I was in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, northwest Africa towards where the Mediterranean and the Atlantic meet. I'm a photographer and was there on a contract from a major, national magazine. I've done photography in Outer Mongolia and Antarctica and the Himalayas and the heart of equatorial Africa and other out of the way places. In part, I get hired because of the photos. I sometimes think, though, that the clue to success is to expose huge amounts of film. If you shoot two thousand pictures, a half dozen have to come out pretty good. The other reason is because I'm willing -- in fact I like -- to go off the beaten track and live like a native. Most aren't interested in the tough life.
I should also mention that I'm big. Six feet eight inches tall, 250 pounds in weight. That sounds heavy but in fact I'm very fit. Have to be to do what I do. My size has advantages and disadvantages. In the Atlas Mountains it was an advantage.
There were three of us plus two mules. One was my guide, the other my translator, by official definition. In fact, the three of us played any role required and were very interdependent. This has tended to be true on each expedition I've been on. Here, in the Atlas Mountains we were in some desolate terrain. And we were at altitude much of the time. The peaks where we were go up to 12,000 - 13,000 feet although we never got much above 7,000. The natives, the Berbers, or Amazigh as they call themselves, were like natives everywhere; suspicious of strangers to the point of being hostile. Yet, when things went right, they could be the most hospitable people possible.
The natives live much as they did a thousand years ago. There is no electricity, running water. No doctors, no corner store to buy what you need. No paved roads, mostly just trails. Staying alive is hard work. They grow what crops they can, have what animals they can. Mostly goats. It's a tough life and just about everyone is armed. We were also. Had to be or we'd be robbed and likely killed with no one outside any the wiser.
We walked. Our mules carried our supplies and, occasionally, one of us that needed it. We took almost two months to cover a little over 200 miles. We were threatened at times. In small villages, when one of my guides knew someone, we were treated as welcome guests. Outside, we slept in tents. In homes, we slept on carpets and ate the home owner's own stew. Most homes were stone, two floors. The animals were on the ground floor, the people on the second.
To us, the people appeared dirty. But they really weren't. In order to stay alive, some rudimentary hygiene was needed. Oh, working hard outside all day everyone got dirty. But they cleaned up. Clothing tended to be layers, seemingly anything they could get hold of from modern Nylon jackets to hand woven wool. We happened to attend a wedding, a feast. People wore their best. The women were actually very attractive. Clothing on the younger, unmarried girls was designed, just as it is in developed lands, to make them attractive to potential suitors. People who work hard aren't fat, they're very fit.
Okay, the point of this story. Somewhere, out in the middle of nowhere, after a couple days of walking with no sight of civilization., we came across this house. A typical two-story stone house in what seemed to be good repair. Turns out, it holds a woman and her son. Her husband is off, in civilization somewhere, earning some money. She's keeping things going, caring for the crops and the goats. She and her son, perhaps thirteen or so. She's very wary. If we're the wrong kind, she's in big, big trouble. Even though she doesn't truly trust us, I think she decides she hasn't much choice. If she's unkind we may just kill her and her son. My guides talk to her and convince her of whatever it might be, so we're invited in. We can stay there and she'll even feed us. We'll pay her, although the money is of limited use to her.
