Camels: Not as cool as I thought

 I don't like camels.

I'm about two seconds away from spitting at you. Stupid human.

1. They're mean.

2. They spit.

3. I can't think of a third reason. Probably because hatred is usually justified by false information and ridiculous exaggeration. Meaning that I don't have any real reason to hate camels. I just do. I was trying to give you reasons so you would think "Ah, yes. That makes sense. I can see now why she hates camels." Now you just think I'm a bigoted, species-ist camel-hater. 

I wasn't always this way. 

In fact, I was once extremely excited about camels. When I was 11 my Dad took me on a llama pack trip. That should just about sum up my childhood experience. At any rate, during this particular father-daughter trip, I had a llama named Roger who was really cute and sweet and I somehow figured that all camels would be exactly like Roger the llama. Llamas=sort of remotely related to camels therefore one nice llama = all camels are nice. Look, logic really isn't my thing. I prefer to go blithely through life making all sorts of ridiculous assumptions about camels. 

Prior to living in the Middle East I had never actually been in the proximity of a camel. I might have seen one once at a zoo, but I can't be sure. I was charmed by the camels standing on the side of the road everywhere I went in the West Bank. In fact, I was surprised to see so many camels. Everywhere I looked there were little clusters of docile looking ungulates. It was like showing up in the jungle and going "OH MY GOD! YOU GUYS, LOOK AT THE MONKEYS. IN THE TREES! I TOTALLY THOUGHT THE DISCOVERY CHANNEL WAS JUST MAKING THAT SHIT UP! MY WHOLE UNIVERSE JUST EXPANDED."

That's how I felt about seeing camels everywhere in the desert. 

I could not wait to get on one. But I didn't want to have just any camel-riding experience so I snubbed the camels hanging out at the gas station waiting to take tourists on an exotic trek around the Shell station parking lot. If I was going to get on a camel, I wanted nothing less than a 2-day trek in the desert so that I could realistically pretend to be Lawrence of Arabia. If you go on a camel trek in the Middle East and DON'T pretend to be Lawrence of Arabia you are failing at life. Individuals who go to Petra and don't pretend to be Indiana Jones also fall under this category. 

After living in the West Bank for nearly 4 months, I finally got my chance. I made plans to head to Jordan with two friends to go on a two-day camel trek in Wadi Rum. My Australian friend had been on a camel trek before and she tried to warn me. But because she's an awesome Aussie with an "anything goes" attitude, she was willing to go ahead with it even though she knew the tortures that lay ahead (I may be slightly exaggerating in referring to a camel trek as torture, but only slightly). 

After a few days in Petra we made our way to Wadi Rum. 

I couldn't believe I was so close to realizing my long-awaited adventure. There just before my eyes stood three camels awaiting us. 

But....three camels. There were three of us and one guide. That equals four. But there were only three camels. I couldn't comprehend how the guide was going to keep up with me and my camel galloping across the desert. 

That question was answered within 30 seconds of getting on the camel. 

Camels don't gallop. 

Camels do not do anything that falls under the category of "moving quickly." 

A camel's gate is the definition of "plod." When I envisioned a camel trek I did not envision plodding through the desert for two days on a spitting ungulate (new favorite word) who is adorned not with a cushioned saddle, but with a piece of wood that looks like an upside down V placed on the camel's hump and has a few cushions lashed on for good measure. Saddle sores like you wouldn't believe. To make matters worse we were spread out on our camels so we couldn't actually pass the time by talking to one another. Our guide didn't speak any English. And there was no Wi-Fi so I couldn't obsessively update my Twitter to give everyone a play-by-play account of how bored I was. Also I think my camel was kind of slow on the uptake. I think camels are generally kind of slow on the uptake, but mine especially. I'm pretty sure they gave me the "special" camel. I'm still trying not to take that personally.

After what seemed like an eternity we reached our Bedouin-style campground for the night. 

It was spectacular. We sat in silence on red rocks watching the sun set and the stars rise. After dinner we spent hours sitting around a campfire staring up at the kind of night sky you can only see in the desert. 

And the camels? 

They were tethered off in the distance...which is how I've come to appreciate camels. Tethered. At a distance. 

Toubkal: The movie

I made probably the most badass* video you will ever see of Toubkal.

It's that good.



* By badass I mean a really shady amateur video of the race I wrote about here. I'm posting it in lieu of an actual post. It's Sunday. I'm pretty sure God said something about not working. He might have also said something about not working Monday-Saturday too. The Bible is technically just a summary. It could be the Cliff Notes version of what really happened. What if God really said "Nobody work. Ever." and someone got lazy and instead wrote "Don't work Sundays. Or Saturdays." I'm going to stay unemployed just to be on the safe side. Check back tomorrow for a story about camels. Or the Great Roach Fiasco of October 2010. Or maybe something entirely different.

Toubkal: Why spontaneously signing up for a marathon is not a good idea

Remember when I said that I often become so enthusiastic about things that I lose touch with what I can and cannot do? 

Yeah.

Well.

It happened again. 

Something is wrong with me. Seriously, seriously wrong. All signs point toward insanity. What else would inspire an otherwise rational person (questionable...) to spontaneously sign up for a mountain marathon up North Africa's highest peak without training? I didn't even have any running shorts with me. Or a water bottle. And I still somehow thought that this was going to turn out well. 

After a day and a half spent wandering around Marrakech, British guy and I decided to head to the Atlas mountains. 

The Atlas Mountains

Within an hour and a half, we arrived at the Moroccan mountain village of Imlil. As we stepped out of the taxi my vision of a quiet mountain village was completely shattered. Red Bull and PowerBar banners flew, dance music blared, and groups of runners clad in varying shades of neon stood around chattering excitedly. 

British guy and I had unwittingly stumbled upon a trail running marathon up the Toubkal. With 42 kilometers (26 miles), 3,313 meter (10,869 feet) total ascent and three climbs, it was dubbed the hardest trail marathon. 

There was no getting around it.

We had to do it. 

Except that we only had enough cash to pay the race fees and get back down to Marrakech. There were no banks in this town. Either we used all of our money to pay the registration fees for the race or we spent a few comfortable days in Imlil sleeping inside and eating at restaurants. 

We signed up for the race. 

We handed over the combination of Dirham and Euros that we had cobbled together and then spent the subsequent waning hours of daylight borrowing missing equipment (like running shorts), and ignoring any rational arguments about whether or not this was a sensible idea. 

We pitched the tent and set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. 

With 9 years of competitive running under my belt and a stint as a member of the U.S. junior mountain running team I knew exactly what  I was getting into and I knew it wasn't going to be pretty. But I couldn't say no. I couldn't turn down the adventure. This inability to say no gets me into a lot of trouble.

At 4:30 a.m. the alarm went off, followed closely by the call to prayer. I threw on my borrowed running tights (which were too big and kept falling down), a long-sleeved Icebreaker shirt (a staple travel item for me), and my 15 euro (21 USD) Decathlon running shoes (I lost my expensive trail running shoes while racing to catch a train in Germany and I'm too broke to buy new ones. Note: Don't tie expensive running shoes to the outside of your backpack. Especially if you're too broke to buy new ones). 

British guy and I grabbed everything we thought we might need for 42 kilometers (26 miles) in the mountains and headed to the starting line. The sun hadn't yet risen and the stars were still faintly twinkling. The air was fresh and cool and because I've always loved races, I was excited. 

Imlil. Start of the race. 

We set off. 

The first 10K (6 miles) and the first big climb went well. We had a good pace and I had at least been training for this distance. At the first food and water station, we grabbed some tea and cookies and kept climbing up alongside waterfalls. 

First food and water station. Thanks for the cookies guys. 

I thought we were pretty close to the top and was in high spirits. Except as it turns out we were nowhere near the top. And as we rounded a bend, I saw this. 

This photo was taken from the top. You can faintly see the trail switchbacking.
We ran up this. I use the verb "run" very loosely.

The altitude (3500 meter/ 11482 feet) grabbed me by the ankles. I felt as if I was walking through water...underwater even. I took slow deliberate steps and deep breaths and cursed myself repeatedly for being such a sucker for an adventure. 

At the second pass the trail dipped down along the ridge spilling into the valley and winding its way to the 2nd food and water station at the base of Toubkal. It was stunning. Unfortunately I was too busy coaxing my muscles and lungs into operation to really appreciate the magnitude of this spectacular mountain range. But the pictures look nice. British guy and I split a Red Bull (hey, it was free) and continued onto the réfuge*--which kept moving farther and farther away like some twisted optical illusion. 

Réfuge at the base of Toubkal

The trail was rocky and the loose rocks and gravel made each step a delicate dance with gravity. British guy totally wiped out. Ok, fine. It was me. 

We made it to the réfuge as the first runners were coming back down from the summit. I ate some cookies. And then some peanuts, a banana, some other fruit, almonds, chocolate, tea, coke, and then some more cookies. I'd never run a marathon before. I was an 800 meter runner. The longest race I'd run before this endeavor was a 10K (6 miles). I watched the other runners approach the food station. They barely stopped as they grabbed a cup of water and perhaps an orange slice. Apparently you're not supposed to treat the food stations like an all-you-can-eat-buffet. I felt mildly self-conscious, but luckily the feeling didn't last too long. I grabbed another cookie. And a banana. 

Food and water station. We kept getting stuck behind the mules. 

I often get myself into some pretty interesting and hilarious scrapes, but I haven't died yet (YET) because I (usually) know when enough is enough. I desperately wanted to run up to the summit just so I could say I completed a trail running marathon without training (stupid). But I would have been miserable and exhausted and it could have been dangerous. Also my hands had begun to swell at an alarming rate. I looked like I was suffering from some sort of Harry Potter inspired curse. I reluctantly--but gratefully-- decided to scrap the summit and head back to the village.

Because British guy is British guy, he stayed with me through the whole race even though he is fit enough to have gone further and faster. British guy's idea of a good time is an Ironman. I'm just waiting for him to suggest a weekend excursion to cycle up Everest and then ski down. During which time he'll master the local language. I'm 99.9% sure that British guy is a spy. 

I gave Toubkal one last look, grabbed some more cookies, and we headed down the valley and back to Imlil with Toubkal rising up behind us. 

As we approached the final food station I got excited and started talking about cookies. In detail. I spent at least 5 minutes  explaining the difference between biscuits and cookies and lamenting the fact that Europe doesn't have any good cookies. British guy didn't contribute much to this conversation. I guess he doesn't have strong opinions about cookies. 

After 30K (18 miles), 2 climbs, 2300 meter (7545 feet) total elevation gain, and at least 3 dozen cookies we reached Imlil. I already have an unhealthy obsession with Chaco flips, but I was so happy to put my feet back into flip flops that I nearly cried. Here is what my feet looked like:

Gross. 

So I didn't finish the marathon, but I had a hell of a good time and got some free cookies out of it. In my book, that's a successful adventure (in my book anything involving cookies is a success), but next time I run a marathon, I'll train for it. Promise. 

*A réfuge is the French term for a mountain hut. When the French refer to refuges, they're referring to something that looks like this.

You should travel to Morocco if you...

1. enjoy the adrenaline rush of narrowly escaping horrific traffic accidents.

2. like cats. Really like cats.

3. want to eat well. Couscous, tagines, fresh vegetables, fresh seafood, delicious pastries. In the words of British guy: Fish straight from the sea. Meat straight from the mountains. --> He insists on being poetic because he's so high-brow.

4. are obsessed (or want to become obsessed) with avocado juice.

5. think toilet paper is superfluous.

6. enjoy 4 lumps of sugar with your espresso.

7. want to climb (or run a marathon up) the highest peak in North Africa.

8. like shopping and haggling.

9. enjoy being hassled by shady men.

10. want to experience a country that is a complex mix of tradition and modernity.

**Back to regular posting on Thursday. Lots of good stories including spontaneously signing up for a marathon and setting up a tent inside of a hotel**

The three hour airport arrival rule

I like to think that I'm laid-back and to some extent I'm sure that my travels and life experiences have mellowed me out a little bit, but the truth is that I'm actually quite high-strung.

Example A: I hate being late to the airport.

Late = Less than three hours before my flight departs.

I have always been this way. Because my parents were divorced, I flew with relative frequency between San Jose and Orange County, California. Usually my mom would take me to the airport, but occasionally my aunt would take me instead.

My aunt does not share my "arrive at airport three hours before flight departure" philosophy. She is more of the "as long as you show up before the plane lifts off the ground, you're fine" philosophy. I have nothing against this philosophy. In an effort to be more relaxed I have even tried to embrace it. But it's no use. Around four hours before my flight departs, my heart begins beating faster, my breathing becomes shallow and rapid, my fingers tap incessantly and everything in my body screams, "LEAVE FOR AIRPORT NOW OR YOU WILL MISS YOUR FLIGHT." My subconscious is ever so slightly dramatic.

Even at the age of eight this behavior had begun to manifest itself. Three hours before my flight I would look anxiously at the clock and sigh loudly as my aunt fed the dog or did the dishes. Two hours before, I would begin to hyperventilate. With one hour to go I would be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Out of pity for my frail nervous system my aunt and cousin would pile into the car. My aunt would nonchalantly mention that she needed to stop by the bank and it would only take a second because it was on the way. I would panic. With thirty minutes to go we would be pulling into the airport parking lot and I would be poised to grab my bags and sprint through John Wayne Airport as soon as the car slowed down enough for me to leap out. All the while my inner monologue would be screaming that the plane had already left...surely they had already locked the doors. But no. I always arrived at the gate with time to spare. I have, in fact, never missed a flight as a result of showing up late to the airport.

There is only one other person I have ever met who shares my "terrified of being late and missing the flight" syndrome. She is my best friend, one of my favorite traveling companions, and probably the only person on the planet who does not judge me when five hours before the flight departs, I look at the clock and say, "i guess we should probably head to the airport now." She is usually already in the car saying, "we should probably leave six hours before so that we have time to stop at Peet's coffee." I'm pretty sure we were separated at birth.

If you really want to gauge your relationship with someone you should travel with them. Traveling, much like tandem sea kayaks, will make or break a relationship. Guaranteed.

While I would never want to be in a double kayak with him (I don't care who you are, that's just a bad idea), British guy and I travel well together. He doesn't share my airport arrival philosophy, but I can overlook this because he helps carry my stuff (re: he carries all of it) and he also likes to purchase a copy of The Economist to read on the plane. And he doesn't mind when I want my own seat on the bus so I can stare out the window while listening to my iPod and imagining myself accepting the Nobel Peace Prize. Well he doesn't know that I imagine that. I guess he does now.

He also puts up very diplomatically with my travel foibles. They are as follows:

1. I don't really enjoy going to visit tourist sites.
2. I'm not a big fan of guided tours. In fact, they send me running.
3. I tend to tune out when my traveling companions read out of the guide book while we wander around the city/church/museum/historical site. Unless they do it in a  funny accent. Then I enjoy it.
4. I am a food snob. I don't mean that I'm picky about what I eat, but I am fussy about where. I have a knack for finding good restaurants. I once dragged my poor friend, Ryan, through Florence for hours in search of the perfect restaurant even though he had injured himself and was limping pathetically courageously behind me. But he did eat well that night. Although it might have come at the expense of his knee.
5. I have this really, really annoying tendency to not look at a map and instead insist on wandering aimlessly around figuring that I'll find where I need to be eventually. This is ridiculous and annoying and is completely worthy of being slapped upside the head with a Lonely Planet Guide. Preferrably the Europe one. You're welcome Lonely Planet. Your sales for that particular guide just skyrocketed.

British guy also entertains me. Admittedly this is not difficult to do, but it definitely comes in handy when our Easyjet flight to Morocco is four hours late and we're stuck sitting in the Lyon airport. Because British guy knows when to listen to me and when to slap me upside the head with a Lonely Planet Guide,* we did not arrive at the Lyon airport three hours before our scheduled flight departure and --as a result-- only spent five hours sitting at the airport instead of eight.

*British guy objected to this. He says that he wouldn't hit me in the head with a guidebook as a teaspoon is far more effective.

**Excuse the typos. Typing on a French keyboard in Morocco.

The Jimmy Buffet Justification (It's 5 o'clock somewhere)

To say that I absolutely positively loathe flying with all of my heart is an understatement. A major understatement. The first thing I do when I board the plane is start counting down how long until I can get off of it. I also look for the nice looking flight attendant who will give me an extra dose of vodka. I'm not normally a huge fan of hard liquor, but when I'm on a plane I drink enough to put a sailor to shame.

There is a Mexican restaurant in San Francisco International Airport. I always stop there when I'm flying out of SF  and order flautas and a gin and tonic. The bartender knows me. It's embarrassing.

Flying is nothing new. My parents divorced when I was quite young and my family is scattered across the U.S. I've been flying alone since I was a very little girl. (British guy reminded me that I'm still little. Fine. When I was very young.) I used to love flying. I loved the view. The peanuts. The clouds. The soda (which normally I wasn't really allowed to drink, but nobody told the flight attendant that). I even loved the turbulence. For me it was the equivalent of a ride at a theme park. I was not afraid because I trusted my parents. I trusted that they since they let me get on the plane then surely nothing bad would happen. My parents loved me. They protected me. I trusted that. End of story.

But at some point, I stopped trusting that everything would work out.

I became afraid.

Very afraid.

And now I'm sitting here thinking that I have to get on a plane to Morocco in a few hours and wondering when the earliest acceptable time for drinking is. Noon? But what if I put orange juice in it? 10:00 a.m.? That's in two minutes. I'm going to go with that.

Morocco Bound

British guy: Do you want to go to Morocco?

Me: Yes.

British guy: Ok.


And that's how we ended up booking tickets to go to Morocco for roughly two weeks.

We leave Monday, the 4th.

That's tomorrow. You were probably already aware of that because you are not calendar-challenged individuals.

For some reason we both thought our flight was on Tuesday. We realized yesterday that our flight is, in fact, on Monday. This still would have left plenty of time to pack and organize, but we decided to spend the weekend cycling around les Hautes-Alpes.

So now it's Sunday evening, and neither of us have packed. We have a hotel booked for two nights in Marrakech. We're staying 10 nights

This is the itinerary:

Day 1: Fly to Morocco. Read guide book on plane. Realize we didn't bring any of the right things. Vow to be more responsible travelers on the next trip. Arrive in Marrakech. Haul baggage around, argue with taxi driver about price from airport to city center, get lost looking for hotel. Hate Morocco. Finally find hotel. Get food. Love Morocco.

Day 2: Find mountain biking shop. Rent mountain bikes. Explore [insert the very interesting things we will read about in guide book on plane] in Marrakech.

Day 4-Day 9: Maybe do some mountain biking in the Atlas Mountains. Sleep in tent because it's cheaper than hotel. Maybe go up to the North and cross into Spain and then spend the next week month forever wandering around Spain. Or maybe head to the Coast. Or maybe just stay in the mountains. Or maybe go to Fez. Or maybe not. Eat delicious food. Try very hard not to get food poisoning, but realize that no trip is a trip without food poisoning. Sigh.

Day 10: Casablanca. Spend the entire day quoting Casablanca (the film) to British guy. Get thrown in fountain by British guy.

Day 11: Fly back to France. Unless we decide to go through Spain. Then see above.