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Morocco
Morocco
The truck lurched and jolted over the rocks and ruts of this barren landscape where dust devils danced amongst the wildflowers. It was early March and the wildflowers turned expectant faces to fickle spring rains that managed to survive evaporation before hitting the ground. The beauty of the snow-capped Atlas Mountains in the distance offset the deserts desolation and harsh conditions. There’s something special about the desert, something about seeing the land unchanged, as it was created.
The sun slipped to the horizon and tugged a pastel curtain across the sky turning the deserts dusty coat to orange and gold. The sounds of the wind through the olive groves and the bleating of sheep being herded to a walled compound by a young Moroccan shepherd broke the silence.
My job here was to provide security for the equipment and personnel deployed to this North African site a week prior to the launch of the Space Shuttle. The team consisted of technicians, weathermen, fire/rescue personnel, and an astronaut to determine site suitability on launch day. The team stayed in Marrakech and traveled to this old abandoned U.S. Strategic Air Command Base in Ben Guirrer on a daily basis. Ben Guirrer is about 47 miles north of Marrakech and although abandoned by the U.S. in the 60’s a Moroccan Army Parachute Battalion is using it.
The main entrance gate and guard posts to the base resembles a fortress wall from the “Arabian Nights”, but that romanticism is soon lost when you stop and show your identification to the stoic paratrooper with an AK-47 cradled across his chest.
Photographs of this picturesque architecture were forbidden for security reasons, but after showing the Moroccan Security Officer photographs taken from space showing minute detail of the base, we convinced them their concerns of picture taking is of little consequence.
We are still forbidden to take photographs or go into or close to an abandoned hangar, which is located 100 yards north of the NASA Operations Building. However during the night while on standby for Shuttle orbits that put Morocco in the flight path, Moroccan Air Force planes landed here and we could see body bags being unloaded and carried into the hangar. This activity is a result of the conflict over the former Spanish Sahara that lies between Morocco and Mauritania. Each claims the territory after Spain relinquished title to it.
The base is basically a base within a base, the active part being utilized by the Moroccan Army and the old abandoned section left by the U.S. NASA built a new Operations building near the old airport tower at the edge of a taxiway apron. The balance of this section of the base with the exception of the Moroccan Air Force Guard Detachment facility consists of old barracks buildings, which are reduced to shells, as the locals took everything usable in the interim period between the U.S. leaving and the Moroccan takeover of the base. It is a ghost town with deteriorating buildings, rubble, and huge empty fuel reservoirs.
The Moroccan Air Force guard detachment is under contract to NASA to provide sentries for NASA equipment. I monitored security requirements and supervised the operation, coordinating day-to-day operations with Major Aquirtit, Commandant of the guard detachment.
I stopped the truck and got out to check the generators. The generators sat on concrete pads and powered equipment to provide landing guidance information to the Shuttle should a contingency develop where the Shuttle would not be able to achieve orbit. In that event the Shuttle would land here.
As I walked toward the generators the sentry approached pulling his field jacket closed against the winds chill as the desert gave up its heat to the twilight. He saluted smartly and with smiling gestures invited me into his tent for mint tea. The offer of tea in Morocco is more than a simple gesture; it is a social obligation and a ceremony of sorts.
I entered the tent and sat on a wooden ammo box while the sentry put fresh mint leaves in the teapot and added water and sugar. I was apprehensive about the source of the water until I remembered that I had dropped off bottled water at this outpost earlier in the day because the supply truck had not yet arrived. The sentry lit a small oil lamp and its glow warmed this Spartan shelter. There were two cots, a small charcoal stove, and ammo boxes for chairs and tables. The glow of the lantern created writhing shadows on the tent walls buffeted by the desert winds. The smell of canvas and sweat was mixed with the sweet smell of mint as the sentry poured the tea by raising the pot high above the glass several times.
Conversation was limited to gestures and smiles as I spoke neither Arabic nor French and the sentry no English, yet he took obvious pleasure in sharing his meager rations with me. I stayed long enough to be polite and while I enjoyed the respite from the wind, I had a job to do. I shook his hand and said “Salaam a’ Liakum” which means “peace be with you". He was delighted that I used the traditional Arabic blessing as a goodbye and thank you.
I stepped out of the tent and hesitated for a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness in order not to stumble on the rock- strewn ground. The sky was like none I had ever seen, black velvet stretching from horizon to horizon with a million pinpoints of light. Here in this barren place the heavens didn’t have to compete with city lights billboards, or traffic.
A shooting star moved across the blackness, it’s blazing trail visible until it dropped beyond the mountains. I stood in awe of the celestial beauty and wondered how anyone can accept this as a simple random occurrence and not the planned work of a higher power. Don’t get me wrong I’m not an unbeliever but on the other hand I am not a particularly pious or overtly religious individual. I accept and strongly believe in the existence of God, there can be no other logical explanation for the order of life or the very existence of the universe itself. . All debatable of course, but when I looked at that sky I saw God, not a vision, not a spiritual event, but a sky that could be created by no other.
When I looked at that sky and realized that some of the light I was seeing left that star more than a lifetime ago and realized there are galaxies out there that are millions of light years from the earth, our measure of time seems of little importance. Is it not possible that the thousands of years of evolutionary change we accept as truth and logic is nothing more than a day or an hour of God’s work in molding all that we see? I don’t think God works within the same time parameters we do, his time is divine, while ours is defined
The sentry exiting the tent and using a flashlight to secure a loose tent peg broke the spell. I walked to the truck and cranked the diesel, it’s sound was ugly and irreverent in the beauty of the night. The temperature continued to drop, but I was reluctant to roll up the windows of the truck, as the dust on them accumulated earlier in the day would spoil the panorama stretched out before me.
The truck lights skimmed across the ground illuminating the rocks while leaving the chuckholes in darkness and the dust churned by the tires swirled away in the wind. I drove over the rocky ground toward the second set of landing aids; this set was 3500 feet from the approach end of the runway.
I stopped the truck, shut off the 2-way radio and the truck lights, and got out. I leaned against the truck door and simply stared at the sky and listened to the sound of silence. The solitude, the silence, the beauty of the night, I felt so insignificant, so humbled by a beauty that touched my very soul. These inadequate words fail to capture a moment that will be forever etched in my memory.
The moon was rising and the desert was bathed in a bluish light. The sky lost that black velvet and the moonlight overpowered all but the brightest stars. Everything was as it should be here, so I got back in the truck to finish my perimeter survey. The truck lights picked up a donkey hobbled by a walled compound close to the second set of landing aids. These walled compounds usually house an extended family unit. There appears to be a central courtyard with small rooms or apartments in the perimeter walls. Close by are a well and a large mound of hay covered in mud or clay? I assume the hay is covered to resist spoilage or to simply keep the winds from blowing it away. Livestock seems to be limited to the ever-present donkey. The donkey is probably the Moroccan’s most precious possession; it serves as labor and transportation.
These walled compounds have been constructed in the same manner for hundreds of years and they provide shelter and protection in this sparsely populated area.
I checked the fence line and the perimeter and started the return trip to the guard tower located on the perimeter of the south end of the base, the routine procedure and the knowledge all checkpoints were secure let my imagination wander.
My imagination picked up from my childhood and I could almost visualize the camel caravan on its slow trek to Marrakech.
Marrakech always had an allure, visions of Arab nomads, Arabian horses, and brass bound muskets, veiled women with mysterious eyes, and the elusive oasis with its essential water holes. Marrakech is an ancient city; the wall around the old market place is almost 1200 years old.
The market place or medina is an endless maze of small shops and narrow passages filled with exotic sights and smells to both delight and assault the senses. Merchants vigorously vie for the dirham of shoppers and especially for those of the tourist. The narrow passageways are filled with people in both modern dress and the traditional robes or djalabas.
The women either by choice or the dictates of their husbands or fathers wear the traditional robes and the majority is veiled. The still air is filled with the smells of cooking meats, curing leather, and desert people to whom water is strictly for drinking.
Water sellers in bright red tasseled hats, pantaloons, and crossed belts across their chests to which were attached several highly polished brass cups, poured water for thirsty shoppers out of a goatskin water bag.
A blind beggar sits at the entrance to one of the small shops, or souks, and shakes his basket of coins. Charity is a requirement for the Muslim so many of the passerby’s drop coins into his basket.
Metal smiths are in abundance and the brass work is of high quality and proudly displayed in front of each shop.
A group of veiled women sit along an ancient stonewall, selling dates and sweet breads. There are intricate designs painted on their hands and fingers, but my attempts to photograph them are futile as they cover their faces with the sleeves of their djalabas or turn their heads. Nearby a craftsman is making wooden chess pieces with a small foot powered lathe, while it is fascinating to watch, stopping for any length of time results in merchants taking your arm and trying to entice you to their shop. After a day in the medina your arms are black and blue with bruises caused by zealous fingers.
Wooden carts filled with honeyed dates and sweetbreads attract swarms of buzzing bees and fresh-butchered lamb carcasses, covered with flies, hang from hooks. Meat must be cooked and eaten quickly because refrigeration is a luxury only enjoyed by the few, and certainly not by the Berbers from the villages at the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. In the summer the heat and closeness are stifling. In June by ten in the morning it was 109 degrees.
The medina covers several square miles and it is very easy to get lost in here. Women tourists are warned not to go here without a male escort and all tourists are warned not to be here after dark. You can hear the flutes of the snake charmer and see him sitting in front of a swaying hooded cobra. It sometimes requires a taste of reality to bring your psyche back to 1993, and here it is! The modern world has touched this ancient medina and the first indication is the bright red Coca-Cola signs over one of the coffeehouses. It was in both English and Arabic.
Here in the narrow passageways the donkey gives way to the moped and they weave between the shoppers with careless abandon. It is quite common to see a family of three or four on one moped with saddlebags stuffed with the day’s food.
We are in a down time between missions and basically the site is in a standby mode. There were two launches rather close together, so rather than incur the expense to replace the onsite team, we will remain here to support both missions. This has allowed us time to see some of the countryside. This morning we rented a car for a drive up into the mountains. Marrakech was quite warm and the tourists were swimming in the hotel pool.
The Atlas Mountains are only about an hour and a half drive from Marrakech. The road twisted and turned as we began the climb. Clinging to the sides of the mountains were Berber villages, their homes made from the indigenous rocks, blended with their surroundings. The road was narrow and there were no guardrails and no shoulders on the road, running off the road on these curves would surely be fatal as the first time you hit would be several hundred feet below. There is a similarity between the Berbers and the Native Americans; here the Arab western expansion pushed the Berbers into the mountains.
The Berbers are a hardy lot and enjoy few modern conveniences. On this winding, climbing road there were Berber women with large tubs of wet clothes balanced on their heads after washing them in the stream below. On their climb back up the steep trail to their homes clinging to the side of the mountain they carried firewood strapped to their backs.
Women and donkeys in Morocco work very hard and in the centuries old tradition both wait upon their men even to the point of sitting outside a coffee house and waiting for their men to spend hours drinking coffee and engaging in conversation. Yet for all this hardship, at night you can hear their songs and trilling yelps as they dance and chant to melodies a thousand years old. Equal status for men and women has not yet made an impact in the Arab world. I had the opportunity to visit the former Guard Force Commandant’s home for dinner. His wife and daughters served dinner, but they were not allowed to eat with the men.
Close to the top and end of this winding mountain road was a toll collector who stopped us at a barricade and collected five dirham or about a dollar and a half to continue to reach the top.
Where the road terminated there was a microwave telecommunication station. We walked from that point around the station fence line to the backside; there we felt we were standing on the top of the world. Far below this sheer drop-off and stretched out in front of us was the desert and in the distance Algeria. I dropped a stone over the edge of the cliff and counted to 6 before it hit the first time
To our left there were other peaks and a chair lift for skiers in winter. The peaks around us were capped in snow and the temperature had dropped dramatically. We decided to ride the chair lift to the top of the mountain and back simply to enjoy the view. All I had brought with me was a sweatshirt. The thought that the weather would be cold up here simply didn’t enter my mind in consideration of how warm it was when we left Marrakech two hours ago. The chair lift traveled about a hundred yards when it began to snow. Now snow isn’t something I have a lot of experience with and when an inch and a half built up on my shoulders, legs, and hat, while the chair swayed in the wind was definitely a new experience. The chair lift itself passed over chasms between different levels and rocky outcroppings; sometimes the distance between the swaying chair and the rocks below was several hundred feet. I’m not totally sure my shaking was just the result of being very cold.
The ride to the top took approximately 40 minutes, I anticipated that the top was just over each new peak we went over, but the cables and chairs continue onward. The towers supporting the cable were constructed on rocky crags and considering the terrain one could not help but wonder of the effort it took to not only to construct the towers but also to deliver the materials to the site.
When we reached the top and stepped off the chair there was a small hut there with smoke coming out of the chimney. We went inside and were able to purchase strong hot Moroccan coffee and of all things Snickers bars, I think that is one of the best cups of coffee I ever had. We found a table of orientation marker that established we were at an altitude of a little over 13,000 feet.
We looked out the windows of the hut and the snowfall had intensified and the surrounding peaks were invisible through the falling snow. The beauty of the surrounding peaks seen so easily from the telecommunications station were now lost in a blowing snowstorm and visibility was down to less than 100 feet.
As suddenly as it had started it stopped. We quickly grabbed the next chair going back down the mountain. After crossing over three ridges blocking the view of the bowl shaped area below us the sun broke through the clouds and the panorama below was something to see. To our right the snow capped peaks of the Atlas and the highest; Mt. Toupikal sparkled in the sunlight. Far below us snow covered rocks sat in the bright green patches of spring grass. To our left and far below were the telecommunications station and the distant desert.
The past 24 hours in Morocco were special to me, it was only one day in the 43 I would spend there on this mission but it is the one I will never forget.
The truck lurched and jolted over the rocks and ruts of this barren landscape where dust devils danced amongst the wildflowers. It was early March and the wildflowers turned expectant faces to fickle spring rains that managed to survive evaporation before hitting the ground. The beauty of the snow-capped Atlas Mountains in the distance offset the deserts desolation and harsh conditions. There’s something special about the desert, something about seeing the land unchanged, as it was created.
The sun slipped to the horizon and tugged a pastel curtain across the sky turning the deserts dusty coat to orange and gold. The sounds of the wind through the olive groves and the bleating of sheep being herded to a walled compound by a young Moroccan shepherd broke the silence.
My job here was to provide security for the equipment and personnel deployed to this North African site a week prior to the launch of the Space Shuttle. The team consisted of technicians, weathermen, fire/rescue personnel, and an astronaut to determine site suitability on launch day. The team stayed in Marrakech and traveled to this old abandoned U.S. Strategic Air Command Base in Ben Guirrer on a daily basis. Ben Guirrer is about 47 miles north of Marrakech and although abandoned by the U.S. in the 60’s a Moroccan Army Parachute Battalion is using it.
The main entrance gate and guard posts to the base resembles a fortress wall from the “Arabian Nights”, but that romanticism is soon lost when you stop and show your identification to the stoic paratrooper with an AK-47 cradled across his chest.
Photographs of this picturesque architecture were forbidden for security reasons, but after showing the Moroccan Security Officer photographs taken from space showing minute detail of the base, we convinced them their concerns of picture taking is of little consequence.
We are still forbidden to take photographs or go into or close to an abandoned hangar, which is located 100 yards north of the NASA Operations Building. However during the night while on standby for Shuttle orbits that put Morocco in the flight path, Moroccan Air Force planes landed here and we could see body bags being unloaded and carried into the hangar. This activity is a result of the conflict over the former Spanish Sahara that lies between Morocco and Mauritania. Each claims the territory after Spain relinquished title to it.
The base is basically a base within a base, the active part being utilized by the Moroccan Army and the old abandoned section left by the U.S. NASA built a new Operations building near the old airport tower at the edge of a taxiway apron. The balance of this section of the base with the exception of the Moroccan Air Force Guard Detachment facility consists of old barracks buildings, which are reduced to shells, as the locals took everything usable in the interim period between the U.S. leaving and the Moroccan takeover of the base. It is a ghost town with deteriorating buildings, rubble, and huge empty fuel reservoirs.
The Moroccan Air Force guard detachment is under contract to NASA to provide sentries for NASA equipment. I monitored security requirements and supervised the operation, coordinating day-to-day operations with Major Aquirtit, Commandant of the guard detachment.
I stopped the truck and got out to check the generators. The generators sat on concrete pads and powered equipment to provide landing guidance information to the Shuttle should a contingency develop where the Shuttle would not be able to achieve orbit. In that event the Shuttle would land here.
As I walked toward the generators the sentry approached pulling his field jacket closed against the winds chill as the desert gave up its heat to the twilight. He saluted smartly and with smiling gestures invited me into his tent for mint tea. The offer of tea in Morocco is more than a simple gesture; it is a social obligation and a ceremony of sorts.
I entered the tent and sat on a wooden ammo box while the sentry put fresh mint leaves in the teapot and added water and sugar. I was apprehensive about the source of the water until I remembered that I had dropped off bottled water at this outpost earlier in the day because the supply truck had not yet arrived. The sentry lit a small oil lamp and its glow warmed this Spartan shelter. There were two cots, a small charcoal stove, and ammo boxes for chairs and tables. The glow of the lantern created writhing shadows on the tent walls buffeted by the desert winds. The smell of canvas and sweat was mixed with the sweet smell of mint as the sentry poured the tea by raising the pot high above the glass several times.
Conversation was limited to gestures and smiles as I spoke neither Arabic nor French and the sentry no English, yet he took obvious pleasure in sharing his meager rations with me. I stayed long enough to be polite and while I enjoyed the respite from the wind, I had a job to do. I shook his hand and said “Salaam a’ Liakum” which means “peace be with you". He was delighted that I used the traditional Arabic blessing as a goodbye and thank you.
I stepped out of the tent and hesitated for a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness in order not to stumble on the rock- strewn ground. The sky was like none I had ever seen, black velvet stretching from horizon to horizon with a million pinpoints of light. Here in this barren place the heavens didn’t have to compete with city lights billboards, or traffic.
A shooting star moved across the blackness, it’s blazing trail visible until it dropped beyond the mountains. I stood in awe of the celestial beauty and wondered how anyone can accept this as a simple random occurrence and not the planned work of a higher power. Don’t get me wrong I’m not an unbeliever but on the other hand I am not a particularly pious or overtly religious individual. I accept and strongly believe in the existence of God, there can be no other logical explanation for the order of life or the very existence of the universe itself. . All debatable of course, but when I looked at that sky I saw God, not a vision, not a spiritual event, but a sky that could be created by no other.
When I looked at that sky and realized that some of the light I was seeing left that star more than a lifetime ago and realized there are galaxies out there that are millions of light years from the earth, our measure of time seems of little importance. Is it not possible that the thousands of years of evolutionary change we accept as truth and logic is nothing more than a day or an hour of God’s work in molding all that we see? I don’t think God works within the same time parameters we do, his time is divine, while ours is defined
The sentry exiting the tent and using a flashlight to secure a loose tent peg broke the spell. I walked to the truck and cranked the diesel, it’s sound was ugly and irreverent in the beauty of the night. The temperature continued to drop, but I was reluctant to roll up the windows of the truck, as the dust on them accumulated earlier in the day would spoil the panorama stretched out before me.
The truck lights skimmed across the ground illuminating the rocks while leaving the chuckholes in darkness and the dust churned by the tires swirled away in the wind. I drove over the rocky ground toward the second set of landing aids; this set was 3500 feet from the approach end of the runway.
I stopped the truck, shut off the 2-way radio and the truck lights, and got out. I leaned against the truck door and simply stared at the sky and listened to the sound of silence. The solitude, the silence, the beauty of the night, I felt so insignificant, so humbled by a beauty that touched my very soul. These inadequate words fail to capture a moment that will be forever etched in my memory.
The moon was rising and the desert was bathed in a bluish light. The sky lost that black velvet and the moonlight overpowered all but the brightest stars. Everything was as it should be here, so I got back in the truck to finish my perimeter survey. The truck lights picked up a donkey hobbled by a walled compound close to the second set of landing aids. These walled compounds usually house an extended family unit. There appears to be a central courtyard with small rooms or apartments in the perimeter walls. Close by are a well and a large mound of hay covered in mud or clay? I assume the hay is covered to resist spoilage or to simply keep the winds from blowing it away. Livestock seems to be limited to the ever-present donkey. The donkey is probably the Moroccan’s most precious possession; it serves as labor and transportation.
These walled compounds have been constructed in the same manner for hundreds of years and they provide shelter and protection in this sparsely populated area.
I checked the fence line and the perimeter and started the return trip to the guard tower located on the perimeter of the south end of the base, the routine procedure and the knowledge all checkpoints were secure let my imagination wander.
My imagination picked up from my childhood and I could almost visualize the camel caravan on its slow trek to Marrakech.
Marrakech always had an allure, visions of Arab nomads, Arabian horses, and brass bound muskets, veiled women with mysterious eyes, and the elusive oasis with its essential water holes. Marrakech is an ancient city; the wall around the old market place is almost 1200 years old.
The market place or medina is an endless maze of small shops and narrow passages filled with exotic sights and smells to both delight and assault the senses. Merchants vigorously vie for the dirham of shoppers and especially for those of the tourist. The narrow passageways are filled with people in both modern dress and the traditional robes or djalabas.
The women either by choice or the dictates of their husbands or fathers wear the traditional robes and the majority is veiled. The still air is filled with the smells of cooking meats, curing leather, and desert people to whom water is strictly for drinking.
Water sellers in bright red tasseled hats, pantaloons, and crossed belts across their chests to which were attached several highly polished brass cups, poured water for thirsty shoppers out of a goatskin water bag.
A blind beggar sits at the entrance to one of the small shops, or souks, and shakes his basket of coins. Charity is a requirement for the Muslim so many of the passerby’s drop coins into his basket.
Metal smiths are in abundance and the brass work is of high quality and proudly displayed in front of each shop.
A group of veiled women sit along an ancient stonewall, selling dates and sweet breads. There are intricate designs painted on their hands and fingers, but my attempts to photograph them are futile as they cover their faces with the sleeves of their djalabas or turn their heads. Nearby a craftsman is making wooden chess pieces with a small foot powered lathe, while it is fascinating to watch, stopping for any length of time results in merchants taking your arm and trying to entice you to their shop. After a day in the medina your arms are black and blue with bruises caused by zealous fingers.
Wooden carts filled with honeyed dates and sweetbreads attract swarms of buzzing bees and fresh-butchered lamb carcasses, covered with flies, hang from hooks. Meat must be cooked and eaten quickly because refrigeration is a luxury only enjoyed by the few, and certainly not by the Berbers from the villages at the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. In the summer the heat and closeness are stifling. In June by ten in the morning it was 109 degrees.
The medina covers several square miles and it is very easy to get lost in here. Women tourists are warned not to go here without a male escort and all tourists are warned not to be here after dark. You can hear the flutes of the snake charmer and see him sitting in front of a swaying hooded cobra. It sometimes requires a taste of reality to bring your psyche back to 1993, and here it is! The modern world has touched this ancient medina and the first indication is the bright red Coca-Cola signs over one of the coffeehouses. It was in both English and Arabic.
Here in the narrow passageways the donkey gives way to the moped and they weave between the shoppers with careless abandon. It is quite common to see a family of three or four on one moped with saddlebags stuffed with the day’s food.
We are in a down time between missions and basically the site is in a standby mode. There were two launches rather close together, so rather than incur the expense to replace the onsite team, we will remain here to support both missions. This has allowed us time to see some of the countryside. This morning we rented a car for a drive up into the mountains. Marrakech was quite warm and the tourists were swimming in the hotel pool.
The Atlas Mountains are only about an hour and a half drive from Marrakech. The road twisted and turned as we began the climb. Clinging to the sides of the mountains were Berber villages, their homes made from the indigenous rocks, blended with their surroundings. The road was narrow and there were no guardrails and no shoulders on the road, running off the road on these curves would surely be fatal as the first time you hit would be several hundred feet below. There is a similarity between the Berbers and the Native Americans; here the Arab western expansion pushed the Berbers into the mountains.
The Berbers are a hardy lot and enjoy few modern conveniences. On this winding, climbing road there were Berber women with large tubs of wet clothes balanced on their heads after washing them in the stream below. On their climb back up the steep trail to their homes clinging to the side of the mountain they carried firewood strapped to their backs.
Women and donkeys in Morocco work very hard and in the centuries old tradition both wait upon their men even to the point of sitting outside a coffee house and waiting for their men to spend hours drinking coffee and engaging in conversation. Yet for all this hardship, at night you can hear their songs and trilling yelps as they dance and chant to melodies a thousand years old. Equal status for men and women has not yet made an impact in the Arab world. I had the opportunity to visit the former Guard Force Commandant’s home for dinner. His wife and daughters served dinner, but they were not allowed to eat with the men.
Close to the top and end of this winding mountain road was a toll collector who stopped us at a barricade and collected five dirham or about a dollar and a half to continue to reach the top.
Where the road terminated there was a microwave telecommunication station. We walked from that point around the station fence line to the backside; there we felt we were standing on the top of the world. Far below this sheer drop-off and stretched out in front of us was the desert and in the distance Algeria. I dropped a stone over the edge of the cliff and counted to 6 before it hit the first time
To our left there were other peaks and a chair lift for skiers in winter. The peaks around us were capped in snow and the temperature had dropped dramatically. We decided to ride the chair lift to the top of the mountain and back simply to enjoy the view. All I had brought with me was a sweatshirt. The thought that the weather would be cold up here simply didn’t enter my mind in consideration of how warm it was when we left Marrakech two hours ago. The chair lift traveled about a hundred yards when it began to snow. Now snow isn’t something I have a lot of experience with and when an inch and a half built up on my shoulders, legs, and hat, while the chair swayed in the wind was definitely a new experience. The chair lift itself passed over chasms between different levels and rocky outcroppings; sometimes the distance between the swaying chair and the rocks below was several hundred feet. I’m not totally sure my shaking was just the result of being very cold.
The ride to the top took approximately 40 minutes, I anticipated that the top was just over each new peak we went over, but the cables and chairs continue onward. The towers supporting the cable were constructed on rocky crags and considering the terrain one could not help but wonder of the effort it took to not only to construct the towers but also to deliver the materials to the site.
When we reached the top and stepped off the chair there was a small hut there with smoke coming out of the chimney. We went inside and were able to purchase strong hot Moroccan coffee and of all things Snickers bars, I think that is one of the best cups of coffee I ever had. We found a table of orientation marker that established we were at an altitude of a little over 13,000 feet.
We looked out the windows of the hut and the snowfall had intensified and the surrounding peaks were invisible through the falling snow. The beauty of the surrounding peaks seen so easily from the telecommunications station were now lost in a blowing snowstorm and visibility was down to less than 100 feet.
As suddenly as it had started it stopped. We quickly grabbed the next chair going back down the mountain. After crossing over three ridges blocking the view of the bowl shaped area below us the sun broke through the clouds and the panorama below was something to see. To our right the snow capped peaks of the Atlas and the highest; Mt. Toupikal sparkled in the sunlight. Far below us snow covered rocks sat in the bright green patches of spring grass. To our left and far below were the telecommunications station and the distant desert.
The past 24 hours in Morocco were special to me, it was only one day in the 43 I would spend there on this mission but it is the one I will never forget.
Fire at the Seaside Inn
FIRE AT THE SEASIDE INN
2A.M., the alarm bell clanged, rattled and bore its way into my head. I grabbed the hot line and the dispatcher yelled the address at me. The call came in as a fire at the Seaside Inn. This was an old 3-story wooden hotel on the corner of Main St and Ocean Ave. Dam it, we were down to a three- man crew. When we pulled up in front, heavy smoke was rolling out from the basement and first floor. I grabbed an air pack, (an air tank and harness to supply breathing air to the Firefighter), and so did Phil. Art stayed behind to set up the fire pump. Phil and I went in because there were still several people inside. I went to the third floor and guided several people who were able to walk, to the head of the stairs.
Then I started checking rooms. The old hotel was not air conditioned so each room had a flush wood door and then outside of that was a louvered door for ventilation.
I came to a closed door and had to kick it open, on the second kick it gave way and there in the middle of all that smoke stood an elderly woman. I must have scared the hell out of her because of the smoke and the facemask from the air pack. She clutched her nightgown tight against her chin.
I said, “come with me lady we have to get out of here”, she said, “ Well I can’t go anywhere because I am not dressed”. I grabbed a blanket off the bed and told her “We are going now”. I half carried, and half dragged her to the stairway, trying to keep her as low as I could, but the fire was woking it's way from the basement up, so the smoke level in the hallway was floor to ceiling. .I got her down the stairs and turned her over to a Police Officer in the lobby, and then returned to the third floor.
Dam why do people who leave a hotel room in a burning hotel lock the door behind them? They had to be kicked in.
I checked all the rooms I could find and did not find any more people. During this time we were pulling people out, and because of the rescue priority, no water was being applied to the fire. The old wooden structure had a lot of heart pine in it and the fire was growing rapidly. It had eaten it's way through three floors on the north end of the hotel.
I could hear bathtubs falling from the third floor to the basement and the heat build up was pretty intense, and the thick smoke now had an orange glow, telling me it had reached the thrid floor. By this time the warning bell on my air pack was ringing telling me I had 3 minutes to get out before I ran out of air. I had a big problem finding the head of the stairs again to get out.
The smoke had continued to get thicker and visibility was down to just a few feet. I was crawling and pulled my left glove off in order to feel the floorboards to tell if I was going down or across a hallway. The 6- volt lantern I had in my hand would not penetrate the smoke. The air pack warning bell was ringing and I could feel the vibrations against my back.
Where the hell is the stairway, I moved left and felt my way along the baseboards and counted the doorways as I crawled forward. After I passed the fourth door I could feel the banister supports for the stairs, as I got to the first stair, I ran my hand up to the banister and stood to begin going down the stairs. Standing up increased the heat and I could feel my ears getting roasted. In those days prior to nomex hoods your ears were your heat indicator and they were sending me the signal “ get the hell out of here”.
Descending the stairs lessened the heat but, I was one happy Firefighter to see the large open door of the lobby though the smoke.
Responding units from other stations in the city had arrived and we successfully cleared the building. Only one injury occurred and that was a firefighter that had glass from widows blowing out went into his boot.
The fire had ripped its way from the basement through the roof, but we had been able to keep it contained to the north end of the hotel. A good save but, restoration way too expensive to try to save the old hotel, so it along with other landmarks, went by the wayside.
A summer night in 1967, again about 2 A.M. (don’t know why big fires always seem to happen at 2 A.M. ) We heard someone banging on the Station door and yelling there was a fire at the Palmetto Club, which was on the corner of the next block west of the station. We arrived very quickly and the building had a very large wooden floor area and it was fully involved in fire. The Palmetto Club was where the prom was held in 1954. On the west side of the building was an old locally historic wooden church, and on the north side of the building was a 5 story assisted living facility for the elderly. I was a Captain at the time. I had the ladder truck positioned on the S/E corner of the building and after establishing the initial attack; I climbed the ladder and directed the water stream on a narrow angle fog to protect the old church.
For the most part the Palmetto Club was toast, so the plan of attack was to protect the exposures. At the top of the ladder I could see there were windows already cracked from the heat in the 5- story building north of the Palmetto Club. The ladders position had me more directly over the Palmetto Club than I could maintain. I actually saw the hair on the back of my hands curl and crinkle up from the heat. I had to turn the water stream down and away from the church to keep from being cooked. I yelled down to the ladder truck driver to move the ladder to the left, which required using a hand crank to move the turntable at the base of the ladder. In the mean time I had turned the nozzle to a wide-angle fog pattern to crouch down as best I could on the ladder to try to escape the heat. While the Palmetto Club was a total loss we were able to save the church and the assisted living facility from damage.
The Palmetto Club was a total loss due to the length of time it burned before anyone saw and reported it. The inside was totally engulfed in flame on our arrival.
Usually something funny happens during tense moments, and this fire was no different. A rookie on his first shift was on the nozzle of a 2 ½” hose for over 3 hours. When the fire was finally down to smoldering ashes he said “ dam you guys do this every night”
I am just writing these events as they happened in my life. This and more will be passed on to my
2A.M., the alarm bell clanged, rattled and bore its way into my head. I grabbed the hot line and the dispatcher yelled the address at me. The call came in as a fire at the Seaside Inn. This was an old 3-story wooden hotel on the corner of Main St and Ocean Ave. Dam it, we were down to a three- man crew. When we pulled up in front, heavy smoke was rolling out from the basement and first floor. I grabbed an air pack, (an air tank and harness to supply breathing air to the Firefighter), and so did Phil. Art stayed behind to set up the fire pump. Phil and I went in because there were still several people inside. I went to the third floor and guided several people who were able to walk, to the head of the stairs.
Then I started checking rooms. The old hotel was not air conditioned so each room had a flush wood door and then outside of that was a louvered door for ventilation.
I came to a closed door and had to kick it open, on the second kick it gave way and there in the middle of all that smoke stood an elderly woman. I must have scared the hell out of her because of the smoke and the facemask from the air pack. She clutched her nightgown tight against her chin.
I said, “come with me lady we have to get out of here”, she said, “ Well I can’t go anywhere because I am not dressed”. I grabbed a blanket off the bed and told her “We are going now”. I half carried, and half dragged her to the stairway, trying to keep her as low as I could, but the fire was woking it's way from the basement up, so the smoke level in the hallway was floor to ceiling. .I got her down the stairs and turned her over to a Police Officer in the lobby, and then returned to the third floor.
Dam why do people who leave a hotel room in a burning hotel lock the door behind them? They had to be kicked in.
I checked all the rooms I could find and did not find any more people. During this time we were pulling people out, and because of the rescue priority, no water was being applied to the fire. The old wooden structure had a lot of heart pine in it and the fire was growing rapidly. It had eaten it's way through three floors on the north end of the hotel.
I could hear bathtubs falling from the third floor to the basement and the heat build up was pretty intense, and the thick smoke now had an orange glow, telling me it had reached the thrid floor. By this time the warning bell on my air pack was ringing telling me I had 3 minutes to get out before I ran out of air. I had a big problem finding the head of the stairs again to get out.
The smoke had continued to get thicker and visibility was down to just a few feet. I was crawling and pulled my left glove off in order to feel the floorboards to tell if I was going down or across a hallway. The 6- volt lantern I had in my hand would not penetrate the smoke. The air pack warning bell was ringing and I could feel the vibrations against my back.
Where the hell is the stairway, I moved left and felt my way along the baseboards and counted the doorways as I crawled forward. After I passed the fourth door I could feel the banister supports for the stairs, as I got to the first stair, I ran my hand up to the banister and stood to begin going down the stairs. Standing up increased the heat and I could feel my ears getting roasted. In those days prior to nomex hoods your ears were your heat indicator and they were sending me the signal “ get the hell out of here”.
Descending the stairs lessened the heat but, I was one happy Firefighter to see the large open door of the lobby though the smoke.
Responding units from other stations in the city had arrived and we successfully cleared the building. Only one injury occurred and that was a firefighter that had glass from widows blowing out went into his boot.
The fire had ripped its way from the basement through the roof, but we had been able to keep it contained to the north end of the hotel. A good save but, restoration way too expensive to try to save the old hotel, so it along with other landmarks, went by the wayside.
A summer night in 1967, again about 2 A.M. (don’t know why big fires always seem to happen at 2 A.M. ) We heard someone banging on the Station door and yelling there was a fire at the Palmetto Club, which was on the corner of the next block west of the station. We arrived very quickly and the building had a very large wooden floor area and it was fully involved in fire. The Palmetto Club was where the prom was held in 1954. On the west side of the building was an old locally historic wooden church, and on the north side of the building was a 5 story assisted living facility for the elderly. I was a Captain at the time. I had the ladder truck positioned on the S/E corner of the building and after establishing the initial attack; I climbed the ladder and directed the water stream on a narrow angle fog to protect the old church.
For the most part the Palmetto Club was toast, so the plan of attack was to protect the exposures. At the top of the ladder I could see there were windows already cracked from the heat in the 5- story building north of the Palmetto Club. The ladders position had me more directly over the Palmetto Club than I could maintain. I actually saw the hair on the back of my hands curl and crinkle up from the heat. I had to turn the water stream down and away from the church to keep from being cooked. I yelled down to the ladder truck driver to move the ladder to the left, which required using a hand crank to move the turntable at the base of the ladder. In the mean time I had turned the nozzle to a wide-angle fog pattern to crouch down as best I could on the ladder to try to escape the heat. While the Palmetto Club was a total loss we were able to save the church and the assisted living facility from damage.
The Palmetto Club was a total loss due to the length of time it burned before anyone saw and reported it. The inside was totally engulfed in flame on our arrival.
Usually something funny happens during tense moments, and this fire was no different. A rookie on his first shift was on the nozzle of a 2 ½” hose for over 3 hours. When the fire was finally down to smoldering ashes he said “ dam you guys do this every night”
I am just writing these events as they happened in my life. This and more will be passed on to my
The Gambia
The Gambia
The dust was like a thick red fog and just hung in the air, and heat waves shimmered and bounced off the hood of the Suburban. I saw activity on my left, and stopped the truck and got out to see what was going on. There was a large pit and a lot of men working in the pit. They were digging with shovels and then throwing the shovel load against wire mesh stretched around a frame.
Off to one side was a pile of gravel. They were digging gravel by hand, throwing each shovelful against the mesh to separate the sand and dirt from the gravel. The gravel was then piled to be moved up to the road for trucks to pick up. The gravel was for building or repairing roads. The main road through the country, which is totally surrounded by Senegal, is a two lane well worn, pot holed, you got to be kidding me, this is the main highway through the country.
I got back in the truck and drove into the village. It was like I had stepped
through a door in time and had gone back to the 1800’s.
NASA had selected Banjul, The Gambia as one of the prime contingency landing sites for the Space Shuttle. This site was chosen after they decided that Dakar Senegal was no longer a viable site. This decision was based on the determination that the runway at Dakar International Air Port did not have sufficient landing overrun capability
Banjul is the capital of The Gambia, the airport and our work site was in an area called Yundum, but actually the small town of Serra Kunda. There was a village just outside the airport where the electronic landing aids for the Shuttle were set up. As the NASA security representative, security of those landing aids was a part of my job.
So at least twice a day I had to drive around the airport and open a perimeter gate and drive through the village to the location of the landing aids which were 3500 feet from the end of the runway. While I thought the airport and airport facilities were more than rundown and quite primitive, going into the village was almost a culture shock. If I had not been to Dakar before coming to Banjul it would have truly been a culture shock.
There was a cluster of thatched roofed mud huts, but scattered amongst them were several huts with corrugated tin roofs. Those were the result of English influence when The Gambia was a colony. I have been told that the traditional thatch roofs provide more insulation against the heat.
There were women outside the huts using a mortar and pestle, consisting of a long heavy stick with a rounded end and a hollowed out wood stump, to grind millet for the mid day meal. Other women were coming and going from the village well with plastic buckets of water balanced on their heads.
Things you don’t expect, I mean this is 1993, and these women have to do this on a daily basis for their families? But they were smiling, they were laughing, their clothes were clean and pressed.
Off to the left was a man sitting in a palm frond hut in front of a fire. He had an animal pelt in his hands and he was raising and lowering his arms in a steady motion. As I got closer I could see he was the village blacksmith and was using the pelt as a bellows. The coals were almost white hot and he used tongs to pull a pick head from the forge and then using a hammer and anvil, he began the task of reworking the pick head.
Further into the village I could hear music coming from a small hut serving as a small shop with a storekeeper. This was the local version of the 7-11. An old man, I assume the village elder, was standing outside the shop holding a bicycle inner tube. He had come to the shop to buy a patch for the inner tube. Around to the backside of the shop was the village tailor and he was industriously working with a peddle- powered old Singer sewing machine.
By this time the fact I was in the village was no secret and a parade of children were running toward me chanting “CANNDEEE, CANNDDDEE “. I had brought a bag of individually wrapped candy for the kids and tried to see that all got something but frankly it was like feeding a pool of piranha. They actually tore at my hands. One little girl will always stay in my mind. I found out that she was 9 years old. She had her little brother strapped to her back in a sling like arrangement, so common in Africa. Her responsibility was to care for him, and carry him on her back all day. However, she like all the people in the village was smiling and seemed to be happy. I will not forget her, her eyes were bright and she was smiling, and all I could think of was, “how does this child handle this responsibility every day and be so cheerful?” It was obvious she did not consider this a burden, her little brother smiled sleepily and dozed as she ran with the others to the suburban for the candy I brought for them. Some of the younger children did not know what it was I was giving them so they pushed the wrapped pieces in the dirt and made noises like a car. I unwrapped a piece of candy to show them what it was.
When I got to the site of the landing aids there were guards there that worked for the embassy through Wackenhut. The Wackenhut contract with the Embassy meant that they would provide around the clock security for the landing aid equipment and generators at the site. The Wackenhut manager, Mike, had been in Banjul for almost a year and prior to that he had been in Monrovia during the rebellion. He had been there with a retired Marine Colonel who formerly served as the head of Security for the Embassy in Dakar. They both got out of Monrovia during the rebellion and coup, in which the heads of officials of the Doe government were ceremoniously set on the palace steps, and the household staff’s of both were murdered by the rebels under Charles Taylor.
The Colonel would end up serving as the head of Wackenhut Facility Management for NASA at Ben Guirer in Morocco.
Back at the landing aids site in Banjul, there were several more children there and more candy to pass out. I noticed a boy with large ulcers on his legs and made a note to tell the Doc about it.
When we deployed to Banjul we took our own Doctor with us and he had an office with the essential supplies to care for the deployed team. In off hours he would go into the village and take care of some of the things he could. Health care in The Gambia leaves a lot to be desired, we had been informally warned that if we came upon an accident and people were injured, to leave them be. This warning was due to the prevalent thought that if you helped them, then you were totally responsible for their care. Fact or fiction, I don’t know.
The Gambia is the smallest country in Africa and is basically a finger of land that borders the Gambian River. According to local lore the boundaries were somewhat established by how far an English Gun Boat could throw an artillery shell on either side of the river. There is a small town on the east end of the country on the river where the ancestors of Alex Hailey, (the author of “ Roots”) came from. Hailey’s ancestor, Kunta Kinte was supposedly brought to the U.S. aboard a slave ship. While in Dakar I visited the slave house on Goree Island just off the coast. This is where the ships came to carry the slaves from Africa to the colonies, but that is another story.
We stayed in hotels in Serra Kunda, the first in the early days of going to Banjul; we stayed in the Senegambia hotel, which is on the beach. The Senegambia was adequate but still the A/C had trouble keeping up with the heat.
The hotel did have a bar and a disco, so at night we could sit and have a drink or two and listen to the music. Flag beer was the most popular drink, you could of course have a mixed drink, but the problem with that was, if you had ice, you had their water. That usually didn’t end well for those who didn’t think.
We had a more than adequate supply of bottled water at the airport site, but if you forgot to bring some back to the hotel with you, well try to imagine brushing your teeth with a beer rinse.
In 1991 a beautiful new hotel was opened next to the Senegambia, The Kariba. It had several two-story units each housing 8 to 10 rooms. It was a beautiful place. We stayed there for $37.00 per day and that included a fantastic breakfast. It’s hard to put into perspective that the housekeepers, mostly men, were paid $ 30.00 per month. That however was a very lucrative job, because the average yearly wage in The Gambia was $ 250.00 per year, yeah two hundred and fifty dollars a year.
The average life span for a male was only about 38 years and 43 for women. Again I’m talking about 1991. Poverty is a relative word, things we take pretty much for granted, could be considered luxuries there. Someone in The Gambia making our minimum wage would be considered rich beyond imagination.
So does this story have a moral lesson, no? Am I trying to make a point here, no? I’m simply sharing an experience in my life.
The dust was like a thick red fog and just hung in the air, and heat waves shimmered and bounced off the hood of the Suburban. I saw activity on my left, and stopped the truck and got out to see what was going on. There was a large pit and a lot of men working in the pit. They were digging with shovels and then throwing the shovel load against wire mesh stretched around a frame.
Off to one side was a pile of gravel. They were digging gravel by hand, throwing each shovelful against the mesh to separate the sand and dirt from the gravel. The gravel was then piled to be moved up to the road for trucks to pick up. The gravel was for building or repairing roads. The main road through the country, which is totally surrounded by Senegal, is a two lane well worn, pot holed, you got to be kidding me, this is the main highway through the country.
I got back in the truck and drove into the village. It was like I had stepped
through a door in time and had gone back to the 1800’s.
NASA had selected Banjul, The Gambia as one of the prime contingency landing sites for the Space Shuttle. This site was chosen after they decided that Dakar Senegal was no longer a viable site. This decision was based on the determination that the runway at Dakar International Air Port did not have sufficient landing overrun capability
Banjul is the capital of The Gambia, the airport and our work site was in an area called Yundum, but actually the small town of Serra Kunda. There was a village just outside the airport where the electronic landing aids for the Shuttle were set up. As the NASA security representative, security of those landing aids was a part of my job.
So at least twice a day I had to drive around the airport and open a perimeter gate and drive through the village to the location of the landing aids which were 3500 feet from the end of the runway. While I thought the airport and airport facilities were more than rundown and quite primitive, going into the village was almost a culture shock. If I had not been to Dakar before coming to Banjul it would have truly been a culture shock.
There was a cluster of thatched roofed mud huts, but scattered amongst them were several huts with corrugated tin roofs. Those were the result of English influence when The Gambia was a colony. I have been told that the traditional thatch roofs provide more insulation against the heat.
There were women outside the huts using a mortar and pestle, consisting of a long heavy stick with a rounded end and a hollowed out wood stump, to grind millet for the mid day meal. Other women were coming and going from the village well with plastic buckets of water balanced on their heads.
Things you don’t expect, I mean this is 1993, and these women have to do this on a daily basis for their families? But they were smiling, they were laughing, their clothes were clean and pressed.
Off to the left was a man sitting in a palm frond hut in front of a fire. He had an animal pelt in his hands and he was raising and lowering his arms in a steady motion. As I got closer I could see he was the village blacksmith and was using the pelt as a bellows. The coals were almost white hot and he used tongs to pull a pick head from the forge and then using a hammer and anvil, he began the task of reworking the pick head.
Further into the village I could hear music coming from a small hut serving as a small shop with a storekeeper. This was the local version of the 7-11. An old man, I assume the village elder, was standing outside the shop holding a bicycle inner tube. He had come to the shop to buy a patch for the inner tube. Around to the backside of the shop was the village tailor and he was industriously working with a peddle- powered old Singer sewing machine.
By this time the fact I was in the village was no secret and a parade of children were running toward me chanting “CANNDEEE, CANNDDDEE “. I had brought a bag of individually wrapped candy for the kids and tried to see that all got something but frankly it was like feeding a pool of piranha. They actually tore at my hands. One little girl will always stay in my mind. I found out that she was 9 years old. She had her little brother strapped to her back in a sling like arrangement, so common in Africa. Her responsibility was to care for him, and carry him on her back all day. However, she like all the people in the village was smiling and seemed to be happy. I will not forget her, her eyes were bright and she was smiling, and all I could think of was, “how does this child handle this responsibility every day and be so cheerful?” It was obvious she did not consider this a burden, her little brother smiled sleepily and dozed as she ran with the others to the suburban for the candy I brought for them. Some of the younger children did not know what it was I was giving them so they pushed the wrapped pieces in the dirt and made noises like a car. I unwrapped a piece of candy to show them what it was.
When I got to the site of the landing aids there were guards there that worked for the embassy through Wackenhut. The Wackenhut contract with the Embassy meant that they would provide around the clock security for the landing aid equipment and generators at the site. The Wackenhut manager, Mike, had been in Banjul for almost a year and prior to that he had been in Monrovia during the rebellion. He had been there with a retired Marine Colonel who formerly served as the head of Security for the Embassy in Dakar. They both got out of Monrovia during the rebellion and coup, in which the heads of officials of the Doe government were ceremoniously set on the palace steps, and the household staff’s of both were murdered by the rebels under Charles Taylor.
The Colonel would end up serving as the head of Wackenhut Facility Management for NASA at Ben Guirer in Morocco.
Back at the landing aids site in Banjul, there were several more children there and more candy to pass out. I noticed a boy with large ulcers on his legs and made a note to tell the Doc about it.
When we deployed to Banjul we took our own Doctor with us and he had an office with the essential supplies to care for the deployed team. In off hours he would go into the village and take care of some of the things he could. Health care in The Gambia leaves a lot to be desired, we had been informally warned that if we came upon an accident and people were injured, to leave them be. This warning was due to the prevalent thought that if you helped them, then you were totally responsible for their care. Fact or fiction, I don’t know.
The Gambia is the smallest country in Africa and is basically a finger of land that borders the Gambian River. According to local lore the boundaries were somewhat established by how far an English Gun Boat could throw an artillery shell on either side of the river. There is a small town on the east end of the country on the river where the ancestors of Alex Hailey, (the author of “ Roots”) came from. Hailey’s ancestor, Kunta Kinte was supposedly brought to the U.S. aboard a slave ship. While in Dakar I visited the slave house on Goree Island just off the coast. This is where the ships came to carry the slaves from Africa to the colonies, but that is another story.
We stayed in hotels in Serra Kunda, the first in the early days of going to Banjul; we stayed in the Senegambia hotel, which is on the beach. The Senegambia was adequate but still the A/C had trouble keeping up with the heat.
The hotel did have a bar and a disco, so at night we could sit and have a drink or two and listen to the music. Flag beer was the most popular drink, you could of course have a mixed drink, but the problem with that was, if you had ice, you had their water. That usually didn’t end well for those who didn’t think.
We had a more than adequate supply of bottled water at the airport site, but if you forgot to bring some back to the hotel with you, well try to imagine brushing your teeth with a beer rinse.
In 1991 a beautiful new hotel was opened next to the Senegambia, The Kariba. It had several two-story units each housing 8 to 10 rooms. It was a beautiful place. We stayed there for $37.00 per day and that included a fantastic breakfast. It’s hard to put into perspective that the housekeepers, mostly men, were paid $ 30.00 per month. That however was a very lucrative job, because the average yearly wage in The Gambia was $ 250.00 per year, yeah two hundred and fifty dollars a year.
The average life span for a male was only about 38 years and 43 for women. Again I’m talking about 1991. Poverty is a relative word, things we take pretty much for granted, could be considered luxuries there. Someone in The Gambia making our minimum wage would be considered rich beyond imagination.
So does this story have a moral lesson, no? Am I trying to make a point here, no? I’m simply sharing an experience in my life.
