I fell down a Mountain. Sort of. More like I fell down while I was on a mountain. That caught your attention though, right? More on that later.
I woke up this morning intent on visiting Ouwoug Falls after meeting Michael (Missouri) and Pedro (Portugal). We made the trek to the bus station to find that we’d missed the first bus and that the next bus wouldn’t leave for a few hours. A little disappointed, we decided to rent a cheap taxi for the day to tour a bit of the countryside and see the Ourika valley. After a little bartering, we were on the way with a bearded taxi driver named Khelid. Before arriving, however, we stopped at a woman’s cooperative that made Argon oil and lotions. The seeds can only be found in Morocco, and apparently the wrinkle cream has recently become a big hit in the West. It was cool to see them grinding the seeds into oil, but I wasn’t buying anything. On we go.
Khelid dropped us off in the valley, a truly beautiful place. We walked along the quickly-moving river that was cut into the bottom of the valley. Ahead of us were two red mountains spotted with dark green trees, as is someone had flicked a giant paintbrush at the red earth. Between the parted mountains, in front of us, stood a majestic black mountain covered in white snow. It was quite a sight. We hesitantly hired a guide to take us on a hike to the top where we’d have a view of the waterfall from its source. In the end, I was very glad that we decided to pay the few euro for a guide. It was dangerous at times and, without him, I would have died four or five times. Actually, I would have died once.
We hiked nd climbed and jumped from rock to rock across rivers, occasionally even landing in rivers. The trails were sometimes very narrow, sometimes nonexistant, and often along the edge of what could be a very long and painful fall. At one point I slipped and fell. If you could fall all the way down a mountain, I would have. Fortunately, however, there are bolders that you can smash into on your way down. This trek offered some of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen. What’s more, it’s good exercise and fun. I coul exercise every day in this environment (or so I tell myself).
On the way back, we saw a very old woman bent over at an acute angle, walking down the highway with a huge bag of dirt on her back. I don’t think I could carry that, and this woman was old. OLD. How old? The driver assured us that she was 120. I had trouble believing that. This isn’t an uncommon site here, but I don’t know how zomen this old aren’t just laying in bed all day. Somztimes I lay in bed all day and this is supposedly my prime. Maybe I’ll be running marathons when I’m 120, but for now I have trouble getting off the couch to go to the refrigerator.
Shortly after passing this woman, we saw an interesting looking village of about 80 homes and stopped to take a look around. Michael decided to hang back while Pedro and I went in to explore. Everything was built of mud. I literally could have ripped a house apart with my bare hands. I could have destroyed the entire village if time permitted. If a wolf were to huff and puff around these parts, it would not be good news for this village. The village was fairly empty except for a few kids clandestinely following us around. When we decided it was time to leave, we passed by a local about our age who was hauling a bag of cement on his back up a rocky trail. “Want to help me work?” he asked me in French. “How much does it pay?” I asked him, jokingly. “50 dirham a day” he told me. That’s about 5 euro a day. I spend that on a sandwich. “That’s not very much,” I thought aloud. “It’s not bad for a Moroccan. Follow me.” We followed him through the rocky trails of the village into the place he was working in, what would be the first cement house in the village. It was very modest. This would be his new home, which he was building with the help of his brother. “Want to see my old house?” he asked. We followed him to the mud house next door. It was also modest, though there was a room that served as a stable inside the house where the cow stayed. He invited us to tea and even offered us a place to sleep? Had I been traveling alone, I would have loved to stay there and sleep, to help him build his home. Sadly, though, we had to get going. We said our farewells and moved on.
After we got back, I headed to the train station to buy my ticket to Tangier. Originally, I’d planned on going there 2 days ago, but I had no real plans so I decided to stay after meeting a bunch of CouchSurfers. I had a flight leaving from Tangier, though, so I had to get there soon. I hoped to get tickets for a night train to save a little time and money? Unfortunately, after walking 45 minutes to the train station, I found that the line I needed to take was out of service due to flooding. Crap. I left hoping to find cheap plane tickets, but knowing I’d have to take a bus.
We met up with Pedro and all the Moroccan CSers at a restaurant at Djeme el Fna and has some very, very, very delicious kefta for a couple of euros. So good. The food is so flavorful here. Michael and I found a liquor store, which isn’t too easy to find here, and went inside to buy a few beers? There was an intimidating bouncer sitting outside, for whatever reason. We went to the roof of some hotel near Djeme el Fna and drank our beers, overlooking the minarets and mosques of a bustling Marrakech.
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