Arctic Africa Photos By Frode Sandbech Words By Annie Fast
Last winter the mountains of Morocco experienced the most snow in more than two decades, and we hit it perfect.
We were standing
by the side of a trashed-out creek below the makeshift Coca-Cola refreshment stand next to the loading station for the only lift leading to the top of Morocco’s Oukaïmeden resort in the Atlas Mountains. Three boys tied up their donkeys and gladly built our jump for the price of twenty dirhams—about three dollars. It equaled out to the same price as the donkey ride they were offering from the parking lot to the lift. The lift wasn’t currently running, in fact neither was the electricity, the water, or the roads—an overnight blizzard had shut this mountain village down, but had left us with plenty of snow—it was on, or at least about to be … we thought.
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By this time we
Ms. Torah Bright.
had been in Morocco for a week. It was early March when we met up in Marrakesh, the closest city to the Atlas Mountains— Northern Africa’s highest range at 13,671 feet. Our crew came together quickly with the help of Roxy Europe—Erin Comstock, Torah Bright, Kjersti Buass, Lisa Wiik, and Slovakian rider Basa Stevulova rallied together along with an entourage of media and guides—the snow was there, we just had to get there … quickly. As our crew trickled in from all corners of the planet, we had a few days dizzily exploring this exotic and foreign desert city—we relaxed in the quietness of our Moroccan riad hotel guzzling sweet green tea under the open skies with satin-pillow-lined hideaways, heavy drapes, and a reflecting pool. One step out the non-descript door, and we were hurled headfirst into a maze of loud, narrow-walled streets—dodging scooters loaded down with entire families, donkey cart trucks in a hurry, and small cars squeezing past. We made our way to Marrakesh’s main square called Djemaa el-Fna—it’s discombobulating, there’s the constant high-pitched flutes of the snake charmer, the guys with the spinning hats and finger tambourines, the constant beat of the drummers drumming, and swirling crowds of people under a hot, beating sun. We sampled the local food—aromatic tagines cooked in a tandoori, couscous, apricots, and fresh squeezed orange juice. Our crew of blonde girls stood out in the crowd, but that didn’t intimidate anyone from diving headfirst into the carnival atmosphere—Kjersti and Basa came out with henna tattoos, Erin had a snake draped over her head, while Torah made friends with the monkeys. It was Morocco condensed—and it was hard to believe that we’d be doing any sort of snowboarding here, but through the haze, on the horizon we could see the white-peaked Atlas Mountains.
The chairlift was more like a carnival ride than a means of uphill transport. We made the two-hour drive
Kjersti Buass boosts a big air over some of the more modern architecture found in the Atlas Mountains. Is it bad to have a bunch of leftover lift parts? Erin Comstock finds the upside.
up to the mountains with Erin bravely behind the wheel of the rented SUV, and our guides Stefan from Chamonix, who runs a surf camp near Casablanca in the summers, and Hamidi, who is Berber (the indigenous mountain people of North Africa) and a former Olympic skier. We were in good hands with them leading the way. The drive took us through the suburbs, then into sparsely populated foothills, then to a winding mountain pass through heartbreakingly poor roadside villages. It was a staggering change of scenery in such a short drive. We went from masses of humanity in a primarily Muslim city to a quiet resort village. A mix of traditional stone Berber houses built into the mountainsides and more modern hotels with a French feel to them welcomed us into the valley, and the peak looming 2,175 feet. Not knowing what to expect, we were relieved to see a solid base of snow at the resort and lots of terrain. The resort has two beginner surface tows and a chairlift that reaches the summit. We paid 100 dirhams (thirteen dollars) at the lift shack for an all-day pass. The chairlift was more like a carnival ride than a means of uphill transport with scenic riders on “Le Journee” kitted out in ski boots (which seemed to be mandatory for walking on the snow) emitting raucous cheers as the chair swept group after group up into the air. Up at the top, we took in the contrasting views of frosty white peaks to the north and endless desert to the south, and dropped into the consistently steep, long pitch—fun enough freeriding—mind-blowing considering it was Africa. Africa! But it wasn’t going to last. A few more days of evermore hardening conditions passed and then blasting winds from the Sahara—the world’s largest desert—kicked in, and the
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Lisa Wiik.
A long-ago abandoned archaeological site, right? Nope, Torah Bright airs over an occupied Berber neighborhood. Brr.
Blasting winds from the Sahara—the world’s largest desert—kicked in, and the next day white turned to red.
next day white turned to red; sand covered the mountains and shut down our plans of heading into the tempting backcountry. Should we go for a camel ride instead? Tempting, but we were here to ride our boards. Undeterred by the sandstorm, we continued to make the best of it—the views were incredible and there were plenty of spots to ride around the village. This already-dramatic setting was even more exaggerated by the tongue of fog that began rolling in and out of the valley throughout the afternoon, alternating from sunny to whiteout and back. The riders delicately jibbed the stone houses built into the hillside where we assumed people lived only during the summers—it was stark and cold looking, but at the end of the day, we saw people walking home up the now-obvious snowy paths, stowing their donkeys in the lower-level stables with stifling, putrid, air—they’d come bucking and snorting out in the morning gasping. Oh the smell … eye-bleeding. Days of jibbing passed with the promise of snow just over the horizon.
Then one morning we woke up without heat, electricity, or running water and over a foot of fresh snow on the ground—not surprisingly the third world infrastructure snapped under the weight of this snowfall. The unprepared hotel staff hit us up for gas from our cars to fuel the generator, the roads were closed, and we were basically stranded. Well enough. The crew was somewhat beat down by this point—Basa with a broken finger, Torah with a tweaked shoulder, and poor Lisa, she had stretched out her collar muscles and was sporting a neck brace. We were three days from our departure and had yet to really explore the upper mountain since those first few days—the deep powder arrived just in time! It was a waiting game for the lift to open and for the electricity to come back on—rumors gave us hope and then let us down. At night it was icebox cold in our concrete mountain chalet, we huddled around the fire in the candlelit lounge and used headlamps to navigate the dark hallways. It was surreal.
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Which brings us back to the riverside jump. Our fellow tourists had arrived by the busload once the roads reopened. The beginners rented skis that were long past their prime and went for walks along flat cattracks, shuffling around the lower mountain. The parking lot took on the look of the market scene back down in Marrakesh with vendors selling walnuts and sticky-sweet sesame seed bars for snacks; fistfuls of rosemary and sage for the tagine and mint for tea; stone necklaces, donkey rides, sled rides, and ski lessons were all on offer—name your price, or in the case of the dueling sesame bar vendors, allow them to holler it at the top of their lungs as the crowds shuffle past—“Dirham! Dirham! Dirham!” Some local people stopped to watch Erin, Basa, and Kjersti jump over the river—we thought the site of girls in action would be a showstopper—but the unusually snowy landscape had everyone’s full attention. The heated session continued with only the necklace sellers as witnesses—sure that there was a customer among us … as soon as the strange girls were finished flinging themselves over this river.
Still, there remained the problem of fresh powder and the closed lifts, and by the final day, with the lifts still not running, our guide Stefan was tweaking, so we took the ascent on foot. He strapped on his skis and skins, I put on my snowshoes and we hiked to the top of the mountain. It was stunning. We rode through bouncy, fresh powder off the steep summit following a shoulder down through some chutes and out into wide-open snowfields ending where the crowds gathered at the rope tow. And once again, no single person even flinched when we skidded into the base breathing heavy and delirious, our track behind us leading to the summit. It was a realization that came to me somewhere in the middle of the madness of the Casablanca airport on the way home—where the security line flowed right around the gates, and the guards smoked, and our fellow travelers’ exotic tribal garb seemed to come from somewhere even more foreign, did I really realize the miracle of our trip—we rode blower powder in Africa—Africa—and the conditions were as good as any we had ever experienced.
The heated session continued with only the necklace sellers as witnesses —sure that there was a customer among us … Thie river gap with a geniuine Berber-built booter— Roxy rider Basa Stevulova test drives the trajectory.
Oukaïmeden resort.
YOU CAN TOOO We flew into Marrakesh via Casablanca on Air Moroc during the first week of March. We stayed at the Riad Pachavana in Marrakesh (pachavana.com)—it’s a short walk from the main square (Djemaa el-Fna) and marketplace (Souq). Driving isn’t recommended, so take a taxi from the airport to the Riad, and yes, to the resort and back (it is about 45 windy miles each way). We stayed at Le Courchevel Hotel at Oukaïmeden, but it’s not unusual to just hit up the resort for one day and head back down. Lift tickets cost 100 dirham cash, and the season runs from January until late March.
Kjersti Buass and a Marrakesh local.
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