Into the Bled

On a recent weekend we traveled into the bled, which is a term indicating a rural Berber region, usually in the mountains. We were visiting another PCV who lives in a small town in the Atlas Mountains. She is living the stereotypical Peace Corps life in a mud house with no running water, but the site was peaceful and beautiful in spring colors with the freshest of air and the brightest of stars. The only sounds were the occasional braying of a donkey or crowing of a rooster, which in the bled, knows enough to crow at dawn instead of 3am.

On Sunday we went for an all day hike up a mountain and into an incredible cedar forest. The trees were huge, reminding me of redwoods, and underneath was a carpet of green grass resembling a lawn. We ate lunch in the forest with a gorgeous view of the valley far below. We then continued up the mountain side and over a rocky ridge where we were surprised to find ourselves in the middle of what appeared to be an illegal tree cutting operation. There may be some exceptions I don’t know about, but I think it’s against the law to cut down a live cedar, but the newly cut giant cedars lying on the ground still had their green branches.
As sad as the sight was, the wonderful fragrance of cedar was overwhelming. I couldn’t resist picking up some pieces of wood to take back with me. On the descent, I slipped on loose footing and fell on my back—right on the cedar blocks--karmic justice perhaps, as the tree strikes back.

On the way home, we managed to snag seats on a metal bench in the back of a 12 passenger van carrying 31 people. And of course someone threw up. Moroccans seem to be unusually susceptible to motion sickness. When you hear someone yell “mica (plastic bag)!”, you know what’s coming. The mica was tossed out the open back door with a big splat, and we went on down the road without a pause. I concentrated on the fields of beautiful wild flowers in a rainbow of colors outside the window.