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Gaining Perspective...Volume 3
Two Years in the Kingdom of Morocco
(A BRIEF WINTER BREAK IN COLORADO)
By Charlie Kolb
Coyote's
concerns by saying telling him that men are like a rock that falls from
a mountainside. It makes a lot of noise and causes much destruction as
it rolls downward. But ultimately it will roll out into the desert
losing speed and momentum until finally it stops and is rendered
harmless by the elements. "It will become nothing more than a stone,
plants will grow upon it, and you can sleep on it at night. Such will
be the fate of man," Akasitah tells Coyote before he vanishes.
Though
I believe what Akasitah said, it is difficult to see when our stone
will quit rolling and why. I sometimes fear that only our extinction
will stop our destructive behaviors; but what if we could slow or stop
it ourselves? In many ways, this is what environmental work means to
me. The planet may grow and change on its own, and ultimately it will
outlast us. The environmental movement, at its core, attempts not to
save the planet, but the human race as a whole. The more we can
understand and cooperate with our surroundings, becoming a part of the
ecology rather than acting as if we are above it, the longer we may
just hang on to our place in this world. I face this every day in
Morocco, determining how a culture can survive in a place that becomes
more difficult and dangerous with every passing year. Looking out at
the thick forests on the mountains around my town, smelling the clean
air, and looking at the fresh tracks of rabbit, deer, and fox in the
fresh snow, I appreciate how fortunate we are as a nation to have such
incredible wild places all around us. Functioning ecosystems and
breathtaking natural beauty is everywhere we turn here, and only now do
I begin to realize how rare an opportunity we have as Americans; there
can be no better place in the world to develop a new way of living.
Resting
my head against the window of the crowded third class carriage, I could
feel the rhythm of the train wheels as they clattered against the
rails. I glanced at the other Peace Corps Volunteer dozed quietly in
the seat across from me and I raised my head to look out at the scenery
flashing past. The countryside between Fes and Casablanca was green and
lush; olive groves marched up and down hillsides and smooth brown
fields stretched to the horizon. The day before, spent in the old city,
or medina, of Fes had been cold. But not nearly as cold as my village
in the Atlas that I had left behind several days before. I knew I would
not see it again for over a month; I was going home.
It
was interesting to sit and sip coffee in a cafe above the rooftops of
the medina, watching as colorfully dressed people bustled past on the
street below and as flocks of pigeons flew back and forth alighting on
the moss-covered minarets of mosques that stood sentry above the
labyrinth of streets and alleyways. Children were chasing each other
past the cigarette sellers and clothing merchants; armed with water
balloons, they shrieked battle cries as they hurtled by. Occasionally,
a dark splash of water on the dry cobbles underfoot attested to at
least one balloon finding its target. I spent the next morning sitting
in a cafe watching the world pass through the Bab Boujaloud, or Tannery
Gate, with its great tiled archway gleaming in the winter sunlight.
People walked back and forth, to and from, and everywhere was music,
laughter, conversation; hallmarks of a vibrant, living city.
The
flight from Casablanca was painless and easy. Travel here consists
mainly of waiting. I met my father at the top of an escalator in the
Frankfurt airport. We had not seen each other in ten months and the
last glimpse of me was my back vanishing through the gate at the
Durango Airport and boarding my flight to Africa. We flew the rest of
the way to Durango together in adjacent seats. I slept off and on and
looked out the window as we chased the sun over the top of the world. I
saw the glassy waters of Hudson Bay and the treeless barrens of Canada
ribbed with limestone rubbed smooth and shining by a shifting sheet of
ice.
I
knew that we had crossed over into the States when I saw the gargantuan
reservoirs strung out along the Missouri River like the segments of a
parasitic worm. I watched the sun set behind the dark line of the
Indian Peaks as we landed in Denver. Before long I was shuffling across
the cold tarmac through a curtain of gently falling snow, through the
glass doors of the terminal and into the waiting arms of my family. I
was home.
Though I believe what Akasitah said,
it is difficult to see when our stone
will quit rolling and why.
I sometimes fear that only our extinction
will stop our destructive behaviors;
but what if we could slow or stop it ourselves?
In
the past ten months of life in Morocco, I've lamented the disconnect
from the place that will always be home for me—the Colorado Plateau. I
have felt a constant pull back here, even on the best of days in
Morocco, and this trip has weighed heavily on my mind for some months
now.
Several
days later I found myself sitting at the top of a hill on my family's
land; it was late at night and the stars filled the sky with an icy
radiance. All was silent and the long ridges of the pinyon-juniper
forest gleamed with fresh snow. I sat there just breathing, enjoying
the sensations of a place so familiar. The smells of pine and snow, of
woodsmoke and cold; in the valley spread out below me, the coyotes
began to howl and yip at the stars. I closed my eyes and listened to
their song until it faded away and was swallowed once again by the
silence.
On
another evening I sat across from my brother on that same finger of
land as we burned a smudge stick of sage between us. I used my hand to
wash the smoke over my head and down my back as I had been taught by a
Navajo friend and mentor years before. As we sat there in the dark
beneath the dancing stars, I asked whether he had ever heard the story
of Coyote and Rattlesnake. He had not, and I settled in to tell him. In
the story, Coyote agrees to intervene of the behalf of Rattlesnake to
the great spirit Akasitah. Together they talk of men and their impact
upon the land, and Akasitah brushes away
The
next week was bone chillingly cold. The mercury sat in the bulb of the
thermometer like a hibernating toad and the newspaper reported
temperatures as low as -20 degrees Fahrenheit. Water vapor contained in
the air drifted slowly through the midday sunlight as tiny crystals,
winking and gleaming between the trees and in the oak opening around
the house. The woodstove roared all day long and still the cold seeped
in. The stove, the Christmas tree in the corner, the dishes that sit in
the kitchen cabinet or the tools that hang in the barn—all are
reminders of Christmases past and the years I have spent in this place.
Everything
I see here is so familiar and yet I feel as though I am viewing it
through a different lens that colors everything in a more vibrant and
vivid palette. Many things that I once took for granted, I now relish.
The feel of a cold beer in my hand, or of hot water running down my
spine in a shower, now seems incredible and sublime. The joy of spoken
English and reliable communication, heated buildings, and punctual
transport, all of this seems incredible; a gift.
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