I started out this past weekend by contemplating my own mortality. This thought pattern emerged rather organically as I sat in the front of a transit (the equivalent of a van that has had its windows welded shut, about 6 too many additional chairs inserted, and always seems to be on the verge of breaking down and/or exploding). Transits or minibuses (“mini-beese”) are a common form of public transportation here in Marrakech. You pile in, you align yourself with the energies of a sardine for 20 minutes, and then you unfold your origami-ed self and carry on with your day.
What was a bit different about this particular ride was that I wasn’t in my typical transit that runs between Marrakech and Tameslouht. That trip follows a predictable, flat, straight path that involves two right turns. Literally. Instead of this routine, I was heading to Orika, a beautiful mountain village and popular local vacation spot. The purpose? We were going purely for the joy that comes from a day trip with the family (more on the precise meaning of a “day trip” in a bit). This ride starts out similarly to the Marrakech-Tameslouht route, but quickly becomes more exciting: a gradual ascent into the mountains coaxes the road into a curve-hugging adventure that loops upwards in carefully-tiered layers. Looking down is not advised, not just because of the distance between your tiny self and the ground below, but also because you might notice the distinct lack of anything existing between you and a very dramatic free fall.
At our last stop before the winding, narrow, un-guard-railed road began, our driver was replaced with a pinch hitter. This guy hopped into the driver’ seat with (who I assume was) his 2 year old son. Logistically, this meant one arm around the child, one hand on the wheel. My inner equilibrium between “going-with-the-flow” to “a-desire-to-continue-living” began to tilt dangerously to one end of the spectrum.
Because my blood pressure wasn’t high enough at this point, Mr. Driver’s phone started ringing. Luckily for the greater good, he sacrificed the hand that was holding his son (who had fallen soundly asleep, obviously unconcerned with his own mortality) and had a lovely conversation while maneuvering the hell outta those mountainous curves. Mustapha’s mother—smushed next to me in the front seat—proactively offered to hold the kid. Our driver smiled and was like, “Oh no, I’ve got this!” How reassuring!
To his credit, the driver did make a pit stop along the way to hand off the kid to some dude on the side of the road. This ultimately didn’t make a huge amount of difference in terms of actively working to preserve our fragile lives, as his phone conversations, texting, and what I can only assume was Facebook stalking occupied his right hand for the duration of the ride. But, because I was destined to write this blog entry, we did arrive safely in Orika without so much as a scratch—physically, of course.
Orika is a fantastic destination that I would recommend to anyone who is growing restless in the flat, red, dry expanse that is Marrakech. Lush and mountainous, a river literally runs through it, and an entire summer economy has developed around it: cafes and restaurants are piled on top of each other along the banks of the river, offering both riverside and in-the-river (!) dining. Alternatively, you can rent what I can only describe as a stall— this is a makeshift contraption that offers a designated space and shade from the sun where you can spread out your blanket, hang out, and eat a massive meal.
Orika, in all of its mountainous glory!
After piecing ourselves back together from that harrowing journey up the mountain, M’s mom and I immediately plopped down in the river. It took me awhile to notice that his dad and brother were not with us. “Where is Hajj?” I asked as a lazy afterthought. Now, here is where Darija gets tricky and why I often have no idea what is going on around me. The answer that I received was he was looking for a place for us—depending on your translation— either to “sit” or to “stay.” I went ahead and assumed it was a place to sit. This made a lot of sense based on the availability of the aforementioned stalls and the fact that, when describing this trip to me, Hajj specifically said that we would be returning the same night. I put the possibility of an overnight stay out of my mind. It couldn’t exist—after all, I brought a book and some sunscreen in my bag. Not exactly the implements needed to maintain acceptable levels of personal hygiene for more than a day.
Imagine my surprise, then, when M’s brother came down to join us in the river and told us that Hajj found us “a room.” Okay, I thought, a room— so that is where we are going to sit. That’s a little, I dunno, fancy, but maybe that’s the most comfortable option. So, we walked upwards (this town is set up in a way that is reminiscent of Moulay Yacocub’s verticality and general love of stairs) and into an apartment. Hajj rented us a single, small room within this apartment. And when I say room, I mean that it had four walls bare walls, a window, and a door. The four of us could nap comfortably here, arranged in a Tetris-like pattern, but there wasn’t space for much else. There was a bathroom and sink outside in the common area, and we were presented with four thin mats for sleeping, a propane tank, two plastic trays, a small teapot, 4 tea glasses, a knife, and two tajines. Still, with all of this evidence before me, I clung to my own original translation of the situation, believing that this was a place to lounge and to eat, but that we would be heading back in the evening and sleeping in our own beds.
The context clue that gave it away was the food. My spidey-senses were tingling when I saw the amount of onions and tomatoes purchased— when it comes to food, Moroccans don’t fuck around. My in-laws in particular know exactly how much food they need to feed four people. Laying before me was definitely more than a generous lunch and possibly dinner’s worth of vegetables and meat. I turned to M’s mom and tried to sound nothing but casual while inquiring, “Do you know how long we’re staying here?” She shrugged her shoulders and responded in an equally unconcerned manner, “I’m not sure. Two, maybe three nights?” So much for the “day” aspect of day trip.
This is where I include the author’s note to please disregard the fact that I wore the same outfit for the entire vacation.
We all got Morocco-ed, in the most beautiful sense of the word. Who needs another pair of clothes, deodorant, or a toothbrush when you have a few extra days in the mountains? For the price of 5 USD per night, we literally had everything we needed, plus nature. I could not help but to compare the price of rent and the commodities allotted to our year in Cambridge. Mom and Dad, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t find a graduate program in Orika.
The highlight of this supersized day trip was our hike to see the waterfalls. M’s brother had already gone solo while the rest of us were mincing the definition of a “one day trip,” and enthusiastically reported back that we all needed to go. I looked down at the only pair of shoes I brought and asked if my sandals were a problem for this particular hike, as they’re super cute but not too utilitarian. “Of course not,” he replied. “There are tons of people who go without shoes.”
So, the motley crew decided to go, outfitted in cute sandals and the like. There were a lot of makeshift stairs and stretches of upward-reaching, compacted dirt. I began noticing—as only someone wearing cute sandals enduring a very vertical hike through the mountains does— that there were less and less man-made stairs and an increasing amount of rocks. Not small, pretty, decorative rocks. Big, aspiring-boulder rocks. I was doing a lot more climbing than walking, needing to pull myself upward with my arms rather than push myself forward with my legs. I tried to ignore the fact that, in a vein similar to our transit ride, there was a very steep ledge right next to me and my cute sandals. No guard rails, and definitely no hospital within a manageable distance.
Don’t look down.
When my mental assessment of the situation brought up the hospital concept, that pesky, “go-with-the-flow” to “desire-to-continue-living” equilibrium started to teeter off-balance again. The thick flow of fellow waterfall-seekers in both directions managed to quell my concerns (and provide an appropriate amount of peer pressure to continue onwards and upwards). After all, I had been on the trail for at least 30 minutes and hadn’t seen a single person fall. That’s reassuring, right?
We finally reached the waterfall.
M’s brother was the only one to get in the water; M’s mother and I were both, um, recovering mentally from what we just endured. I looked around at the swell of fellow hikers who had managed to arrive at the destination in one piece. No one looked the least bit concerned or even self-congratulatory at the ascent. I looked up and quickly realized why.
Bordering the waterfall was, you guessed it, more mountains! Mountains beyond mountains, and beyond them, more mountains. That’s the thing about mountains. There are always more of them. All that work, and we had reached the equivalent of a base camp— the first level in a video game. There were more who aspired to the next level, including M’s brother. His mom and I watched as he somehow climbed up the mountain and looked down at us from way, way, way above the waterfall. The highlight of having our focus upwards was watching a man who was obviously a little bored with this routine. He literally ran down this rather steep drop in his little plastic flip flops, and then continued going like it was his daily commute to work. It’s safe to say pretty much no one blinked an eye at this phenomenon either.
See that blue speck? That’s M’s brother.
The theme of mortality bookended our day(s) trip in a purely poetic way. The day that we left Orika, we piled into yet another transit. M’s mom turned around and whispered, “It’s the same driver.” Sure enough, there he was, the master of our destiny! His son was noticeably absent (probably still chillin’ with the guy who took some days before on the side of the road) and his multitasking skills were there in full force. He delivered us to Marrakech safely, but not without ramming into a car along the way. Our driver and the driver of the damaged vehicle both got out (in the middle of a very thin, winding, mountain oad) engaged in an epic battle royale of words that made the Darija student within me blush. Ultimately, though, our driver rubbed his hand over the massive white scratches suffered by the other’s car as if to say, “It’s just a flesh wound!” This seemed to work and we were able to leave the crime scene without surrendering a thing. No money, phone numbers, or insurance company information exchanged. Everyone seemed oddly fine with that.
For the third time in a long weekend, I found myself running through the what-ifs of the situation and pondering my own mortality. I guess a day-trip, no matter how long it is, will do that to ya.
