It’s time again for travelling. The current adventure brings me to Morocco, where for two weeks I plan to explore the intersection of Arabic, French, and African culture. My trip begins in Fes, and we’ll see where it goes from there.

The trip got off to an exciting start during my first flight when a flight attendant announced over the intercom that there was a passenger who needed medical assistance, and they were asking if anyone could help help. Time to shine, peoples. My hand swiftly shot up in the air and I was taken to the back of the plane. There, they pointed me to a middle-aged woman having a hard time with some vague symptoms and an even harder time trying to articulate herself since she was only Spanish-speaking…it’s as if I never even left Hillcrest. After talking to her for awhile, taking her vital signs, and doing a brief exam, it seemed she was having an asthma exacerbation as well as a mild panic attack. Nothing Dr. Amir couldn’t handle…and next thing he knew he got a free meal and a free flight upgrade.

Once in Fes, I spent much of my first two days looking around their very expansive markets (souks). Almost all of ancient Fes is covered with these, and the extremely narrow and winding streets make it a human-sized maze. A little claustrophobic at first, but nothing you can’t slowly get used to. You want to see Fes? This is Fes:

Wearing a Fes…in Fes.

One of the many donkeys on the streets. These guys are the hardest workers in all the city.

Morocco hasn’t captured my heart just yet, however. I’m sure part of it is the non-stop hassling by the locals, all of whom want to give me a tour, sell me something, or get me to view their carpets/blankets (if I ever again hear “Fes has 9400 streets and 14 gates, let me show you around” or “why you no want support Moroccan community?” or “come look at rug, it’s like Berber Picasso”, a Morrocan face might get punched.)

I nearly had it this afternoon when I was walking and had to ask a kid for directions. I didn’t ask him to, but he chose to escort me the entire way there. When we arrived I thanked him for his service, and he expected me to tip him. I offered him 10 dirhams (approximately one dollar) but got an unexpected surprise when he refused, accepting nothing less than 50. After some verbal arguments he, and his ugly-ass sidekick (who jumped out of nowhere all of a sudden), wanted me to hand over my backpack. Um, no. Or the contents of my backpack. No. What about my hat? Hellll no. I threw two coins at them and walked away.

But something that brought my opinion of Fes way up was the food. After sitting at a streetside restaurant and being served piping hot mint tea, a plate of fresh olives, and then a tajine filled with tasty meatballs in a bubbling hot spicy sauce, I almost forgot about the rest of my day.

What did you do last night? I got naked with a bunch of guys in a steamy room…Moroccan style. I’m talking, of course, about a hamman, the traditional Middle Eastern communal bathhouse, which is often the only way locals are able to bathe.

I decided to get down with the local Fassis (Fes citizens) and so I walked down to a nearby hammam. After stripping down nearly completely, a big hairy man gave me two buckets filled with extremely hot water that was being heated by a nearby fire. I walked into big hot tile-covered room and then wondered what to do. Where do I sit? Who do I look at? Am I sitting too close? Whose hand is on my butt?

I took a seat and sat for about 30 minutes as my skin soaked up the steam. I then rubbed a special black soap over myself. At this point, I could have taken advantage of one of the attendants to scrub the soap off of me, but I chose instead to do it myself. Had I used the attendant, I probably would have ended up like the poor guy next to me, who was forced to lie stomach-down on the floor while the attendant stood on his back, interweaved his legs around him, and then proceeded to perform painful moves that I’ve only seen on WWF wrestling. Maybe next time.

One last thing: attention potential future Lonely Planet Morocco readers. If you follow their instructions on proper hammam etiquette — which is a good idea — be careful not to make the same error I did. They recommend bringing an “extra pair of knickers”. I misread knickers (British for underwear) as kickers (American for shoes) and so I ended up showing up with two pairs of shoes…but zero underwear. Awkward. There was a full moon over Morocco tonight!

(Apologies if this photo makes anyone vomit.)

Fes Out. Marrakesh in…but only after a ten hour train ride. Bigger, more polluted, more touristy…but more lively. I went across town to the Ville Nouvelle (the new city) to look around and no sooner had I stepped foot outside than did a guy on a motorbike zip ahead of me, pull over, and proceed to tell me how much he loved America and would like buy me a coffee. A little reluctant, but also a little bored, I decided to go along with his plan. I thought we would walk there, but he made me get on the back of his motorbike.

The next 20 minutes were a little out of the ordinary for me, as I sat on a motorbike for the first time, clinging to a man who didn’t smell good, driving into desolate parts of an unknown city. When he sensed I was a little unnerved, he gave me a lot of crap for it…but then pulled over for this promised coffee. (By the way, “I’d like to buy you a coffee” is Moroccan for “I’ll buy the coffee but you pay for both of us”.) The ensuing conversation was pretty entertaining. Here are the more entertaining parts.

(On the city of Fes)
Him: Fes is no good.
Me: Why?
Him: They is Jew.

(On his asthma)
Him: I have very bad asthma. I use two inhalers a week. Do you have advice for me, doctor? (He lights his third cigarette).
Me: Stop smoking.
Him: I don’t smoke that much. I need better inhalers.

(This is where I thought he was going to beat me up for my wrong answer)
Him: Do you know why there are so many date trees in Marrakesh?
Me: I don’t know…the French?
Him: F*CK the French! Don’t ever say French around me again. No French!

(On American women)
American woman, they are not clean. They f*ck everything. I want to come to America and get American girl.

At this point a homeless bum walked up to us, stared at me, then just grabbed my cup of tea…and drank it all. Perfect.

(This is when I realized his ulterior motive)
Him: I try to come to America. I applied for visa, but it’s taking five years. Will you sponsor me?

(When that didn’t work, he moved to ulterior motive #2)
Him: Yes I work, I have job, but it doesn’t pay well. Sometimes when I see tourist, I say “would you like to go on tour?” and they say yes. Sometimes they pay me a little. Sometimes I take them to shopping. Sometimes they pay me for that too. I never ask, but it’s better than robbing them. Will you pay for my gas?
Me: No.
Him: You are very hard-fisted. Do you know what that means?
Me: Yes. You know it’s not nice to insult people you’re with.
Him: I’m not. But you should give local people money. Do you want to buy a blue scarf?
Me: No!

(Then he tries the old favorite)
Him: I will take you to leather tannery for beautiful leather. Yes?

(This is when he evaluates if he could kill me and get away with it.)
Him: Are you travelling alone? Does anyone know you’re here? Do they know what hotel you’re staying at? Have you emailed them? Do they know you’re here? Is your friend worried if you don’t write him? What room number are you in?
Me: 18 (in reality, 26)

I finally paid him a little just for the entertainment of the preceding hour. On the motorbike ride back, I tried taking a picture of us, but he refused to show his face.

Our encounter ended once I got off the bike. His final words to me were “Stop talking. You talk too fast.” Goddamn it! I travel halfway around the globe and people still tell me the same thing as back home.

Time to get my sand on. I decided to take a trip to the Sahara Desert, some of which is contained within Morocco. It was a great two-day trip complete with a long camel trek into the heart of the desert, huge sand dunes, amazing views of the night sky, and sleeping in the tent of local Berber people…out of sight from any city lights.

After eight hours of driving, mostly through the tortuous Atlas Mountains, we spent our first night in the Dades Gorges, a gorge in the heart of the mountain range. This is the road that led up to our hotel:

To protect myself from the elements, it was recommended to buy a head scarf. If you do that, the locals will wrap it around your head. Here I am, prepared for the desert:

Camel ride during a Sahara sunset. Amazing view.

Half of our group (and my favorite photo of the trip.)

Camels, even more so than horses, do a number on your legs. Once we got off the camel none of us could walk normally. Anyway, we rode camel-back for over two hours and soon nighttime arrived. The ride was arduous and the only thing keeping me going was the hope of seeing a big roaring campfire with lots of food spread around it. Not quite. The camel ride ended, but that only meant we had to walk the rest of the way. Sahara by day was fun and exotic. Sahara by night — pitch black and being led by a guide that spoke none of the languages I did — was cold and frightening. Finally we arrived at the tent, which thankfully was already set up.

After a great dinner, the guides wanted us to walk up the nearby sand dune. While the base of the dune was calm, halfway up the wind picked up and soon it turned into a sandstorm. If you haven’t experienced a sandstorm…good for you. It was a deafeningly loud mess of wind and sand and more sand that forces you to walk with your eyes closed, your mouth shut, and your ears covered by your hands. My shoes filled with sand, making as if I was walking with a sandbag on each foot. Our campfire light was no longer visible. One of the Brits in our group stated it best with a succinct “This is no longer enjoyable.” When I returned to the tent, I discovered sand everywhere…in my ears, up my nose, and in my delicates.

Here is our tent, at the base of the dune we climbed (and whose size was very hard to capture with photo).

Nighttime musical entertainment by the Berbers.

Speaking of Berber music, upon returning to Marrakesh I went to a local CD shop to look for a specific Berber band that our driver was playing a lot during the trip. I knew the name of the band (“Archach”) and asked the shop owner for it. It was clear he didn’t have it, but all of a sudden his face lit up and he ran to the back to get a copy…or so he said. He returned with a CD covered in Arabic writing. He proudly pointed to the band name with his finger and said “Here it is, Archach. The best!”. Little did he know that ol’ Amir can read Arabic writing, and the actual name on that CD was for an entirely different band. Punk. I told him, and he finally walked out of his store to make a genuine effort to find a CD.

Excitement, readers, excitement!

The third and final day of our Sahara trip was upon us. On the road back home we pulled over to look at some very old water wells, which were essentially large mounds of dirt with a deep hole in their center. Some of us climbed on top of the well to look down the hole:

I was walking back to the van when from behind me I heard a shriek, then a pop, and then a crash. I looked back and saw one of the women of our group laying near the base of the well, flat on her back. She obviously had slipped and fallen, but having heard that pop I figured a bone or a ligament in her knee had broken too. I walked towards her (let’s call her Janet) and saw the bottom third of her shin was at a 45 degree angle to the rest of her leg, with a bone trying to poke through the skin. She must have simultaneously noticed this too because she began screaming, “Oh my God it’s broken, it’s broken!” It sure was.

At this point the ten or so people in our group looked straight to me. The only thing racing through my mind was how we were hundreds of miles away from any medical care. I tried forgetting about that momentarily and began working on trying to get her leg splinted in order to get her somewhere, anywhere. We began rummaging through the van and found a long and skinny Persian (well, Moroccan) rug/carpet, which we decided to wrap around her lower leg. Not elegant or high-tech, but it was all we had. We all helped load her into the van. I borrowed some tylenol with codeine from another passenger, gave it to Janet, and told her to relax as much as possible.

Our driver turned to me, asking what we to do and where we to go. I asked him where the nearest city was; Ouarzazate, a medium-sized city, the first city with a “bone doctor” was 280km away, and Marrakesh was over 400km away (Also, apparently I use the metric system now.) I figured the woman’s best chance at treatment was in the biggest city and biggest medical center we could find, and so I told our driver to start the long drive back towards Marrakesh.

The mood inside the van was tense. The few people who were talking were just mumbling to their neighbor, a few were asking me if Janet would be ok, and the rest were keeping silent. Our driver kept asking me what we should do, but all I could recommend was keep driving.

My mind began wandering a little bit. Why — of all medical emergencies — do I get one involving a broken bone? Of all fields of medicine, the one I know by far the least about is orthopedics (bones). People, here is the extent of what I know about bones: 1) We have them, 2) Sometimes they break, and 3) Occasionally they get infected. Beyond that I’m no good. But right then, someone from the back yelled out to me that Janet was having chest pain.

Finally…now we’re talking.

I jump into the back seat and start asking her all about it. Sure enough she was having some substernal chest tightness. After additional questioning I felt as if it was due to anxiety and so I told her I’d keep an eye on it. Fifteen minutes later, though, she said it was getting worse and now her hands were tingling. I still truly felt it was anxiety-induced, but I was sufficiently concerned (for her heart) that I told our driver to pull over and told everyone to search their bags for any aspirin. All that was done, Janet chewed her aspirin, and interestingly her pain resolved immediately. I was much less worried at that point.

I also realized something else after that brief incident…the group was now treating me as if I were the one in charge. Until now our driver had been in charge the entire trip: he determined where we’d go, he set our schedules, and he had answers to everything. Now, both passengers and driver were looking to me for all answers. Where should we take her? She’s in more pain, what should we do? Will she be ok? Plus, with a few people saying things like “Thank God you were here” and “We’re lucky to have you here”, for once I genuinely felt proud to be a doctor. Gotta remember that feeling next time I’m on call, getting middle-of-the-night “Doctor Doctor!” pages.

After an hour of driving in the van, I decided we should probably get an ambulance to take Janet to the medical center. Our driver phoned for one, and about 30 minutes later, waiting on the side of the road for us, was an ambulance. Now I use that term loosely because what really was awaiting us was a pickup truck for midgets, with the word “Ambulance” on it.

The ambulance driver (which is all he was, a driver, nothing more) opened the back and revealed a space which was as big as half a twin bed. And half of that space was taken up by the stretcher for Janet. And into that trunk crammed Janet, her friend, and me.

That didn’t leave much room for medical supplies. In case you’re wondering, that is an empty tank of oxygen and an even emptier “medicine” cabinet.

The rest of the day was filled with mayhem and nausea. Once we started driving, you would think we’d race as fast as we could towards a hospital. Instead here is the path we took: 1) the driver’s home, where he picked up a pillow from his wife so he could sit on it, 2) his son’s house to pick up his son, so he’d have company, 3) a gas station, for gas, and finally 4) another gas station, to go to the bathroom.

Our windy and dangerously speedy journey through the Atlas Mountains was completely miserable. It was six hours of the worst roller coaster ride, cramped in the back of a tiny pickup truck, and with no windows to look out of to anticipate upcoming turns. One minute we’d be sitting, the next I’d be slammed against poor Janet’s broken bones. It turned out that the winding mountain roads were too much for our driver’s son too, because at one point we stopped so the kid could run out and vomit on the side of the road. Apparently the poor bastard had never left his little home village, and had never been on such a twisty road. How do I know? He felt the need to tell us this the moment he finished vomitting…with fresh vomit dripping from his mouth with each word he spoke.

Adding to this comedy show about an hour later, the back doors to the ambulance flew open. I was asleep in the back, resting on the doors, when suddenly I dropped backwards. The doors had unlatched — remained connected to each other, though – but separated from the truck. I looked down and saw highway flying by me, and scurried to the center of the truck. I now had to sleep/sit/crouch in the back with my knees up to my chest, sitting on the floor. Fate was trying to make me laugh, but I didn’t really get the joke.

We finally reached the hospital after the ambulance driver rolled down his window and asked a few pedestrians where the nearest hospital was. Janet was taken in immediately, evaluated, and forced to stay overnight to get surgery the next day.

It had been a long, absurd, and physically painful day, but I was happy to have helped. At 8pm I finally walked out of the hospital…but not without first stealing her x-rays for a few minutes to take a photo (with a confident “Yes this is Dr. Amir, I am a doctor in the USA, and I need to see her x-rays now.”) No need to have a radiology degree to interpret this one.

Back in Casablanca which means it’s time to fly home. Not much happened since last time except that my camera finally broke, thanks to that Sahara sandstorm. At least it broke at the end of my trip.

Thanks to everyone who read along! Shukran and au revoir.

Despite a slightly rocky start, it was a great trip. Here are a few random final thoughts:

• I had an extremely hard time not speaking Spanish there. Because of my job, that’s the only other language I speak on a regular basis, and so I kept telling locals “por favor”, “de nada”, and “buenos dias” instead of their French equivalents. My finest moment? Telling someone “Mucho désolée”.
• One day, while with my group of Dutch and Spanish travellers, a weird situation arose briefly when I had to translate from French (for one group) into Spanish (for the other). It’s a sad day when Amir has to do the translating.
• If anyone ever again asks me “where are you from?”, I might punch them. Anyone…whether we’re in Morocco or not.
• My skin color really screwed me over there. I was just white enough to stand out as a foreigner by the locals, but just brown enough such that the white Europeans/Americans thought I was a local when I tried talking to them, thus making them ignore me.