Santiago and his dream
The stratocumulus clouds rolled across the valley forming row after row as far as the eye could behold, bunching up like a soft blanket. The blue sky was a deeper blue than I had ever imagined. Maybe it was just the cold air filling my lungs all too quickly. I coughed and breathed a little more slowly, as I looked across to the mountain range beside me. The snow clung to the coulouirs precariously, wishing for a few more days of winter. But winter was slowly fading from our minds, as Laurent (also known in some parts as Johnny Walker) and I chatted about wine tasting in Morocco and the big powder dump that fell a few weeks earlier. I breathed in deeply, yes, it’s true. This is not a dream – this is the High Atlas and I am skiing some great lines (not exceptionally well). This is Morocco and it’s just another day of sensory overload.
So where did it all start? In one sense it started when I was eight looking at National Geographic in the attic. On a more recent and applicable time of my life, it really was the month of February that brought me to this point of heading to a place that I have only dreamed of. A series of tough weeks, changes in my job, setbacks, robberies, and a few other things all combined to make me say, “I need to get on the next plane out of Monrovia.” So, I jumped on the twin prop plane to get to Cote d’Ivoire. It had a little Indiana Jones feel to it. The bags packed in the front of the plane…the crusty Slovakian pilots…the “fasten seat belts” sign was a piece of paper taped to the interior of the plane, all added up to a memorable experience. I landed at the Ivory Coast at noon and grimaced as I realized that I had no visa, which meant a 14 hour layover in an airport that was modestly boring. The plane was delayed, so after waiting for about 15 hours in the airport I was glad to get on a plane to Morocco.
As I drifted in and out of semi consciousness somewhere over Morocco my mind returned to Paulo Coehlo’s book, The Alchemist. Santiago dreamed of the land just south of the shores of his homeland in the Andalusia hills in what is now Southern Spain. His wanderlust led him to take risks, taste exotic foods, have chance encounters with unique individuals who spoke words that his soul could only hear when separated from his homeland. He risked it all to find a treasure and in the end he was shown that the real treasure was exactly in the spot where he started, in the hills where he tended his sheep. Yet, the time was not lost; the journey was not without purpose. For it was in the journey that he discovered wisdom, truth and most importantly, his personal legend.
I fell asleep and was awoken by the sunlight coming in from the East. The cumulus clouds were a dazzling brilliance of refined gold in the morning light. A few hours later Morocco opened up its green countryside as we descended rapidly on our approach to Casablanca. That was a surprise; it definitely was not the last.
So where did it all start? In one sense it started when I was eight looking at National Geographic in the attic. On a more recent and applicable time of my life, it really was the month of February that brought me to this point of heading to a place that I have only dreamed of. A series of tough weeks, changes in my job, setbacks, robberies, and a few other things all combined to make me say, “I need to get on the next plane out of Monrovia.” So, I jumped on the twin prop plane to get to Cote d’Ivoire. It had a little Indiana Jones feel to it. The bags packed in the front of the plane…the crusty Slovakian pilots…the “fasten seat belts” sign was a piece of paper taped to the interior of the plane, all added up to a memorable experience. I landed at the Ivory Coast at noon and grimaced as I realized that I had no visa, which meant a 14 hour layover in an airport that was modestly boring. The plane was delayed, so after waiting for about 15 hours in the airport I was glad to get on a plane to Morocco.
As I drifted in and out of semi consciousness somewhere over Morocco my mind returned to Paulo Coehlo’s book, The Alchemist. Santiago dreamed of the land just south of the shores of his homeland in the Andalusia hills in what is now Southern Spain. His wanderlust led him to take risks, taste exotic foods, have chance encounters with unique individuals who spoke words that his soul could only hear when separated from his homeland. He risked it all to find a treasure and in the end he was shown that the real treasure was exactly in the spot where he started, in the hills where he tended his sheep. Yet, the time was not lost; the journey was not without purpose. For it was in the journey that he discovered wisdom, truth and most importantly, his personal legend.
I fell asleep and was awoken by the sunlight coming in from the East. The cumulus clouds were a dazzling brilliance of refined gold in the morning light. A few hours later Morocco opened up its green countryside as we descended rapidly on our approach to Casablanca. That was a surprise; it definitely was not the last.
Comments
Anyway, don't forget that you can always stay at my parent's house outside of Casablanca. My parents know some guys that have an NGO that shapes surf boards and I'm sure they would love to rent you a board.