April 28, 2003
During the first week of April, I spent five unforgettable and life changing days in Morocco. I was accompanied by Carlos, the pastor of Calvary Chapel in Jerez, Spain, his wife Yolanda, Carmen, (a member of the church), her son Ángel, and Andrés a Brazilian teen who now lives in Jerez. We departed Jerez at 5am on Friday morning, scrunched in a small Mitsubishi SUV with our luggage in the back, and clothes and medicine in the bins on the roof.
We arrived in Algeciras just in time to catch the 8am ferry to Morocco. By 10am we were in line to cross the official Moroccan border. My visa expired in December, and I've been waiting for the renewal since then.
While we were waiting, the locals would come to our window to offer advice or help filling out our travel statements for the border patrol. We knew that they only wanted our passports, which they could sell for a premium on the black market. With our windows up, we smiled and looked away.
We crossed the border and were on our way. Ten hours later, we arrived at an orphanage that Carlos has visited several times before. Mohammed, who was going to be our translator during our stay in Morocco, worked there. Not 5 min. after our arrival, we were back on the road with an armed Moroccan government official behind us. Mohammed told us to leave immediately because the Orphanage was now being held under surveillance to monitor Christian evangelists. We didn't want to give our names, so we left in a hurry.
The orphanage lies on the outskirts of the Mid-Atlas Mountains - the heart of which would be our final destination. During a visit to the orphanage, Carlos was introduced to Omar, the chief of a Berber tribe. Omar invited Carlos to visit the tribe several months ago, and since then Carlos has stayed with Omar several times. So, that's where we went. The ascent up the mountain was slow going even with a 4wd. Two hours from the orphanage, the paved road ended. We traversed the switchbacks of dirt and rocks for another hour and a half.
The scenery was beautiful-we passed by a forest of cedar and pine trees where the wild monkeys are said to jump and scream. Past the timberland, we began to approach Omar's home. Omar lives just like any other Berber; a rudimentary home made of stones and mud, with a living room/bedroom and a kitchen. They have no electricity, running water, or
bathroom (our bathroom was the open field surrounding the home). Omar has a wife (Ajeeba) a daughter (Azhor, 22) , and a son (Mohammed, 13).
We greeted the family, and were welcomed with what sounded like an adolescent boys choir rehearsal - the Berbers have their own language. Through the odd barks and hacks I somehow recognized the word tea. A childlike giddiness suddenly overcame me - I'm going to drink tea with a Berber tribe...
We soon unburdened galloper (our vehicle) and prepared for our first night underneath an African moon. By the time we had unloaded all our luggage and supplies, the twilight had begun to cast shadows on the green fields leaving an eery Kincade-like tableau.
That evening we communicated with Omar and his family via grunts, animal noises and impersonations, smiles and laughter. We ate dinner and soon when to sleep.
The next day, Saturday, was spent visiting some of Omar's neighbors and drinking tea. Other than playing soccer on a dirt and rock field with a volleyball, the day was fairly uneventful. After dinner at Omar's, Ajeeba asked if we could take her to the hospital because she had hurt her thumb several months ago, and it had yet to heal. We agreed to take her in the morning, concerned that she might have had gangrene.
On Saturday night, the clouds rolled in and started to cry like a baby on an airplane. The dirt highway soon turned into a river of mud. So, on Sunday morning we woke up to even more rain and near-freezing temperatures. In order for Carlos to drive in the mud, I had to install the tire chains. I spent no less than 2 hrs. rolling around in the mud with numb and bleeding hands struggling to install the chains, which were tangled and missing crucial connecting pieces. Had the weather cooperated and Galloper not been bathed in mud, I would have been able to put them on without much trouble. But, with the combination of disastrous weather and poor circulation in my hands, I was left with little strength to install chains.
One had great difficulty walking in the mud without falling, and driving proved to be even more difficult. The 3hr. descent to the paved highway was a death wish. We would move forward about five feet, then Galloper would start to trot to the right, toward the edge of the highway-a mortal drop. Carlos and I were both praying out loud, and I even felt a tear roll down my cheek. Our seat belts were left unfastened because they would've done no good if Galloper had jumped. Once we reached the paved highway, Carlos and I took off the chains and cleaned them in the river.
An hour and a half later, we were en route for the nearest hospital in Meknés. From there we were directed to another hospital in another city that had an X-ray machine available. At the latter, whose name I don´t know, we dropped Omar and Ajeeba off at the gate of the high security hospital. Carlos and I took a walk around the city and recalled our unnerving trek down from the mountain.
The highway was as dangerous on the way up, only this time we lost achain. Once we arrived at Omar's home, we partially undressed and got warm near the stove in the kitchen.
Monday and Tuesday were both cold and wet, so we passed most our time visiting with the family in the living room. I now have a Berber vocabulary of about 15 words. Eat, drink, tea, I'm stuffed, , I'm full, thank you, how are you, etc.
Wednesday we said our goodbye's, some shed a couple tears, Omar suggested I become his son-in-law, everyone laughed, and we drove off.
We spent Wednesday night at Mohammed's parents home in the city where the orphanage is. Mohommads dad took us to a public shower in the city. We tied up Galloper, and walked through an alleyway where a rabid dog on a leash tried to attack us, and someone had set a small doll on fire.
When we got to the shower facility, we asked Mohammads dad if he was going to take a shower also. He shook his head and counted to four with his fingers, indicating that he had four days left before he takes another shower.
The guys and girls split up. We were given buckets and bowls in the dressing room, and once we undressed, we brought them into the shower room (oops, forgot to bring flip-flops). The temperature of the showerroom was very hot, much like a sauna. There were hot and cold waternozzles, which we used to fill our buckets. There were naked bodies all around me-some scrubbing others. A man to my right, who I assumed was a veteran of the public showers, had brought a small carpet to lay down on while his buddy scrubbed him.
After a week without a shower, I was delighted to bath in dirty Moroccan water. We spent about 45 min. sweating and scrubbing, before we returned to the home of Mohammed's dad, where we spent our last night in Morocco. Before sunrise the next morning, we were headed back to Spain.
I have a heart for Omar and his family. I even hope to return for ten days during winter break, Lord willing. It wasn't easy to go back to the civilized world where we take so much for granted. My time in Morocco broadened my perspective on life. I can no longer ignore the fact that so many people live their entire lives with that way, and shrug my shoulders.
I only have three weeks left in Spain! I have mixed feeling about returning home to cold rain, but I miss everyone a lot.
God bless, Nick
