can’t expect to have people help you out of a rut. I guess, if you’re a fish, you have to flop yourself back into the water. Don’t count on any waves to bring you home.
I thought 2009 was going to be just me in my village working and loving Morocco. I had no plans to leave the country, instead I went to the US, Colombia, Venezuela, Spain and Egypt.
Predictions for 2010:I expect 2010 to be calm and restful. I doubt I will learn anything or be tested. Nobody will die or be born. My passport will not acquire any unplanned markings. My body will stop showing signs of age. If I become romantically involved it will end in a long, successful marriage. The weather man will always be right. I will suffer a gunshot wound. I will step confidently onto the icy ledge of life and pass with impunity. Also I will cure AIDs and unfriendliness and design a universally-accepted peace plan for Afghanistan and be rewarded incongruously.
A year ago I spent New Year’s at a friend’s house with a small group of people. The next day I made the familiar journey back to my house in Marmoucha where I was beginning the first stage of a water project that continues to this day. I taught some lessons in some rural schools before making a trip down to the Marrakech region to snowboard for my birthday. At Ouakaimedden, I bought a snowboard to bring back to Marmoucha and ride the many peaks around my house. I even got to do a first descent on my birthday. That week and those adventures is documented in an earlier entry titled “3 Close Calls.”
My 4th close call was the real thing. Broke my leg, got medically separated from Peace Corps. At this point, I knew 2009 had no plans to make things easy on me.
In the 4 ½ months away from Morocco I had 2 surgeries on my leg. In the healing time, I went to Colombia and Venezuela. This trip allowed me to live day-to-day, forget about my potentially permanent disability, try to forget about losing Morocco, and prove to myself that I could deal with the lows of life the same way I deal with the highs: by myself. A couple months in Latin America and then I was back in the USA. The best part of breaking my leg, and one of the reasons I have found peace with the event was that I got to hang out with my Grandmother while I was home. When I got healthy, I would have a light surf session in the morning in the freezing New Hampshire waves, and then go hang out with my Grandmother. It was perfect.
After months of struggling with Peace Corps, I finally got to return to Morocco. I picked everything back up and it was like I never left. Work went smoothly and I couldn’t help but think everyday that I had missed out on spring and done irreparable damage to my project’s progress for not being there for so long. The regret will always be there. Even as I write, none of that time spent injured and exploring seems real. I can’t believe that happened.
I unintentionally got into a relationship with an American girl here in Morocco. It is not my style to not be single. In October I took a vacation and met this older woman in Barcelona. There is only one way to describe what happened; I fell in love with her. Then I left her in Barcelona and came home to Morocco. I’m really glad it happened because now I know what that feels like. I will never mistake some other feeling for love. Its like having litmus test in my pocket, I will never fake myself out. Unfortunately, she was getting married so yea that didn’t work out.
Summer passed and November came. I went to Cairo to start planning my next life step, which also doesn’t seem real. When I got back my best friend in Morocco closed her service and went back to the USA. Not fun. Later that month I lost my Grandmother to cancer. Though I knew it was coming, and I had been preparing for her death for a long time, when it happened I felt thousands of miles away. I was.
I felt like I was flopping around like a fish. I didn’t know how to feel about being in Morocco, about my work, about my community, or about my future plans to be away from my family again. I expected someone to kind of swoop in and give me advice, put my head right, remind me of who and where I was. I shouldn’t have expected that. As I mentioned in an early blog, when it comes down to it, you have to pick yourself up and you can’t expect to have people help you out of a rut. I guess, if you’re a fish, you have to flop yourself back into the water. Don’t count on any waves to bring you home.
I thought 2009 was going to be just me in my village working and loving Morocco. I had no plans to leave the country, instead I went to the US, Colombia, Venezuela, Spain and Egypt.
Predictions for 2010:I expect 2010 to be calm and restful. I doubt I will learn anything or be tested. Nobody will die or be born. My passport will not acquire any unplanned markings. My body will stop showing signs of age. If I become romantically involved it will end in a long, successful marriage. The weather man will always be right. I will suffer a gunshot wound. I will step confidently onto the icy ledge of life and pass with impunity. Also I will cure AIDs and unfriendliness and design a universally-accepted peace plan for Afghanistan and be rewarded incongruously.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Shameful Blog Negligence
Cairo, 11.20am
I feel awful that I haven't written in so long. Ever since I returned to Morocco I have been using my time to focus my energies locally. I have neglected emails, phone calls, letters, etc.. for no reason other than I really do not feel anything of great interest is happening.
I have been working alot; teaching in the schools and running my Potable Water Security Project. I have been traveling a little bit. I went to Barcelona and had an exceptionally strange emotional experience with a woman. We started a beekeeping cooperative in my village. Now I'm in Cairo at a water management seminar and interviewing for a fellowship. That is all.
I have been learning more Arabic. I can even speak to Egyptians. It is fun and frustrating to go back to feeling like a 6-year-old with language. I remember feeling it when I first got to Morocco and moved into my village. I like this helpless feeling and I also like the rush of excitement when you accomplish something trivial like talking about last night's match.
My leg is better. Everytime I meet a foreigner in Morocco I introduce myself and they inevitably say "Oh you are that guy who...blah blah." This is one way for people to pretend they know me, when they actually just know one weird version of the leg-break story.
Egypt is cool I guess. I came here to figure out if I can live here and be happy, and also to interview for this thing. The University is funny. It is like a fashion show. Thousands of Egypt and the Middle-East's stratospherically-wealthy youth walking around with Lattes and big sunglasses. That part of it makes me want to run away. The fellowship is cool, though. I would be doing similar work to what I do now, but on the research and academic end while gaining my Master's. Sounds Ok.
I had a girlfriend, kind of. I mention that because it has been a really long time since I last "dated" anyone. Anyways that is done.
Morocco is wonderful. One of my best friends, Briana, is leaving and it is a heart-breaker. She is one-in-a-million and she will be missed. Other than that everything in the Kingdom is good. My dog, Maybe, is huge and beautiful. Whitey is healthy and happy. Winter is coming on easy this year. In the spring my parents may come.
I feel awful that I haven't written in so long. Ever since I returned to Morocco I have been using my time to focus my energies locally. I have neglected emails, phone calls, letters, etc.. for no reason other than I really do not feel anything of great interest is happening.
I have been working alot; teaching in the schools and running my Potable Water Security Project. I have been traveling a little bit. I went to Barcelona and had an exceptionally strange emotional experience with a woman. We started a beekeeping cooperative in my village. Now I'm in Cairo at a water management seminar and interviewing for a fellowship. That is all.
I have been learning more Arabic. I can even speak to Egyptians. It is fun and frustrating to go back to feeling like a 6-year-old with language. I remember feeling it when I first got to Morocco and moved into my village. I like this helpless feeling and I also like the rush of excitement when you accomplish something trivial like talking about last night's match.
My leg is better. Everytime I meet a foreigner in Morocco I introduce myself and they inevitably say "Oh you are that guy who...blah blah." This is one way for people to pretend they know me, when they actually just know one weird version of the leg-break story.
Egypt is cool I guess. I came here to figure out if I can live here and be happy, and also to interview for this thing. The University is funny. It is like a fashion show. Thousands of Egypt and the Middle-East's stratospherically-wealthy youth walking around with Lattes and big sunglasses. That part of it makes me want to run away. The fellowship is cool, though. I would be doing similar work to what I do now, but on the research and academic end while gaining my Master's. Sounds Ok.
I had a girlfriend, kind of. I mention that because it has been a really long time since I last "dated" anyone. Anyways that is done.
Morocco is wonderful. One of my best friends, Briana, is leaving and it is a heart-breaker. She is one-in-a-million and she will be missed. Other than that everything in the Kingdom is good. My dog, Maybe, is huge and beautiful. Whitey is healthy and happy. Winter is coming on easy this year. In the spring my parents may come.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Big Call
This past week I had surgery to remove the screw that was holding my leg together. My first unassisted steps since the accident were quite painful, and my leg looks like it belongs on Benjamin Button, but I can walk. With my recovery on track, I have the opportunity to return to Morocco to continue my Peace Corps service.
Good news, right?
Since I broke my leg I have been forced to re-evaluate alot of things in my life. I will not go into all of my conclusions here, but the important ones follow:
-It sounds cheezy but, life doesn't come with a map (but alot of people will try to sell you theirs)
-I will not always come out of things unharmed
-"You're not alone" is BS. When it comes down to it, you absolutely are (but it can be nice to hear)
-Self-determination is the key to my happiness
When I found out I wouldn't be going back to Morocco for a few months, I thought to myself "that doesn't change anything, I'll finish what I started." In fact, I have kept a scrap of paper in my pocket this whole time which has a note that I wrote myself on the plane with reasons why I must return.
But alot can happen in 3+ months. I went to South America, I re-thought some things, I put in some applications for grad and law school, and I found photography.
Peace Corps service is really difficult. You have to learn a couple new languages, a culture, start a new life, make new friends, self-direct work and execute in tough circumstances, integrate and gain acceptance into a skeptical community, just for starters. Being away this long the mind naturally wanders on to the next adventure, and trying to get it back on track to Morocco has proven difficult.
Then I pull that note out of my pocket.
Why I must return
-The kids (the center of my work, and most of my days)
-Larry & Whitey (my dog & cat)
-Ait Hamza (the village where two very awesome friends live)
-Bou Iblane (the mountain)
-Fes
-Tamarmoucht (the local language)
I look at this list and I compare it to a list of other things I could be doing, and I realize that the things I love about Morocco will not wait. Law school, a photographic odyssey through Pakistan, all those other things will.
I have made my decision.
Good news, right?
Since I broke my leg I have been forced to re-evaluate alot of things in my life. I will not go into all of my conclusions here, but the important ones follow:
-It sounds cheezy but, life doesn't come with a map (but alot of people will try to sell you theirs)
-I will not always come out of things unharmed
-"You're not alone" is BS. When it comes down to it, you absolutely are (but it can be nice to hear)
-Self-determination is the key to my happiness
When I found out I wouldn't be going back to Morocco for a few months, I thought to myself "that doesn't change anything, I'll finish what I started." In fact, I have kept a scrap of paper in my pocket this whole time which has a note that I wrote myself on the plane with reasons why I must return.
But alot can happen in 3+ months. I went to South America, I re-thought some things, I put in some applications for grad and law school, and I found photography.
Peace Corps service is really difficult. You have to learn a couple new languages, a culture, start a new life, make new friends, self-direct work and execute in tough circumstances, integrate and gain acceptance into a skeptical community, just for starters. Being away this long the mind naturally wanders on to the next adventure, and trying to get it back on track to Morocco has proven difficult.
Then I pull that note out of my pocket.
Why I must return
-The kids (the center of my work, and most of my days)
-Larry & Whitey (my dog & cat)
-Ait Hamza (the village where two very awesome friends live)
-Bou Iblane (the mountain)
-Fes
-Tamarmoucht (the local language)
I look at this list and I compare it to a list of other things I could be doing, and I realize that the things I love about Morocco will not wait. Law school, a photographic odyssey through Pakistan, all those other things will.
I have made my decision.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Rediscovering Where I'm From
I love these pictures here. Hate 'em or leave 'em, but I have had a great response from folks who grew up here. I am very happy to represent this area with photographs.
Havehill, MA fire escape
The Tap, Haverhill Brewery
The Lamprey River, downtown Newmarket, NH
Old Factory, Newmarket
Old Factory, Newmarket
Newmarket
Downtown Haverhill, MA
Newfields, NH
Havehill, MA fire escape
The Tap, Haverhill Brewery
The Lamprey River, downtown Newmarket, NH
Old Factory, Newmarket
Old Factory, Newmarket
Newmarket
Downtown Haverhill, MA
Newfields, NHMonday, April 27, 2009
More HDR from New Hampshire
I am starting to fall in love with HDR, but I have a tendency to over-do things. I have now processed about 50 images, and 80% of those are way outrageous looking. Here are some examples of appropriate, unoffensive usage.
North Side Park, Hampton, NH. I grew up on this beach. It is still my favorite surf spot, spear-fishing spot, chill spot.
North Side Park, Hampton, NH. I grew up on this beach. It is still my favorite surf spot, spear-fishing spot, chill spot.
North Side Park
नोढ़ साइड पार्क
The last two photos are of a barn on Newfields Road. I have driven by this barn hundreds of times in my life, and it never gets old.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
HDR Photos (Take 1) and Hampton, NH
These are my first attempts at high dynamic range photography. Enjoy, comment, suggest. Let leisure dominate.
The previous photos are of Fort Rock Farm. This Exeter landmark was recently "saved" (sorry for the pun) from a local church that wanted to place a massive church on the grounds. The greenway lobby has successfully fought off this development. Both sides of the story are better told at the conflicting groups' websites below. I love the grass, flowers, and contrails...I could do without the controversy.The next 2 photos are of a place that serves as my soul base when I am in the US. It is my Grandmother's house (the most impressive woman I know and a person old friends still visit without me there) and also where my family assembles for BBQs, drinking, yelling, catfights, and most importantly...beach parties because North Side Park and the best surf break in NH is 400m away.
After years of traveling, moving, different jobs, WWII, 4 boys (including my father), and countless other hurdles; my Grandparents declared--very appropriately for the region--that they were "Done movin', done workin', and Dunfrettin." This mantra is a real part of my approach to life. It is very far away, but a huge source of hope optimism.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Can You Name 619 People?
Facebook is--on balance--is not so lame.
Craigslist facilitates serial sketchiness, rape, murder. As well as the proliferation of offensive (but economical) home design. Unabashed promotion of fat-person sex is not my biggest objection (they are entitled to pleasure outside of that which I assume is rampant at places like Popeye's, Red's Shoe Barn, and public transportation)
Twitter is just terrible. TIME Magazine suggests--quite literally--on Twitter's website that Twitter is "killer."
MySpace is something I will never participate in.
Facebook, unfortunately, is also interested in tolerance. At one point Facebook only allowed certain university students access. Now the ridiculous fat kid with a bowl-cut from junior high that used to threaten to "meet me at the grave YAHD" and beat my face is looking for my Facebook hand in friendship.
He would have been 620.
I started looking through my 619 friends. I decided that, not only do I not have room for #620, but 619 is non-representative of my human asset profile.
I began deleting. Who did I target?
Met you once in a foreign country...X
We had a drink one time...of course not
High School...almost complete, actually
Generic name...sorry
Camps...well, which one, eh?
College friend...you never gave me the $15 to finish that essay.
College friend in Hong Kong...I never gave you that 150HKD that Economics essay.
Generally, if I took more than 0.5S to retrieve your name and face from my memory bank...later.
I recommend it.
Craigslist facilitates serial sketchiness, rape, murder. As well as the proliferation of offensive (but economical) home design. Unabashed promotion of fat-person sex is not my biggest objection (they are entitled to pleasure outside of that which I assume is rampant at places like Popeye's, Red's Shoe Barn, and public transportation)
Twitter is just terrible. TIME Magazine suggests--quite literally--on Twitter's website that Twitter is "killer."
MySpace is something I will never participate in.
Facebook, unfortunately, is also interested in tolerance. At one point Facebook only allowed certain university students access. Now the ridiculous fat kid with a bowl-cut from junior high that used to threaten to "meet me at the grave YAHD" and beat my face is looking for my Facebook hand in friendship.
He would have been 620.
I started looking through my 619 friends. I decided that, not only do I not have room for #620, but 619 is non-representative of my human asset profile.
I began deleting. Who did I target?
Met you once in a foreign country...X
We had a drink one time...of course not
High School...almost complete, actually
Generic name...sorry
Camps...well, which one, eh?
College friend...you never gave me the $15 to finish that essay.
College friend in Hong Kong...I never gave you that 150HKD that Economics essay.
Generally, if I took more than 0.5S to retrieve your name and face from my memory bank...later.
I recommend it.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Les Meilleux Photos, Colombia and Venezuela 2009
Here are my favorite photos from Venezuela and Colombia, Early 2009. This is my first trip with the Olympus E-420, a camera I graduated to after years of point-and-shoot frustration. I welcome comments and suggestions for improvement. Enjoy.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Ciao, Colombia.
I picked up my last souvenirs yesterday from Bogota. A kitchy poncho, some soccer stuff, and a nasty head cold. Spent one more night in Zona Rosa with a group of Dutch guys and some Colombians who picked us up off the street and told us to follow them. I watched one of them get a bottle broken over his forehead and later try to explain to me that ¨This is why people love Colombia¨. I didn´t know what to say.
I´m going back to the States to consult with doctors and hopefully convince them to take the massive screw out of my leg. If all goes well my schedule could look like this-
Tax Day: Bogota-Boston
April 20th: Meeting with the surgeons
By 4/30: Getting the operation
May 1st: Walking without assistance
May 10th: This is my target date for getting on a plane to return to Morocco.
This is all very tentative and subject to my intense desire to have things move quickly.
I am not sad to leave Colombia because its on to bigger and better things. One of the things I find really exhausting about travelling is other travelers. Everyone has got the same stories, has been the same places, has the same complaints about Colombians, and convinces themselves that life on the backpacker trail is a test of mettle. I think my days of backpacking in a predictable destination like Colombia may be over. This is my 4th trip to Latin America, and each time I have spent 1-4 months. I expected Colombia to be a little more exciting and dangerous, more difficult to travel in, just crazier. In comparison to the rest of the region Colombia is super developed and a little vanilla.
No beef, though. If I have a chance to come back to Bogota I will not hesitate to do so.
I´m going back to the States to consult with doctors and hopefully convince them to take the massive screw out of my leg. If all goes well my schedule could look like this-
Tax Day: Bogota-Boston
April 20th: Meeting with the surgeons
By 4/30: Getting the operation
May 1st: Walking without assistance
May 10th: This is my target date for getting on a plane to return to Morocco.
This is all very tentative and subject to my intense desire to have things move quickly.
I am not sad to leave Colombia because its on to bigger and better things. One of the things I find really exhausting about travelling is other travelers. Everyone has got the same stories, has been the same places, has the same complaints about Colombians, and convinces themselves that life on the backpacker trail is a test of mettle. I think my days of backpacking in a predictable destination like Colombia may be over. This is my 4th trip to Latin America, and each time I have spent 1-4 months. I expected Colombia to be a little more exciting and dangerous, more difficult to travel in, just crazier. In comparison to the rest of the region Colombia is super developed and a little vanilla.
No beef, though. If I have a chance to come back to Bogota I will not hesitate to do so.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
From Ciudad Bolivar, With Love
Minuto de Maria, Ciudad Bolivar, Bogota, Colombia
A series of incredibly poor transport decisions left me stranded at 9PM, April 8th at the only local connection in South Bogota. The station is a ramshackle lean-to of metal and cement, and it screams bad neighborhood. It is definitely the kind of place I am willing to shell out a large amount of cash to a taxi driver to wisk me away from.
As I walked out towards the half-dirt road looking to grab the first taxi, a man grabbed me from behind and pulled me violently towards a cement wall in the shadows. Automatically in survival mode, I swung around to free myself from the grip. Before I even recognized the young man behind me as a military police officer, the urgent look in his face registered in my mind. He tells me to come with him, dont worry, just get back inside.
I follow him and after about 20 steps he turns around and begins to ask me what I am doing here. I tell him I am just pássing through, I am on my way to La Candelaria in Central Bogota. He shakes his head and informs me that no transport comes anywhere near here within an hour of sunset. I ask him why. He replies with shoulders shrugged, ¨cuz this is Ciudad Bolivar.¨
I had heard some things about this area. Generally South Bogota is not a good spot, and Ciudad Bolivar is apparently the worst of all therein. Beyond that I had made it into Minuto de Maria which, I now know, is famous in Colombia as contributing a hefty portion of the countrys murders. Quite simply put I had wandered listlessly into what the police told me is the second-worst neighborhood in Latin America, right behind some of the famous favelas of Rio. This is a place where FARC still lives, where paramilitaries have held control until recently, and where an injured white boy with a bag full of money and goodies is not just a target...but a lock.
I discuss my options with the concerned military police officer. Taxi? No driver will consider it at night. Can I go with the Police to a place with taxis? The police get shot at when they move at night. He commands me simply to stay back in a shadow as he goes and talks to his friend. Within minutes a portly man with car grease all over him extends hishand to me and smiles. He introduces himself as Miguel and orders me to follow him into his really sketchy shop.
Inside he tells me I will be staying the night at his place, a small hole above his repair shop 50 meters from the buses. He leaves the shop and says he will be back shortly. The look on my face at this moment must have betrayed all of the things I should have been feeling.
When Alejandro comes back he is smiling. He asks me very pointedly, what the fuck am I doing here? This is not a good call. I try to assure him I didnt plan it this way. He just shakes his head at all of my answers and replies ¨No¨. I stand there with my hands upturned like a little kid.
Alejandro breaks down what has happened in just the last month in Minuto de Maria. The fast-paced Spanish he speaks is difficult to understand, but words like narcotrafficante, se mata, FARC, armas, ejercito, etc.. register quickly.
We sit that night watching news in the shop and eating a rice dish that definitely tastes like is has been prepared in a war zone. He sets me up on the couch with a blanket and we shut off the lights. He tells me he will get me on a bus in the morning to central Bogota. I thank him and tell him I know it is dangerous but how bad can it be, I mean, if he lives there? At the moment I finish this question, a roaring truck engine passes outside and the blast of 5 gunshots rings out.
Following the truck sound is the sound of more trucks, or what could be military jeeps. We hear gunshots down the road, 10 maybe.
In the morning we find out 2 men had been killed. A police officer was wounded and the wall of the building across the street from Alejandro had two obvious bulletholes.
A series of incredibly poor transport decisions left me stranded at 9PM, April 8th at the only local connection in South Bogota. The station is a ramshackle lean-to of metal and cement, and it screams bad neighborhood. It is definitely the kind of place I am willing to shell out a large amount of cash to a taxi driver to wisk me away from.
As I walked out towards the half-dirt road looking to grab the first taxi, a man grabbed me from behind and pulled me violently towards a cement wall in the shadows. Automatically in survival mode, I swung around to free myself from the grip. Before I even recognized the young man behind me as a military police officer, the urgent look in his face registered in my mind. He tells me to come with him, dont worry, just get back inside.
I follow him and after about 20 steps he turns around and begins to ask me what I am doing here. I tell him I am just pássing through, I am on my way to La Candelaria in Central Bogota. He shakes his head and informs me that no transport comes anywhere near here within an hour of sunset. I ask him why. He replies with shoulders shrugged, ¨cuz this is Ciudad Bolivar.¨
I had heard some things about this area. Generally South Bogota is not a good spot, and Ciudad Bolivar is apparently the worst of all therein. Beyond that I had made it into Minuto de Maria which, I now know, is famous in Colombia as contributing a hefty portion of the countrys murders. Quite simply put I had wandered listlessly into what the police told me is the second-worst neighborhood in Latin America, right behind some of the famous favelas of Rio. This is a place where FARC still lives, where paramilitaries have held control until recently, and where an injured white boy with a bag full of money and goodies is not just a target...but a lock.
I discuss my options with the concerned military police officer. Taxi? No driver will consider it at night. Can I go with the Police to a place with taxis? The police get shot at when they move at night. He commands me simply to stay back in a shadow as he goes and talks to his friend. Within minutes a portly man with car grease all over him extends hishand to me and smiles. He introduces himself as Miguel and orders me to follow him into his really sketchy shop.
Inside he tells me I will be staying the night at his place, a small hole above his repair shop 50 meters from the buses. He leaves the shop and says he will be back shortly. The look on my face at this moment must have betrayed all of the things I should have been feeling.
When Alejandro comes back he is smiling. He asks me very pointedly, what the fuck am I doing here? This is not a good call. I try to assure him I didnt plan it this way. He just shakes his head at all of my answers and replies ¨No¨. I stand there with my hands upturned like a little kid.
Alejandro breaks down what has happened in just the last month in Minuto de Maria. The fast-paced Spanish he speaks is difficult to understand, but words like narcotrafficante, se mata, FARC, armas, ejercito, etc.. register quickly.
We sit that night watching news in the shop and eating a rice dish that definitely tastes like is has been prepared in a war zone. He sets me up on the couch with a blanket and we shut off the lights. He tells me he will get me on a bus in the morning to central Bogota. I thank him and tell him I know it is dangerous but how bad can it be, I mean, if he lives there? At the moment I finish this question, a roaring truck engine passes outside and the blast of 5 gunshots rings out.
Following the truck sound is the sound of more trucks, or what could be military jeeps. We hear gunshots down the road, 10 maybe.
In the morning we find out 2 men had been killed. A police officer was wounded and the wall of the building across the street from Alejandro had two obvious bulletholes.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Stoke, and a Smile, Creep Back
After an emotionally and physically unpleasant couple of months I woke up this morning stoked. I had spent the last night until late out on a fruit truck with some guys I met here in Merida, Venezuela. I was excited to check out the photos I had snapped. I did that over a massive breakfast of rice, beans, plantains, arepas, eggs, papaya juice, coffee, and spicy fish sauce which cost me 10Bolivares, 2 Dollars. It is hot. Everyone is up early and I look up at the snowy peaks of the Andes and I think to myself, THIS is nice.
After that I hit the street with my camera and crutches. I make it only 10 metres before the first person stops me to ask about my leg, where I´m from, how I got so tall, etc.. I answer the questions, smile, get smiled at, and move on. A man is carrying a large amount of flowers. I ask him if I can photograph him. He is flattered. He gives me one. I am spotted by a group of men playing cards in the shade. They look at me suspiciously so I approach them and disarm them with a smile and a local greeting. They smile back and invite me to play. I don´t know how.
I buy a cigarette and smoke only half of it and give the remainder to a man who wants money but will accept about anything. I witness a bus brush up against a car in the street. A large argument ensues which ends, confusingly, with the owner of the car getting on the bus and driving off. I remind myself that I am in Venezuela.
I photograph some political grafiti and a large poster of Hugo Chavez. A man asks me what I am doing. A conversation about Chavez ensues. It is fascinating.
When we finish I wander into a smoky hole in a building which turns out to be a restaurant. I grunt to indicate my desire to eat. Thick chicken soup, fresh fruit juice, wild rice, beans, plantains, and a large, messy pile of tangled and fried pork parts topped with a spicy fruit jelly. It is unbelievably delicious. 12Bolivares, or 2.35USD.
After lunch I wander into a cemetary and am attacked by dogs. I employ the standard skills anybody who has lived in Morocco for a part of their lives has; rabid dog defense. The dogs are surprised by my proficiency, back down, and later pose for pictures by the grave they guard.
I find a spot to sit and read. I kill the afternoon reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Not Venezuelan but close enough. By the time I´m done it is time to eat again. I don´t want to sit and eat so I explore the various stands, carts and stalls of Merida and order the things that scare me and impress Venezuelans. This works and I am quickly full and tired. I pour myself a rum from the Posada owners´bottle and sit on the front step until the town falls asleep.
Tomorrow I will leave Merida and go do this same thing in San Cristobal.
After that I hit the street with my camera and crutches. I make it only 10 metres before the first person stops me to ask about my leg, where I´m from, how I got so tall, etc.. I answer the questions, smile, get smiled at, and move on. A man is carrying a large amount of flowers. I ask him if I can photograph him. He is flattered. He gives me one. I am spotted by a group of men playing cards in the shade. They look at me suspiciously so I approach them and disarm them with a smile and a local greeting. They smile back and invite me to play. I don´t know how.
I buy a cigarette and smoke only half of it and give the remainder to a man who wants money but will accept about anything. I witness a bus brush up against a car in the street. A large argument ensues which ends, confusingly, with the owner of the car getting on the bus and driving off. I remind myself that I am in Venezuela.
I photograph some political grafiti and a large poster of Hugo Chavez. A man asks me what I am doing. A conversation about Chavez ensues. It is fascinating.
When we finish I wander into a smoky hole in a building which turns out to be a restaurant. I grunt to indicate my desire to eat. Thick chicken soup, fresh fruit juice, wild rice, beans, plantains, and a large, messy pile of tangled and fried pork parts topped with a spicy fruit jelly. It is unbelievably delicious. 12Bolivares, or 2.35USD.
After lunch I wander into a cemetary and am attacked by dogs. I employ the standard skills anybody who has lived in Morocco for a part of their lives has; rabid dog defense. The dogs are surprised by my proficiency, back down, and later pose for pictures by the grave they guard.
I find a spot to sit and read. I kill the afternoon reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Not Venezuelan but close enough. By the time I´m done it is time to eat again. I don´t want to sit and eat so I explore the various stands, carts and stalls of Merida and order the things that scare me and impress Venezuelans. This works and I am quickly full and tired. I pour myself a rum from the Posada owners´bottle and sit on the front step until the town falls asleep.
Tomorrow I will leave Merida and go do this same thing in San Cristobal.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
A Plea for Patience
A quick note for friends wanting to hear the leg-break story:
NOT YET. I will be putting together a full, accurate account of the day and the consequences. Please be patient.
NOT YET. I will be putting together a full, accurate account of the day and the consequences. Please be patient.
Monday, March 2, 2009
A Plug for Safety
After the worst winters on record in Western Europe, Canada, the United States and now, Africa for avalanche deaths, I feel I should plug AIC's and also the 2000 Edition of Bruce Temper's book on backcountry safety. While we are years away from being able to provide AS Courses for free for everyone, there is a growing sense from people in the backcountry community that we need to educate the newcomers. Courses are ideal, but info never hurts.
State Avalanche Information Centers and Temper's book are super accessible, easy to understand, and straightforward. Colorado's AIC has made a 5-star website with easy tutorials and links to local safety courses, a must-do as the backcountry begins to get more and more visitors.
"Cornices are the fatal attraction of the mountains, their beauty matched only by their danger. Cornices are elegant, cantilevered snow structures formed by wind drifting snow onto the downwind side of an obstacle such as a ridgeline. Similar to icefall avalanches, the weight of a falling cornice often triggers an avalanche on the slope below, or the cornice breaks into hundreds of pieces and forms its own avalanche—or both. Be aware that cornice fragments often "fan out" as they travel downhill, traveling more than 30 degrees off of the fall line. Cornices tend to become unstable during storms, especially with wind, or during times of rapid warming or prolonged melting. Each time the wind blows, it extends the cornice outward, thus, the fresh, tender and easily-triggered part of the cornice usually rests precariously near the edge while the hard, more stable section usually forms the root.
Similar to icefall avalanches, cornice fall avalanches don’t kill very many people. And similar to slab avalanches, the ones who get into trouble almost always trigger the avalanche, in this case, by traveling too close to the edge of the cornice. Cornices have a very nasty habit of breaking farther back than you expect. I have personally had three very close calls with cornices and I can attest that you need to treat them with an extra-large dose of respect. NEVER walk up to the edge of a drop off without first checking it out from a safe place. Many people get killed this way. It's kind of like standing on the roof of a tall, rickety building and walking out to the edge for a better view. Sometimes the edge is made of concrete but sometimes the edge is made of plywood cantilevered out over nothing but air. It feels solid until, zoom, down you go. Check it out first.
But cornices aren't all bad. You can use cornices to your advantage by intentionally triggering a cornice to test the stability of the slope below or to intentionally create an avalanche to provide an escape route off of a ridge. " Staying Alive in Terrain, Page 27
AIC's provide every kind of explanation, and easy follow-ups for Avalanche Safety Courses. Like this:
Squeamish folks or lay-people might think cornice tests are dangerous but they have been standard techniques among ski patrollers, helicopter ski guides and especially climbers for decades. Cornices are the "bombs of the backcountry." First, make sure no one is below you--very important. Next, simply find a cornice that weighs significantly more than a person and knock it down the slope. A cornice the size of a refrigerator or a small car bouncing down a slope provides an excellent stability test. The smaller the cornice, the less effective the test. You can kick the cornice, shovel it or best of all, cut it with a snow saw which mounts on the end of a ski pole. With larger cornices you can use a parachute cord with knots tied in it every foot or so, which acts like teeth on a saw. Throw the cord over the cornice or push it over the edge with an avalanche probe. You can saw off a fairly large cornice in under 5 minutes. It's best to work with small, fresh cornices and not the large, old and hard ones. You can also trundle heavy rocks down the slope, which work just as well as cornices, but they’re often harder to find. This is also a great way to create a safe descent route during very unstable conditions. In other words, make an avalanche and use the slide path to descend.
Caveat:It doesn't take much imagination to see that knocking cornices down avalanche paths can be very dangerous. ALWAYS use a belay rope on slopes with bad consequences and practice your cornice techniques on safe slopes until you get the techniques worked out. Cornices have a nasty habit of breaking farther back than you think they should. Be careful.
State Avalanche Information Centers and Temper's book are super accessible, easy to understand, and straightforward. Colorado's AIC has made a 5-star website with easy tutorials and links to local safety courses, a must-do as the backcountry begins to get more and more visitors.
"Cornices are the fatal attraction of the mountains, their beauty matched only by their danger. Cornices are elegant, cantilevered snow structures formed by wind drifting snow onto the downwind side of an obstacle such as a ridgeline. Similar to icefall avalanches, the weight of a falling cornice often triggers an avalanche on the slope below, or the cornice breaks into hundreds of pieces and forms its own avalanche—or both. Be aware that cornice fragments often "fan out" as they travel downhill, traveling more than 30 degrees off of the fall line. Cornices tend to become unstable during storms, especially with wind, or during times of rapid warming or prolonged melting. Each time the wind blows, it extends the cornice outward, thus, the fresh, tender and easily-triggered part of the cornice usually rests precariously near the edge while the hard, more stable section usually forms the root.
Similar to icefall avalanches, cornice fall avalanches don’t kill very many people. And similar to slab avalanches, the ones who get into trouble almost always trigger the avalanche, in this case, by traveling too close to the edge of the cornice. Cornices have a very nasty habit of breaking farther back than you expect. I have personally had three very close calls with cornices and I can attest that you need to treat them with an extra-large dose of respect. NEVER walk up to the edge of a drop off without first checking it out from a safe place. Many people get killed this way. It's kind of like standing on the roof of a tall, rickety building and walking out to the edge for a better view. Sometimes the edge is made of concrete but sometimes the edge is made of plywood cantilevered out over nothing but air. It feels solid until, zoom, down you go. Check it out first.
But cornices aren't all bad. You can use cornices to your advantage by intentionally triggering a cornice to test the stability of the slope below or to intentionally create an avalanche to provide an escape route off of a ridge. " Staying Alive in Terrain, Page 27
AIC's provide every kind of explanation, and easy follow-ups for Avalanche Safety Courses. Like this:
Squeamish folks or lay-people might think cornice tests are dangerous but they have been standard techniques among ski patrollers, helicopter ski guides and especially climbers for decades. Cornices are the "bombs of the backcountry." First, make sure no one is below you--very important. Next, simply find a cornice that weighs significantly more than a person and knock it down the slope. A cornice the size of a refrigerator or a small car bouncing down a slope provides an excellent stability test. The smaller the cornice, the less effective the test. You can kick the cornice, shovel it or best of all, cut it with a snow saw which mounts on the end of a ski pole. With larger cornices you can use a parachute cord with knots tied in it every foot or so, which acts like teeth on a saw. Throw the cord over the cornice or push it over the edge with an avalanche probe. You can saw off a fairly large cornice in under 5 minutes. It's best to work with small, fresh cornices and not the large, old and hard ones. You can also trundle heavy rocks down the slope, which work just as well as cornices, but they’re often harder to find. This is also a great way to create a safe descent route during very unstable conditions. In other words, make an avalanche and use the slide path to descend.
Caveat:It doesn't take much imagination to see that knocking cornices down avalanche paths can be very dangerous. ALWAYS use a belay rope on slopes with bad consequences and practice your cornice techniques on safe slopes until you get the techniques worked out. Cornices have a nasty habit of breaking farther back than you think they should. Be careful.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The End of an Era
Just by reading previous posts on this blog, one could deduce that I tend to push myself and the limits of what should be done. As evidenced by my last post, I pay dearly for mistakes I make and experience close calls quite often. I usually come out of bad situations unscathed, surprised, and most importantly, wiser. There are things about this world that are not meant to be understood. There are other things that can only be understood through a very direct and unpleasant first-hand experience.
Those who share my lifestyle can easily review a handful of examples of intense moments where a lot hangs in the balance. This is adventure. There is no adventure without fear, uneasiness, close calls, luck, tough decision-making, etc. True adventure does not exist in the comfort zone, the familiar, the expected, the realm of constants.
“No regrets when you get back safe.” has always been a mantra for me. The experience, learning, and mettle that comes from hellfire-on-earth situations always are worth it. Always. Lots of times scars are part of the deal. When shit gets real the mind is scarred too. These lessons are among life’s most valuable.
I have always felt this way, but then again I have always gotten back safe. That all changed on Thursday, January 29th 2009 on Ish Askor, a few hours’ walk from my house in Talzemt.
I am not gonna review the details of the incident here. There are a lot of good reasons why, and they are mine alone. The way I feel and think about it changes from moment to moment, and I am not ready to broadcast this one.
But the important detail is that I didn’t get back safe. I broke my leg and had to orchestrate my own rescue at significant physical cost. Now I’m laid up with nowhere to go but into my own mind to replay things.
It really is the end of an era for me. I finally hit the wall. I found my limit. I know exactly where it is. I regret it.
But whatever, now I have a very new challenge to face; a long recovery process undertaken under less-than-ideal conditions. As of February 4th, the situation looks like this:
Go to Washington and get a screw in my leg
Recover in 45 days
During that time make life happen, make sure this doesn’t change me
Get out of the cast and start trying to get strength back
Hope and push through this like any other challenge
Try to focus on getting back to what I love;
being a Peace Corps Volunteer, being up, chasing new things.
The worry is my inability to get out of Washington in time. If there are complications with the surgery or treatment which push recovery time needed in Washington past 45 days, that will signal the end of my service. Therefore, surgery and healing need to go flawlessly, or else the future of something I love (PCVing in Morocco) is in jeopardy..
I have a network of amazing people around me. Everyone from Peace Corps staff and Doctors, to the guys in the hotel I am staying in, to the Volunteers who cycle in and out of Rabat, to Moroccans on the street, they all rock and encourage me. I’ll be going back to DC, where I went to school so hopefully my friends who remain there will keep me company.
A cool thing is that all Medically Evacuated PCV’s face nearly the same situation. We all are sent to Washington for treatment, and from what I hear that part is awesome. Just think; tons of Peace Corps Volunteers (people with the best stories ever) sitting around telling the stories of how they got hurt in their country. I might get pretty gnarly.
I am decidedly not happy about going to America though. This is not what I want to be doing. Everyone has been saying that it will be fun to be there and eat American and go to bars and speak English and all but for me I just really don’t miss it enough. At this point in my life I don’t miss america when I am away, I have found adaptability abroad to be a huge asset. If I am honest, aside from seeing my parents and a very slight few people, I don’t look forward to any of this.
Those who share my lifestyle can easily review a handful of examples of intense moments where a lot hangs in the balance. This is adventure. There is no adventure without fear, uneasiness, close calls, luck, tough decision-making, etc. True adventure does not exist in the comfort zone, the familiar, the expected, the realm of constants.
“No regrets when you get back safe.” has always been a mantra for me. The experience, learning, and mettle that comes from hellfire-on-earth situations always are worth it. Always. Lots of times scars are part of the deal. When shit gets real the mind is scarred too. These lessons are among life’s most valuable.
I have always felt this way, but then again I have always gotten back safe. That all changed on Thursday, January 29th 2009 on Ish Askor, a few hours’ walk from my house in Talzemt.
I am not gonna review the details of the incident here. There are a lot of good reasons why, and they are mine alone. The way I feel and think about it changes from moment to moment, and I am not ready to broadcast this one.
But the important detail is that I didn’t get back safe. I broke my leg and had to orchestrate my own rescue at significant physical cost. Now I’m laid up with nowhere to go but into my own mind to replay things.
It really is the end of an era for me. I finally hit the wall. I found my limit. I know exactly where it is. I regret it.
But whatever, now I have a very new challenge to face; a long recovery process undertaken under less-than-ideal conditions. As of February 4th, the situation looks like this:
Go to Washington and get a screw in my leg
Recover in 45 days
During that time make life happen, make sure this doesn’t change me
Get out of the cast and start trying to get strength back
Hope and push through this like any other challenge
Try to focus on getting back to what I love;
being a Peace Corps Volunteer, being up, chasing new things.
The worry is my inability to get out of Washington in time. If there are complications with the surgery or treatment which push recovery time needed in Washington past 45 days, that will signal the end of my service. Therefore, surgery and healing need to go flawlessly, or else the future of something I love (PCVing in Morocco) is in jeopardy..
I have a network of amazing people around me. Everyone from Peace Corps staff and Doctors, to the guys in the hotel I am staying in, to the Volunteers who cycle in and out of Rabat, to Moroccans on the street, they all rock and encourage me. I’ll be going back to DC, where I went to school so hopefully my friends who remain there will keep me company.
A cool thing is that all Medically Evacuated PCV’s face nearly the same situation. We all are sent to Washington for treatment, and from what I hear that part is awesome. Just think; tons of Peace Corps Volunteers (people with the best stories ever) sitting around telling the stories of how they got hurt in their country. I might get pretty gnarly.
I am decidedly not happy about going to America though. This is not what I want to be doing. Everyone has been saying that it will be fun to be there and eat American and go to bars and speak English and all but for me I just really don’t miss it enough. At this point in my life I don’t miss america when I am away, I have found adaptability abroad to be a huge asset. If I am honest, aside from seeing my parents and a very slight few people, I don’t look forward to any of this.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
3 Close Ones
While generally the conquering of the Middle Atlas on a snowboard is going well, in the past 10 days I have had some, well, hang-ups. This is all part of winter mountaineering and snowboarding. Neither of these activities are inherently safe but if you live where I live safety becomes a relative term. So if you are reading this don’t freak out and get all “Be safe, Casey blahaah!”
But seriously Mom don’t read this.
January 14th
My birthday present to myself was to teach a health lesson in my school in the morning (which I love) and in the afternoon make my way up to the closest big mountain to snowboard. I took my snowboard to class (which caused quite a stir) and when I was finished walked straight up. After a 3-4 hour hike I was standing on the drop-in of the 5th highest mountain in the Middle Atlas and about to become the first person to ride it. Happy Birthday.
The drop was gnarly, and on most days I would chose a different line. Still I had to bag this line. So after pointing it down the drop I made a slow lean which turned into a huge, deep, unbelievable turn in chest-deep powder. I was charging so the spray was massive and blocked my vision from 3-oclock on. When it cleared and I leaned back to the fall line and I saw what my huge, deep, unbelievable first turn had done; avalanche. I have never seen a slope let go that quickly and that evenly. It was like watching a bead curtain in a hippy’s doorway fall to the shag carpet below; the snow slid and balled up in perfect lines. It was amazing.
Upon seeing what I had done I figured the snow below me would give way with it, but it didn’t. I rode right along the edge of the slide for about 35 metres and then ducked in behind a large cliff totally safe. I watched 6-foot diameter blue ice balls rumble down the slope and finally come to a stop and I felt totally disconnected from the incident. I watched it as if someone else had triggered it. But yea it was me. I sat there not thinking about how close that was to being really bad, but instead about how I had probably never caused anything that large to happen in my life. Think about it: what is the largest force of nature that you have triggered? For me it was either when we cut down a huge tree in my backyard when I was in high school or in Franconia Notch in New Hampshire when I triggered a rock fall which took out a pine tree. That is, until this avalanche.
January 24th
Big snow on the 23rd guaranteed two things: I would be stuck in Talzemt for the weekend and I would be snowboarding.
I went back to Tissidel but this time I wanted to try another line that was higher on the fun factor and lower on the risk factor. I got up at 5 and walked to Arik’s house (my sitemate) where I grabbed my gloves that I had left on my birthday. The snow hadn’t stopped but I figured it wouldn’t continue much longer. He warned me that it might and I assured him that I would gain the ridge, and if the weather didn’t let up I would come back down right away.
I gained the ridge and started the walk towards Tissidel. The wind slowly let up and the snow stopped stinging my face. Within the hour the clouds gave way and there was some sun. I was stoked because this is exactly what I wanted to do; get up there with good weather and bag the powder before the sun killed it. Great.
About halfway to Tissidel summit my fortunes turned. I looked North up the ridge and saw a wall of grey sweeping up the valley like a frozen sheet. I knew I was in for it.
When the sheet hit the ridge there was no snow in the wind. The wind was cold and fast, probably about 40mph. It made walking really tough, especially along the edge of a ridge with my snowboard acting like a sail on my back. I know the ridge well and knew I would be coming up on a chute that would take me back down and out of the worst of it. 5 minutes after the wall hit the windspeed cranked; 50mph+ and hard snow blowing in any crevice. 5 minutes later 60mph+. 3 minutes later it was out of control. I have been in 70mph winds before and this was worse. I just hit the deck and started crawling, knowing if I stood I could get blown clear off the ridge. I remember I had my Ipod on and the volume was turned to the maximum, but all I could hear was the wind. It was a shitty situation but I was in good spirits, I don’t know why.
Like I said I know the ridge pretty well and after about 30mins of flat-on-my-stomach crawling I peeked over the edge and saw a familiar tree. This tree is straight out of Dr. Suess and I took a nap under it once last summer when I was hiking. I knew that nearby that tree was a large rock overhang so I crawled to the edge and felt my way down. The visibility at this point had deteriorated so badly that if I hadn’t been on a spot I knew well, it wouldn’t have been safe to move.
I was happy to discover that the snow blowing up the ridge had created a formidable wall against the outer edge of the overhang, and there was a perfect spot to sit underneath it. I used my snowboard’s sharp edge to cut sturdy blocks of hardened snow and built a wall that plugged the wind alley through the overhang. Then I put my snowboard down, laid on it and piled snow around me and put my backpack on my chest. I decided I would wait out the storm there.
After an hour of waiting I got really bored and started playing Snake Xensia on my phone under my jacket. I got a bunch of messages from my friends in Immouzer, including Arik, being all worried and scared that I was frozen on the ridge. I let them know that it was a bad situation but it would be fine.
2 hours passed and the wind had let up a little bit but the visibility had gone from abysmal to no longer reasonably called “visibility” at all. A better term would be whiteness. I got up and made my way along the rock ledge where I knew of one spot I could descend. I moved away from the ledge and stepped onto some deeper snow which let go underneath me and I went with it for about 10metres. Up until this point, I had not been scared or nervous about the situation, just cold and surprised. But now, being away from the guiding rock ledge with no way to climb safely back up and with no bearings except for up and down, I was nervous.
With no options, I just dug a hole. I sat in my snow hole and waited. There was no other solution. Below me was a passable slope, but it was steep and I knew of 3 large cliffs between me and the bottom. Thus, I sat in my hole. The wind whipped over the top but in the hole it was fine. I spit in the palm of my glove and stuck it out of the hole to see how fast it would freeze. This was good fun.
The hole was not warm like the fort that I had built above and I was really mad at myself for prematurely leaving the fort. The hole was OK but if everything went bad and I had to try to wait out the night up there, the hole wasn’t going to work. So I waited some more and spit in my glove a couple more times.
I began to devise a plan to descend to the first cliff and hurl myself off of it into the snow on my back. From there I would roll into the cave. You see, the snow was deep deep deep and walking in it just meant getting stuck. Walking upward meant risking compromising the slope and having it come down on me, which would wash me over the cliff. In my plan I would be able to go down and over the cliff on my own terms. I had to go down no matter what.
Just when I put my admittedly non-ideal plan into action and started moving down the slope the visibility broke. I got so excited I ripped off my gloves and began to strap on my snowboard. Strapped in and ready to go I went to pick up my gloves and one fell out of my hand. I looked at my hands and didn’t recognize them as my own. They were pink and frozen. Taking gloves off is a no-no in these conditions but whatever I was psyched.
I put my icicles into my gloves and pointed my board at the first cliff. I floated it and landed in what could have been 8 metres of drifted snow. Crazy. I made a couple conservative turns and then pointed at the second cliff and landed the same. Upon landing I saw nothing but snow and the last cliff, and I saw no reason to turn or check my speed. I was elated that after being worried that I wouldn’t be able to get down at all, now I was doing so in style. I floated the last cliff and landed uniformly, with really clean speed I just put my arms to the side to feel the wind. It was fast and fun and I was ok.
I rode it down to the village below and the first house I came to was a guy I had met in the bus a few days before. He just looked at me like he was thinking…how?
“Salaam u aleikum” I said.
January 25th
So I was super wiped out from the 24th and I went to bed at like 7pm. I woke up in the middle of the night and made some food. As I sat there eating it I was thinking; I should definitely go back up tomorrow. The weather was going to be a lot better and I could get some good snow so why not?
I met up with my transport guy at 6 near my house. He drove me out to Ait Benhaissa, the village where I spent the first 4-5 months of my service.
I planned on bagging Ish Ayurzi, a 2350 metre peak with a beautiful chute down the center that is lined with cedars. I started walking to the base and when I got close to the river that separates the mountain from the village I realized that the warming temperatures over night had taken their toll and melted a fair amount of snow upland. The river was raging a mean brown with the low rumble that indicates moving rocks. There was no safe place to cross so I decided to make my way upstream towards where the river joins a smaller stream.
I looked and looked and found only sketchy crossings. Usually I am pretty daring crossing rivers but this was different because it was winter and I had a bag and snowboard strapped to me.
I found one spot to jump across but it was a big gap. I had to think about it for along time before I decided to do it. I went for it and everything turned out fine except for the part where I fell into the river. I had come up short and slid down the rock into the icy snowmelt and was immediately swept along. Luckily, I got washed up on some rocks only about 5 meters downstream. Still, I had taken a quick beating on the rocks. I pulled myself up and slowly regained composure. When my wits came back I realized how close that really was. I experience dangerous stuff often but I am usually in control. Being in that river and being at the mercy of the current was a moment of complete surrender. It was awful and I will never be at peace with that feeling.
At that point I realized now I was in a much worse situation than I was just minutes before; now I was on the other side of the river which I found out with my attempt one cannot safely cross.
After some deliberation I decided to make my way up the mountain and away from the river. From higher up I could make my way back to the village where I could summon a donkey if need be to cross. I was wet, shaken, but not that cold. In all honesty, I was just worried about my camera and Ipod.
I started gaining elevation and I hit a nice rhythm. I was walking along and there were some of my summertime friends; the monkeys that hang out here and down by the river in the caves. Before I knew it I was nearing the top of the piste and thinking that since I had now invested a 5am wake-up, a hike, a ND experience, and more hiking, then I might as well finish the piste and get some snowboarding out of it. So that is what I did.
I dropped in and was banking smooth turns in deep, corn snow and watching cedars fly past me. It was awesome. I made about 15 good turns and had a lot of speed. I came off of one turn planning to pop up onto a snowdrift when either 2 or 3 monkeys sprinted out from behind the drift. I veered with a lot of speed to avoid them and hit what I think was a thorn bush. Whatever it was it had enough root structure to throw me into a high-velocity cartwheel.
Yard sale, everything goes.
It would have been an awesome wipeout to watch because it was so ridiculous. By itself it was pretty good but with the monkeys it was priceless. Unfortunately, Middle Atlas ski pioneering, like most of my activities, are undertaken solo. I guess I kind of got to see it.
Nonetheless, I gathered my scattered belongings and made my way back down to the base. That incident was this morning, and even though I had to deal with the impassable river again, I don’t think I have stopped smiling since. The camera has gained back its function as of 5oclock. The Ipod doesn’t look good. Worth it? Eh.
CONCLUSION
I don’t know who reads this, and I doubt any PCV’s do, but if anybody is in the neighborhood of North Africa and wants to get in on some snowboarding and winter mountaineering let me know. I hate that I have to do this stuff alone. It actually boggles my mind that there is not anyone else out here doing it. Self-motivating for these kind of activities is exhausting.
It is difficult enough to try to get the Americans around here to even hike in the summer. Everybody is from SoCal and some of them don’t see snow until they come to Morocco. A lot of the lines I want to ride out here are just too much to do alone. I am down to push the limits but spots like Bou Iblane and Bou Naceur are too big, too deep, and too far out for solo.
So far the only people I have convinced to ski with me were French X-Country guys who live in Casablanca. They agreed that it was sick that I lived in a place like this, but it comes to a point where if there isn’t anyone to share these experiences with then memories just stay yours and stay with you and if you recount them you sound stupid. If you share them with someone you double the memory assets; equal amounts in different banks.
So yea if anyone reading this has some time and a winter sports itch please come scratch it in MARMOUCHA.
But seriously Mom don’t read this.
January 14th
My birthday present to myself was to teach a health lesson in my school in the morning (which I love) and in the afternoon make my way up to the closest big mountain to snowboard. I took my snowboard to class (which caused quite a stir) and when I was finished walked straight up. After a 3-4 hour hike I was standing on the drop-in of the 5th highest mountain in the Middle Atlas and about to become the first person to ride it. Happy Birthday.
The drop was gnarly, and on most days I would chose a different line. Still I had to bag this line. So after pointing it down the drop I made a slow lean which turned into a huge, deep, unbelievable turn in chest-deep powder. I was charging so the spray was massive and blocked my vision from 3-oclock on. When it cleared and I leaned back to the fall line and I saw what my huge, deep, unbelievable first turn had done; avalanche. I have never seen a slope let go that quickly and that evenly. It was like watching a bead curtain in a hippy’s doorway fall to the shag carpet below; the snow slid and balled up in perfect lines. It was amazing.
Upon seeing what I had done I figured the snow below me would give way with it, but it didn’t. I rode right along the edge of the slide for about 35 metres and then ducked in behind a large cliff totally safe. I watched 6-foot diameter blue ice balls rumble down the slope and finally come to a stop and I felt totally disconnected from the incident. I watched it as if someone else had triggered it. But yea it was me. I sat there not thinking about how close that was to being really bad, but instead about how I had probably never caused anything that large to happen in my life. Think about it: what is the largest force of nature that you have triggered? For me it was either when we cut down a huge tree in my backyard when I was in high school or in Franconia Notch in New Hampshire when I triggered a rock fall which took out a pine tree. That is, until this avalanche.
January 24th
Big snow on the 23rd guaranteed two things: I would be stuck in Talzemt for the weekend and I would be snowboarding.
I went back to Tissidel but this time I wanted to try another line that was higher on the fun factor and lower on the risk factor. I got up at 5 and walked to Arik’s house (my sitemate) where I grabbed my gloves that I had left on my birthday. The snow hadn’t stopped but I figured it wouldn’t continue much longer. He warned me that it might and I assured him that I would gain the ridge, and if the weather didn’t let up I would come back down right away.
I gained the ridge and started the walk towards Tissidel. The wind slowly let up and the snow stopped stinging my face. Within the hour the clouds gave way and there was some sun. I was stoked because this is exactly what I wanted to do; get up there with good weather and bag the powder before the sun killed it. Great.
About halfway to Tissidel summit my fortunes turned. I looked North up the ridge and saw a wall of grey sweeping up the valley like a frozen sheet. I knew I was in for it.
When the sheet hit the ridge there was no snow in the wind. The wind was cold and fast, probably about 40mph. It made walking really tough, especially along the edge of a ridge with my snowboard acting like a sail on my back. I know the ridge well and knew I would be coming up on a chute that would take me back down and out of the worst of it. 5 minutes after the wall hit the windspeed cranked; 50mph+ and hard snow blowing in any crevice. 5 minutes later 60mph+. 3 minutes later it was out of control. I have been in 70mph winds before and this was worse. I just hit the deck and started crawling, knowing if I stood I could get blown clear off the ridge. I remember I had my Ipod on and the volume was turned to the maximum, but all I could hear was the wind. It was a shitty situation but I was in good spirits, I don’t know why.
Like I said I know the ridge pretty well and after about 30mins of flat-on-my-stomach crawling I peeked over the edge and saw a familiar tree. This tree is straight out of Dr. Suess and I took a nap under it once last summer when I was hiking. I knew that nearby that tree was a large rock overhang so I crawled to the edge and felt my way down. The visibility at this point had deteriorated so badly that if I hadn’t been on a spot I knew well, it wouldn’t have been safe to move.
I was happy to discover that the snow blowing up the ridge had created a formidable wall against the outer edge of the overhang, and there was a perfect spot to sit underneath it. I used my snowboard’s sharp edge to cut sturdy blocks of hardened snow and built a wall that plugged the wind alley through the overhang. Then I put my snowboard down, laid on it and piled snow around me and put my backpack on my chest. I decided I would wait out the storm there.
After an hour of waiting I got really bored and started playing Snake Xensia on my phone under my jacket. I got a bunch of messages from my friends in Immouzer, including Arik, being all worried and scared that I was frozen on the ridge. I let them know that it was a bad situation but it would be fine.
2 hours passed and the wind had let up a little bit but the visibility had gone from abysmal to no longer reasonably called “visibility” at all. A better term would be whiteness. I got up and made my way along the rock ledge where I knew of one spot I could descend. I moved away from the ledge and stepped onto some deeper snow which let go underneath me and I went with it for about 10metres. Up until this point, I had not been scared or nervous about the situation, just cold and surprised. But now, being away from the guiding rock ledge with no way to climb safely back up and with no bearings except for up and down, I was nervous.
With no options, I just dug a hole. I sat in my snow hole and waited. There was no other solution. Below me was a passable slope, but it was steep and I knew of 3 large cliffs between me and the bottom. Thus, I sat in my hole. The wind whipped over the top but in the hole it was fine. I spit in the palm of my glove and stuck it out of the hole to see how fast it would freeze. This was good fun.
The hole was not warm like the fort that I had built above and I was really mad at myself for prematurely leaving the fort. The hole was OK but if everything went bad and I had to try to wait out the night up there, the hole wasn’t going to work. So I waited some more and spit in my glove a couple more times.
I began to devise a plan to descend to the first cliff and hurl myself off of it into the snow on my back. From there I would roll into the cave. You see, the snow was deep deep deep and walking in it just meant getting stuck. Walking upward meant risking compromising the slope and having it come down on me, which would wash me over the cliff. In my plan I would be able to go down and over the cliff on my own terms. I had to go down no matter what.
Just when I put my admittedly non-ideal plan into action and started moving down the slope the visibility broke. I got so excited I ripped off my gloves and began to strap on my snowboard. Strapped in and ready to go I went to pick up my gloves and one fell out of my hand. I looked at my hands and didn’t recognize them as my own. They were pink and frozen. Taking gloves off is a no-no in these conditions but whatever I was psyched.
I put my icicles into my gloves and pointed my board at the first cliff. I floated it and landed in what could have been 8 metres of drifted snow. Crazy. I made a couple conservative turns and then pointed at the second cliff and landed the same. Upon landing I saw nothing but snow and the last cliff, and I saw no reason to turn or check my speed. I was elated that after being worried that I wouldn’t be able to get down at all, now I was doing so in style. I floated the last cliff and landed uniformly, with really clean speed I just put my arms to the side to feel the wind. It was fast and fun and I was ok.
I rode it down to the village below and the first house I came to was a guy I had met in the bus a few days before. He just looked at me like he was thinking…how?
“Salaam u aleikum” I said.
January 25th
So I was super wiped out from the 24th and I went to bed at like 7pm. I woke up in the middle of the night and made some food. As I sat there eating it I was thinking; I should definitely go back up tomorrow. The weather was going to be a lot better and I could get some good snow so why not?
I met up with my transport guy at 6 near my house. He drove me out to Ait Benhaissa, the village where I spent the first 4-5 months of my service.
I planned on bagging Ish Ayurzi, a 2350 metre peak with a beautiful chute down the center that is lined with cedars. I started walking to the base and when I got close to the river that separates the mountain from the village I realized that the warming temperatures over night had taken their toll and melted a fair amount of snow upland. The river was raging a mean brown with the low rumble that indicates moving rocks. There was no safe place to cross so I decided to make my way upstream towards where the river joins a smaller stream.
I looked and looked and found only sketchy crossings. Usually I am pretty daring crossing rivers but this was different because it was winter and I had a bag and snowboard strapped to me.
I found one spot to jump across but it was a big gap. I had to think about it for along time before I decided to do it. I went for it and everything turned out fine except for the part where I fell into the river. I had come up short and slid down the rock into the icy snowmelt and was immediately swept along. Luckily, I got washed up on some rocks only about 5 meters downstream. Still, I had taken a quick beating on the rocks. I pulled myself up and slowly regained composure. When my wits came back I realized how close that really was. I experience dangerous stuff often but I am usually in control. Being in that river and being at the mercy of the current was a moment of complete surrender. It was awful and I will never be at peace with that feeling.
At that point I realized now I was in a much worse situation than I was just minutes before; now I was on the other side of the river which I found out with my attempt one cannot safely cross.
After some deliberation I decided to make my way up the mountain and away from the river. From higher up I could make my way back to the village where I could summon a donkey if need be to cross. I was wet, shaken, but not that cold. In all honesty, I was just worried about my camera and Ipod.
I started gaining elevation and I hit a nice rhythm. I was walking along and there were some of my summertime friends; the monkeys that hang out here and down by the river in the caves. Before I knew it I was nearing the top of the piste and thinking that since I had now invested a 5am wake-up, a hike, a ND experience, and more hiking, then I might as well finish the piste and get some snowboarding out of it. So that is what I did.
I dropped in and was banking smooth turns in deep, corn snow and watching cedars fly past me. It was awesome. I made about 15 good turns and had a lot of speed. I came off of one turn planning to pop up onto a snowdrift when either 2 or 3 monkeys sprinted out from behind the drift. I veered with a lot of speed to avoid them and hit what I think was a thorn bush. Whatever it was it had enough root structure to throw me into a high-velocity cartwheel.
Yard sale, everything goes.
It would have been an awesome wipeout to watch because it was so ridiculous. By itself it was pretty good but with the monkeys it was priceless. Unfortunately, Middle Atlas ski pioneering, like most of my activities, are undertaken solo. I guess I kind of got to see it.
Nonetheless, I gathered my scattered belongings and made my way back down to the base. That incident was this morning, and even though I had to deal with the impassable river again, I don’t think I have stopped smiling since. The camera has gained back its function as of 5oclock. The Ipod doesn’t look good. Worth it? Eh.
CONCLUSION
I don’t know who reads this, and I doubt any PCV’s do, but if anybody is in the neighborhood of North Africa and wants to get in on some snowboarding and winter mountaineering let me know. I hate that I have to do this stuff alone. It actually boggles my mind that there is not anyone else out here doing it. Self-motivating for these kind of activities is exhausting.
It is difficult enough to try to get the Americans around here to even hike in the summer. Everybody is from SoCal and some of them don’t see snow until they come to Morocco. A lot of the lines I want to ride out here are just too much to do alone. I am down to push the limits but spots like Bou Iblane and Bou Naceur are too big, too deep, and too far out for solo.
So far the only people I have convinced to ski with me were French X-Country guys who live in Casablanca. They agreed that it was sick that I lived in a place like this, but it comes to a point where if there isn’t anyone to share these experiences with then memories just stay yours and stay with you and if you recount them you sound stupid. If you share them with someone you double the memory assets; equal amounts in different banks.
So yea if anyone reading this has some time and a winter sports itch please come scratch it in MARMOUCHA.
First Descents and the History of Skis in the Middle Atlas Region
One of the most exciting parts about living out here in the middle atlas is knowing that soon this area will inevitably be discovered by tourists, like the rest of Morocco. Granted it will take a different type of tourist than the tour bus crowd to explore these mountains, it will one day no longer be undiscovered. Being here when almost everything is new, uncrossed, undocumented, and most importantly for me, unskied, is invaluable.
The week of my birthday was dedicated to firsts. My first time snowboarding in Africa in Oukaimeden near Marrakech, and my first experience with unskied terrain here in the middle atlas.
Skiing and snowboarding in the middle atlas region has understandably been limited in the past to three centers; Mischliffen, the ski randonee (cross-crountry or nordic) area of Jebel Hebri, and Bou Iblane. Mischilffen and Jebel Hebri both to this day have operational ski lifts with limited capacity and even more limited usage. Nonethless, it is fun and the snow is good. It is also exceptionally cheap. The clientele can be described as primarily Moroccan day-trippers interested in riding the lift to the top without skis and returning the same way. A spattering of Moroccans skiers from cities (native Middle-Atlas skiers are very rare) and a few tourists interested in the simple novelty of skiing in Africa. There are a few events put on by FRMSM, or in English the Royal Moroccan Ski Federation, but those have died off in the past few years. To be fair to Mischiliffen, the terrain is beautiful, and can be likened to a small eastern United States ski resorts with the added bonus of skiing among massive cedar trees and monkeys. It is unique, cheap, fun, and can offer a serious skier a few very nice, solitary turns.
The east face of Bou Iblane Massif is home to the skeleton of an old French lift that has long since been disassembled and cannibalized for scrap by crafty locals. The French built the lift as a home comfort during colonial times and after Morocco’s independence had no incentive to maintain it. Nonetheless, early French ski pioneers were able to explore the majority of the 30km-long massif and claim most of the difficult lines. Still, ski exploration was limited to the route between Bou Iblane and Jebel Tazzeka near Taza, and the Massif itself. There are no locally or officially confirmed reports of the highest peak in the region, Bou Naceur, ever being attempted. Nonetheless in all of this there is the chance that a stray French soldier has at one time journeyed there with skis.
In the Marmoucha-Tamgilt-Ribat el-Khair sector, there are a number of large peaks that were simply too remote for ski pioneers up until the paving of the sector’s roads. Now, even after large snowfalls, local transportation is available between 3 and 5 days after the weather events. Being uniquely positioned (speaking the very specific local dialect, having all-access permission from local authorities, and holding many Nuqql owners (small buses) as my closest friends, and living within walking distance of all of it) I am now in a position to claim all of these peaks on my snowboard.
The first on my schedule was the high-point of a long ridge which can be located locally by using the name “Tissidel”. Tissidel is the bearing point for most nomadic herders in between Ait Hassan, Ouled Ali, Tazemourt, and the edge of Ouaoualzemt, where herders who are not from the valley should consider making way back towards their own land because of tribal tensions dating back thousands of years. This peak is the edge of Marmoucha, and an unofficial ethnic border. The peak itself rises to 2600 meters and is the southern-most of what can be considered the “rooftop” of the middle atlas.
The hike for me from my front door took six hours with the last 3 in snow to waist. Even the sun-exposed ridge forces hikers into deep snow because of unstable cornices on the ridge’s edge. The descent I estimated at 1100 meters with the fall line, with the option of descending another 300 with good snow and 500 on cross-country skies. The take off is impossible without significant recent snow, as a 30 meter drop faces afternoon sun with no collection point because of its steepness, but the rest is a very challenging, and very rewarding 38 degree slope with chest deep powder.
On Wednesday I will hopefully be completing a small first-timer called Ish Ayurzi in Ait Benhaissa in the Northern reach of Talzemt commune. This 2540 meter peak is home to some of the highest altitude cedars in the region and contains a due North-northeast chute. I will be completing this peak before 9am as the only hour for good light is sunrise with reflective light off of the opposite snowfields on Ish Nfadna. Later in the day attempting this peak would be too dangerous.
The week of my birthday was dedicated to firsts. My first time snowboarding in Africa in Oukaimeden near Marrakech, and my first experience with unskied terrain here in the middle atlas.
Skiing and snowboarding in the middle atlas region has understandably been limited in the past to three centers; Mischliffen, the ski randonee (cross-crountry or nordic) area of Jebel Hebri, and Bou Iblane. Mischilffen and Jebel Hebri both to this day have operational ski lifts with limited capacity and even more limited usage. Nonethless, it is fun and the snow is good. It is also exceptionally cheap. The clientele can be described as primarily Moroccan day-trippers interested in riding the lift to the top without skis and returning the same way. A spattering of Moroccans skiers from cities (native Middle-Atlas skiers are very rare) and a few tourists interested in the simple novelty of skiing in Africa. There are a few events put on by FRMSM, or in English the Royal Moroccan Ski Federation, but those have died off in the past few years. To be fair to Mischiliffen, the terrain is beautiful, and can be likened to a small eastern United States ski resorts with the added bonus of skiing among massive cedar trees and monkeys. It is unique, cheap, fun, and can offer a serious skier a few very nice, solitary turns.
The east face of Bou Iblane Massif is home to the skeleton of an old French lift that has long since been disassembled and cannibalized for scrap by crafty locals. The French built the lift as a home comfort during colonial times and after Morocco’s independence had no incentive to maintain it. Nonetheless, early French ski pioneers were able to explore the majority of the 30km-long massif and claim most of the difficult lines. Still, ski exploration was limited to the route between Bou Iblane and Jebel Tazzeka near Taza, and the Massif itself. There are no locally or officially confirmed reports of the highest peak in the region, Bou Naceur, ever being attempted. Nonetheless in all of this there is the chance that a stray French soldier has at one time journeyed there with skis.
In the Marmoucha-Tamgilt-Ribat el-Khair sector, there are a number of large peaks that were simply too remote for ski pioneers up until the paving of the sector’s roads. Now, even after large snowfalls, local transportation is available between 3 and 5 days after the weather events. Being uniquely positioned (speaking the very specific local dialect, having all-access permission from local authorities, and holding many Nuqql owners (small buses) as my closest friends, and living within walking distance of all of it) I am now in a position to claim all of these peaks on my snowboard.
The first on my schedule was the high-point of a long ridge which can be located locally by using the name “Tissidel”. Tissidel is the bearing point for most nomadic herders in between Ait Hassan, Ouled Ali, Tazemourt, and the edge of Ouaoualzemt, where herders who are not from the valley should consider making way back towards their own land because of tribal tensions dating back thousands of years. This peak is the edge of Marmoucha, and an unofficial ethnic border. The peak itself rises to 2600 meters and is the southern-most of what can be considered the “rooftop” of the middle atlas.
The hike for me from my front door took six hours with the last 3 in snow to waist. Even the sun-exposed ridge forces hikers into deep snow because of unstable cornices on the ridge’s edge. The descent I estimated at 1100 meters with the fall line, with the option of descending another 300 with good snow and 500 on cross-country skies. The take off is impossible without significant recent snow, as a 30 meter drop faces afternoon sun with no collection point because of its steepness, but the rest is a very challenging, and very rewarding 38 degree slope with chest deep powder.
On Wednesday I will hopefully be completing a small first-timer called Ish Ayurzi in Ait Benhaissa in the Northern reach of Talzemt commune. This 2540 meter peak is home to some of the highest altitude cedars in the region and contains a due North-northeast chute. I will be completing this peak before 9am as the only hour for good light is sunrise with reflective light off of the opposite snowfields on Ish Nfadna. Later in the day attempting this peak would be too dangerous.
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