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 everything usable was taken by the locals 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 it’s 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, brass bound muskets, veiled women with mysterious eyes, and the elusive oasis with it’s 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 dirhams 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 stone wall, 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 sign 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 dirhams 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 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.
Posted on: Thu, 01 Jan 2015 16:09:27 +0000
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