Friday, July 24, 2009

The trail provides

The past month and a half of my life has been more action packed than I could have ever imagined a Moroccan summer to be. Summer days that have previously been spent stuck to my sofa and swatting flies from my face have been substituted with making considerable progress on projects and taking what was easily the craziest(in a good way) vacation of a lifetime.



On the work front, this past month I was approved for the grant for the computer resource center that I have been working on since March. All of the SPA grant funds needed for purchasing 10 computers, 1 new laser printer, and all the things required in order to set them up was transferred to my Moroccan bank account, and just like that, the most daunting and potentially sustainable project that I have pursued in my time here is nearing completion. To top things off, the president of the association that I have been working with for it was recently elected the president of the local governing body in a major sub community of my town, which has given me extra credibility since I am working so closely with him. It’s a nice feeling to have friends and work partners in high places.

In early September I will be meeting with the association members to install everything in the center and have an opening celebration. If I hadn’t already seen the computers I might think that all this project completion is too good to be true. Sustainability here we come (inchallah)!

OK, so now to the good stuff...

COOLEST VACATION OF A LIFETIME:
Gnaoua Festival, tallest mountain in North Africa, and RUNNING OF THE BULLS

Things began by getting out of the desert and heading straight for the beach. After a month in the ruthless summer heat (which I may have mentioned in this blog once or twice before) the beach becomes a magnetic-like force, pulling you inexorably closer until all the sweat and sand is washed away and you can once again think clearly. Another reason for my travels, other than mere sanity maintenance was to check out the annual Gnaoua Music Festival which is held in Essaouira and drawls in people and music from many parts of the world. Upon arrival it was as if I had stepped into another world...one of a variety of different sounds, people, and sights that I had not seen in Morocco in my 2 years here. For 4 days the beach side city of Essaouira becomes packed with people and music and is anything but dull. Wandering through the town is like wandering through a maze full of stimuli that envelop the senses waiting around every corner. Needless to say, it was quite a good way to start off the trip.



After the beachside festivities I moved from ocean line to skyline, as I journeyed to the highest mountain in North Africa, Mount Toubkal, with the intention of climbing it. Given my tight schedule the climb was made even more daunting in that I had to summit and return down the 14,000 foot peak in under 48 hours. A true test of endurance and my 6 year old New Balances, a few of my fellow PCV’s and I managed to make it all the way up within our time limit. After climbing up past the tree line to base camp and spending the night, we moved up and onto the roof of Morocco in under 3 hours...most certainly intense for people who spend their typical days sitting in a coffee shop sipping tea. After exercise of such proportions and exhilaration I don’t think I can ever go back to a gym.



After making it down the mountain, which was much more frightening then the ascent given all the loose rocks, I ventured onward, and made my way to Fes, and from there, straight to Spain.

Spain. So close to Morocco, yet seemingly so very far away. The moment I set foot in the airport in the neighboring country that I had heard so much about, I was reassured that much of what I was told about this first world paradise was true. Modern amenities, no “bonjours”, or inquiries of my religion, and most amazingly, vending machines with beer. With my horribly rusty Spanish and my bag of dirty clothes I set off with my friends to our first Spanish destination, a small rustic beach town in the Girona province.

From Girona we moved on to Barcelona, which has got to be one of the most incredible cities that I have ever visited. Huge, intricate, beautiful, and laid back, it possesses all the characteristics that I often look for in a place. We spent a relaxed 2 days there, exploring parks ubiquitous with talented street musicians, tasting savory food (of a much larger variety than is available in Morocco...and with pork!), roaming the beach, and discovering impressive sites around every corner in the historic district. Despite the sensory overload that this great city had to offer, there was nothing that could have adequately prepared me for what was waiting for me in Pamplona.

We arrived there a day early for the festival, since the early bus was the only one with any seats left. The first few hours there proved to be a good indication of our living conditions for the 3 days to follow. Without a hostel or hotel, and exhausted from the lengthy bus ride with no sleep, our first 5 hours at the place were spent passed out on the grassy area behind the bus station. Watching more than half of the passengers do the same, and seeing them also armed with sleeping bags and tents, it was comforting to know that we were among our own kind.

5 hours later one of my friends and I awoke and ventured out to do some exploring. In just an hour we managed to find a place to drop off our luggage for a small fee, booths to purchase the infamous running of the bulls outfit (white shirt, white pants, red bandanna, and red waist wrap if so desired), and a park to set up camp in for the duration of the festival. This first day was spent relaxing and taking in the sites...little did we know just how mandatory this resting period was.

The follow day was the opening day of the festival. Little did I know that this meant that everything aside from the actual running of the bulls was to start at noon, and to not stop for the next 7 days. By 8 in the morning there were already people crowding the streets with red and white, and running to local grocers to stock up on Sangria and 40 oz’s. The main thing that caught me by surprise initially was just how many people were in on this...everyone. Literally every person in the city, which itself is 195,769 people large without tourists that come in for the festival, was covered in people wearing these outfits, and preparing for the weeks worth of festivities that were soon to follow.

At 12pm on the dot the party started, just as planned. In a sea of red and white in the center city plaza, my friends and I toasted our various beverages to begin what was easily going to be the craziest party I have ever gone to, and will probably ever go to again. High school aged kids ran around and sprayed each other with wine and various food products, giving us no choice but to accept the inevitability of getting grimy and going with it. Where people weren’t trashing one another, they were shouting various Spanish cheers at the top of their lungs, or beating one another with inflatable bats. In one way or another, every person in that city was partying as if they never had before, and would never do so again.

For 7 days...

When one hears that a party lasts for 7 days, it may be instinctive to assume that such an event would stop occasionally for things such as sleeping, eating, cleaning, and intermittent recuperating. But no, this party does not stop until precisely 7 days from its starting time. After the opening event in the plaza there was some kind of signal (perhaps a gunshot, my mind is a little hazy of this time), which apparently indicated to everyone that is was time to disperse and create mayhem in the long, narrow streets that embody the old city. As far as the eye could see, down every street corner, there were people packed shoulder to shoulder, yet too drunk to mind it. The entire municipality became one drunken organism of red and white, moving capriciously in various directions like that of a planchette from a Ouija Board.

Every once and awhile whilst stumbling through the crowd we would discover a small marching band somehow penetrating through the masses and making their way on some kind of circuitous rout through the clustered city. Every time we would discover one of these, we followed them quite a ways, falling in line with them, dancing, and downing more sangria, in that we knew we would need to pass out early to give us rest for the life threatening activities that were scheduled the following day. We managed to stay awake and agile until about 9:00, when we somehow found a way back to our park, which was by then covered with other campers, and passed out.

The alarm went off at 5am. By the alarm I mean my over excited friend who stuck his head into my tent and said “Let’s go run with some bulls!”, or something to that extent. I got up, put on my 6 year old holey new balances, and we were off to find the starting line. Walking through the city at 5:15 in the morning was no different than walking through it at 8:00 in the evening. The streets were still packed with people, only this time they were a little less energetic, given the now 17 hour drinking, hash smoking, and whatever else might have been out there binge. After having squeezed through the masses and stepped over trash and people passed out in the streets, we made it to what was apparently a spot near the starting line.



While waiting there we met many other English speakers, and spent a good deal of time conversing, trying to determine the best place to actually start running from the 1000 lbs animals, along with strategies for not getting crushed (ie stay with the group, don’t run to the side by yourself, stay away from isolated bulls, and of course, do not consider running if you are still intoxicated from the nights festivities). After about 2 hours of this, we saw a large group of police come in, some of whom appeared to be equipped with riot gear. My friends and I watched as the group made their way through the crowd behind us, formed a tight line, and then slowly began moving forward, thus compressing all of us in front of them, and slowly pushing us backwards through the narrow street.

After about 10 minutes of this cattle like pushing and prodding it occurred to us that we were being kicked out of the course. Another 10 minutes later we were pushed out of the course and into a side alley, after which the police closed a large black gate, preventing re-entry. At this point, with only 20 minutes before the releasing of the bulls, we really started to get concerned that we would miss this insane event that we had travelled so far and prepared so much for (by prepared for I mean going to sleep early and getting decent nights sleep in a park before hand, but even that took considerable effort given the circumstances).

Like chickens with our heads cut off, the hundreds of us that had just been kicked off of the course ran around frantically from alley to alley, dodging the remaining drunkards of the previous evening and getting increasingly desperate for some possible mode of re-entry. After all the exits had been checked and deemed impassable, the one remaining friend in site and I considered the attempt to be futile headed off towards the main arena to try and watch some of the action from there. In desperation to see something through the myriad of bodies piled into every possible viewing space, we climbed up the metal gate of a locked entryway and watched as we heard the starting gun shot and saw the people in the front of the pack start to rush by. And then it happened.

I saw my chance when I noticed a man who was standing at the corner of one of the main fences blocking the track disappear. Without thinking twice, I called out to my friend “there!”, and went for it. As I squeezed around the side of the exterior gate, and then under the bottom rung of the inner-most gate, I could hear the sound of thunder approaching quickly. By the time I was in the course, all I could see at first were hoards people running frantically towards the areas entrance. Curious as to how far back the bulls were, but deciding to not take my chances waiting around for them, I started to jog with the crowd. About 5 seconds after I began to move I turned my head to the side and saw a very large, pissed off animal in my peripheral vision. This is when it clicked in my head “ok, this is very real, and I need to run faster now”. About 15 seconds later I entered the arena, and darted off to the right as 6 animal-tanks stormed off in a straight line from behind me. Taking in how happy I was that I had decided to pick up the pace when I did, I looked around me and was instantly struck by the scene. I was no longer a regular civilian...I was now a gladiator, in the middle of an arena designed for battle, full of spectators with the thirst for blood.



After the last bull entered, the doors were slammed shut, leaving approximately 250 of us in the ring with the savage beasts.

The bulls that ran the run were taken into a back stable, leaving the ring bulless, but only for one minute. Not knowing what was going on, I was busy being captivated by the giant projection of someone getting gored merely minutes before on the runway, when the first bull was released into the pit. A smaller bull, but still very large and dangerous, it stampeded around the sandy circle, getting increasingly angry as people would run up to slap its ass or perform some kind of daring harassment of the sort. Personally, I was comfortable just being a spectator, yet even so had to constantly run around and change positions in order to dodge both the frantic crowd and the bull itself. At several points the shield of people, which I attempted to maintain between me and the bull at all times, broke quickly, putting me eye to eye with the infuriated animal. Fortunately, despite being horrified, I was still able to run like hell and each time managed to escape the horns of death that came hurdling towards me on each of these occasions. This continued for an hour, with about 5 bulls being released into the ring one by one, until finally everyone was kicked out.

The rest of Pamplona stay was spent reentering the debauchery for a day, and then getting the hell out of there. In retrospect, the main thing I can say about this event for anyone who is interested in it is to go there and experience it for yourself. No matter how much it is written about and photographed, no documentation can suffice what it is like to be in this chaotic montage of partying and life risking activities.

The rest of the vacation was spent relaxing on the beach in San Sebastian, about an hour away on the Northern Atlantic coast, and then heading back to Barcelona, from where I headed back to reenter the lifestyle that is so different, yet that I have become so accustomed to that it really did feel like coming back home.

In other news, it is 120 degrees in my house and I have begun to stick to everything I touch. But more on that later. Until next time...

1 comment:

Unknown said...

God I miss Spain. And "the trail provides" was certainly the theme of this trip.