Okay, so over the last few months, my Papa (or Grandfather for those of you playing at home), has been sending me compilations... er, presentations... glorified chain emails if you will, of a few natural slash man-made phenomena. Essentially, pictures & descriptions of some really cool shit. More specifically - some really cool shit in Norway. (He is Norwegian after all.) I'll give you some highlights (before moving on to my point. Of which I assure you, there is one):
Preikestolen - aka Preacher's Pulpit or Pulpit Rock
Preikestolen is located in Forsand, Ryfylke, Norway, a mere 1982 feet about ground. The cliff is 82 feet by 82 feet wide and would most certainly make me crap my pants. Not unlike this next Norwegian, picturesque delight...
Atlanterhavsveien - aka The Atlantic Road
This stretch of five miles took almost six years to build. There are eight bridges in just under eight kilometers which lies over a stretch of ocean that is known to be hurricane-prone. I can already picture my mother uncontrollably crying and pissing her pants simultaneously.
Which leads me to my aforementioned promise of a point. My trip over the Tishka Pass this past weekend.
I've written of this delightful trek before, as the Tishka connects Marrakech and Ouarzazate, cutting through some of the highest points of the Atlas mountains. With an infinite number of vomit-inducing switchbacks, the beautiful landscape is a suitable compliment the guardrail-less cliff edges. Under normal circumstances, enduring this five hour bus journey without puking your guts out or peeing your pants in fear is an accomplishment in itself.
This past Tuesday, however, a wrench was indeed thrown into this already brazen challenge: popping a flat tire on a CTM bus while turning corner on one of these already intimidating switchbacks. (FYI: I will not be disclosing the state of my underpants at this time.) Luckily, our masterfully skilled driver managed to swing the bus into the general direction intended and we slowly bumbled our way downhill towards the nearest village to find a safe place to park and change the tire. Though a village was in sight, this seemed to take over an hour. Once at said village, it took another two and a half hours to change the humongous wheel - with rather questionable equipment and aging manpower to boot. Alhamdulilah, after an excruciatingly long, cold, mountain-side wait, we were off again and safely made it to Marrakech just over two hours later (and just under four hours late).
However, as the tire burst and I was sent slamming into the passenger-side window, I wasn't sure where I'd rather be: plummeting over the Tishka into a neighbouring Berber village? Or cascading over the edge of the Atlanterhavsveien into the chilly North Atlantic?
Lose, lose I suppose.
