I am about to start my first trip as a full-fledged Intrepid leader!! My group of nine American men arrives tonight to Casablanca for a late dinner, early morning visit to the Hassan II Mosque, and departure for Rabat. I spent the last five days (my vacation) prepping for this trip, trying to go snowboarding, staying too long in a boring little town in the Middle Atlas, and using bus, train, grand and petit taxi far more than desirable on one's time off.
A fellow new leader, John, and I, decided we should take advantage of the end of Morocco's snowboarding to do some winter sport. We boarded a luxury bus at midnight from Marrakech on Tuesday to arrive in Ifrane (Morocco's Switzerland) at 7 am. Nothing open yet and the closest hotel's night reception unable to communicate in French or English, we breakfasted on one of two cafes in town. When French-speaking receptionists finally arrived at the hotel Chamonix (pronounced Sham-o-nicks by Moroccans, who actually speak French mind you...) they were no more helpful than the man who couldn't communicate, as it seemed they knew nothing other than how much a room cost at the hotel. We were told they were the place to rent ski and board gear but after long deliberation they concluded that only possible on Saturday and Sunday. We decided to head directly to the ski resort.
The resort had confirmed great conditions when I called them on Monday. They assured us the skiing was better than the resort an hour from Marrakech and that we should make hotel reservations soon. Winding through the snow-splotched rocky hills in a petit taxi, we doubted the success of our planned day of boarding. Arriving 15 km later to a lone hotel at the base of a hill, we stepped into the empty lobby to survey to situation.
While the snow was not bad, the two rope tows, two-and-a-half runs, six Moroccans trying to rent equipment and one pair of skis visible shouted for an end to the adventure. Still (oddly) undeterred, we asked for snowboards, upon which a 40-something man in a sweater, faded purple ski bib, socks and pointed loafers assured us he had what we needed in Ifrane, and he would just run into town and pick up the boards and boots. We agreed to wait, but not to actually rent the equipment until we had seen it.
Inside the hotel, the reception informed us that the rope tows would not be turned on unless 20 people arrived to use them. After some disbelief and discussion about this matter (it would require a three hour hike up the black diamond run for us to make a 10 second board down) he reconfirmed and added an extra 10 people onto the previous figure. The renters in the parking lot said only four people were necessary, no, six.
At least half an hour later the boards arrived, the men’s boots three sizes too big for John, the women’s boots two sizes too small for me. The man in purple had a solution, however, just a small plastic bag over John’s foot would do the trick (?!) and for me, another pair of boots, even smaller.
We should have just gone to the beach for our break, or changed itineraries when we knew there was no gear during the week, or perhaps when we found out there were only rope tows, or that they wouldn’t turn them on—any of those instances would have provided longer vacation and less stress, but we wanted to be absolutely certain there was no way would be able to snowboard, not even one run, before we surrendered and agreed to accompany the only other hotel guests (two Irish guys with no idea about what they were doing) back to Ifrane in a grand taxi.
We dropped our bags in the Shamonicks, ate lunch at the same cafe in Ifrane, and chatted with the American students sitting next to us about the most prestigious university in Morocco (Al Akhawayn, in Ifrane.) They agreed to take us on a tour and told us all about how much they hated studying in Ifrane. The tour of the tiny private high-school-esque Legoland university in an absolutely nothing-to-do small town far from any big city depressed us enough to decide to leave the Shamonicks as fast as we could and take a grand taxi to Meknes. A friend in Kenitra (the ex-surf champion of Morocco whom we met on our first train from Casa to Marrakech three weeks ago) agreed to meet us that night at the train station and invited us to stay at his house. We dined in Meknes and took the next train to Kenitra. Simo (our friend) sent his dad to meet us at the train station at 10:30 pm, from where we went to his house, chatted with the family until about 11 pm, changed into pjs for bed, came back downstairs and found the family just setting out a massive dinner. Simo wasn’t even home from work yet (he arrived at 3 am) and we were so full from dinner and tired from not sleeping in 24 hours. We forced some rice, salad and brochettes down before we were able to excuse ourselves to bed.
Thursday, Simo showed us all around Kenitra—its beautiful beaches, palace ruins, bird-populated lake and forest and a tranquil garden cafe overlooking the river. He reluctantly left us at the train station in the afternoon (he thought we were staying the weekend for some reason) and we foraged on to Casa. Grateful not to be backpackers, we paid the extra $3 for first class travel on all transport possible.
Now I am here, John is gone back to Marrakech, I am killing time until the group arrives. Today is finally sunny and I must be carrying 10 lbs of warm clothing so as to avoid the frigidity of the last trip. I even bought a bright pink calf-length Eskimo coat which is such a great way to blend in with the locals, especially with the furry hood and giant green backpack.
