Up, Up and Away

For the first time, we were grateful this morning for the strident blare of the 5 a.m. call to prayer. It’s been awhile since we’ve caught a sunrise and we didn’t want to miss our chance to do so from the charming wicker basket of a hot-air balloon sweeping the sky over the plains outside Marrakech at 700-plus feet. The ballooning trip was organized as a fundraiser for an international education charity called Room to Read, which partners with local communities to establish schools, libraries and educational infrastructure in developing countries. A devoted group here is trying to set up a Room to Read NGO in Marrakech, and the balloon trip is one in a series of fundraising events that the local team has put on. If education makes you see the world differently, the view from a graceful hot-air balloon at dawn is an apt metaphor. That we almost had to scrap our lift-off, saved only by the perseverance and adventurous spirit of a few, might be the stronger allegory for the ever-challenging charity world, especially for an NGO devoted to reading in a country with a dismal 50% illiteracy rate.

Maurice, our French pilot and the owner of the hot-air balloon company, Ciel d’Afrique, is the only registered balloon operator in all of Morocco. His company also does ballooning in the south of France, Mali, Ethiopia and soon Mexico. How he came by the exclusive permit is a long story, but he’s a savvy businessman and has established a symbiotic relationship with the local village from where he launches the balloons. Upon landing, he takes his clients for mint tea at the home of one of the villagers; there’s a set rotation with the homes so all of the villagers enjoy a financial benefit from the arrangement.




After we trek 25 kilometers in 4x4s, the last 10 of which cross rough, rock-strewn terrain, we arrive at the village and collect a trailer with the basket, balloon and gas canisters as well as some local helpers who have worked with Maurice for the past seven years. The morning air is still and crisp and each of us is craving an extra layer of fleece to stave off the shivers. Fortunately, Sandra, the proprietress of Café du Livre, has brought hot coffee and croissants and we huddle around her make-shift table like numb zombies as Maurice and his crew get busy attaching cables and unfurling the balloon. To give a sense of the scale of the apparatus, the balloon itself is 7,000 cubic meters and the fabric alone costs $60,000. In Morocco’s severe, sun-drenched air, the life of a balloon is about 250 flight hours; in his less sunny European operation, a balloon will last twice that. The wicker basket trimmed in rawhide measures about 4 x 3 meters and comfortably fits twelve in five compartments. There are rope pulls inside the compartments, which come in handy on bumpy take-offs and landings.



Just before inflating the balloon, Maurice walks towards us and his body language tells us the news isn’t good. “Too much wind this morning,” he explains, worried about our eventual landing. Since a hot-air balloon doesn’t have brakes, a high-wind landing can mean that the basket gets dragged along the ground and perhaps even overturned. Hey, if the expert, the guy that’s been doing this for almost 30 years thinks it’s too breezy, the Dowe-Sandes are happy to take a rain-check and head back to town for some scrambled eggs, more coffee and then a cozy bed. Others in the group did not take the news as sanguinely. “Oh, no, I didn’t get up at 4:30 a.m. to watch the salmon-colored dawn from the backseat of a 4x4,” say their expressions. “Wind? I don’t think there’s much wind,” seconds another, lifting a wet finger to the sky as if seasoned at gauging knots. As newbies to the group, we don’t want to come across as unadventurous, even as my mind races with images of the wrenching balloon accident in Ian McEwan’s “Enduring Love.” “Well, it sure would be a blow to Marrakech society if we crashed,” someone jokes.



“Okay, we give it a try,” acquiesces Maurice. Twenty minutes later, his giant fan has inflated the red and green striped balloon and he calls us to attention for take-off. Or rather, he hollers, “Run, get in, and hold fast to the ropes,” as we tumble into the basket. Unlike in an airplane, which takes time to gain altitude, the balloon floats up to 700 feet within seconds. And the ascent is so smooth. Because we’re traveling with the wind, we glide upwards like a hot breath and can only tell we’re moving by looking over the edge at the receding ground. At 700 feet, the Atlas Mountains form a hazy, purple crown around the plain. We can make out individual farms and even small herds of sheep and goats. We wave down at a small boy who stares from the door to his mud-brick house, a toddler sibling in his arms.

Between bursts from the hot-air valves, which Maurice controls with gloved hands, we enjoy the luxurious sound of big space, a welcome relief from the cramped cacophony of the Medina. We can hear the far-off bleating of some sheep and the distant buzz of one of Morocco’s Air Force acrobatic planes doing dawn maneuvers. (Maurice is impressed with the stunt team, which he claims is the only one in the world to fly to plains joined by a rope.) The land beneath us is parched brown with dry riverbeds that wind for miles and only occasionally a patch of green – an olive grove or small vegetable farm. We’re aloft, serene and peaceful for about an hour and a half before Maurice announces our descent.



“I’m going to land us in the balloon’s shadow,” he says, “to show you that I am the best ballooner in Morocco.” We don’t remind him that he’s the only ballooner in the country, too. “It might be a bit rough,” he adds, and after a pause, “the wind’s picked up.” This is cause for a rush of adrenaline from our roller coaster-loving basket mates and sweaty palms and heart palpitations from others. The way we’re situated in the basket, the Dowe-Sandes are set to have our corner touch down first, which means if we tip, the three from the compartment behind will land on top of us. As the ground comes rushing up, we’re set to secure ourselves in an early crouch deep inside the basket when Maurice hands me a line and says, “When I tell you, throw this over the side.” What?! I don’t want any responsibility in this maneuver. I’m not a qualified assistant, peon, private, whatever. This is madness.



As you can see in the photos, we’re all wearing our roller coaster faces as we touch down and make three small hops – less jostling than a JetBlue landing at JFK – and that’s it. Ride over. The balloon swoons into a slack pile and our merry crew clamors out of the basket flushed and beaming. I guess no one will buy that the morning constituted charity work, but it sure was fun. Here’s to improving literacy and to ushering in a new day with a killer fresh viewpoint.