Border Crossing

THIS STORY IS UNRELATED TO MY EXPERIENCE IN MOROCCO. IT IS A SOUTH AMERICA EXPERIENCE.

The gentleman sitting next to me had been chatting, asking me about California. With an hour left on the bus though, we’ve exhausted our social energy and silently agree to break conversation and move onto personal thoughts. Out the window to my left, Lake Titicaca comes in and out of view. It’s full size can’t be appreciated from this angle, and I find livestock and rural homes more interesting. I picture myself on an island in the lake. From there I would be able to appreciate the size of Titicaca. However, it is not it’s surface area that is the most impressive. What is especially interesting about Lake Titicaca is it’s altitude: 12507 feet.

Earth’s gravity pulls oxygen down to sea level, literally thinning out the air at high altitudes. At 4900 feet reduced oxygen levels impair athletic performance as the cardiovascular system tries to figure out why it can’t circulate like it did at sea level. The air is lighter, explaining why so many home runs are hit at Denver’s Mile High Stadium. At 8000 feet, a flight of stairs becomes a challenge and altitude sickness becomes a concern. Hemoglobin suddenly is unable to saturate with oxygen. No major American city sits above this limit (though Santa Fe, New Mexico does top 7000 feet). At 12500 feet, the atmosphere contains only 2/3 the amount of oxygen it does at sea level. Only the tallest mountains in America break this boundary. A visitor at this elevation is severely impacted by the low atmospheric pressure. Loss of appetite, headaches, and general fatigue will create a sensation of a never-ending hangover. The thin air is dry, chapping facial tissue, causing nose bleeds. With less atmosphere to push through UV rays scorch unprotected skin. In Peru and Bolivia, the bottoms of the mountains are at 12500 feet.

Despite it’s altitude, Titicaca is by no means a mountain lake. It rests in the broad plains of The Altiplano, the world’s second largest high altitude plateau (after Tibet). The altiplano is found between an impressive split in the massive Andes mountains. The world’s longest mountain range runs southward from Colombia and Venezuela to the tip of Argentina and Chile. For nearly it’s entire length, it is notably narrow and abrupt. From the pacific heading east, the mountains rise immediately to staggering heights topping 20000 feet in elevation. In as little as 150 miles they fall suddenly into the Amazon basin. Ecuador, a country smaller than Nevada, has beaches and rainforest, with 20000 foot glaciated volcanoes in between. The one place where the Andes fatten is in Bolivia, where they split and form The Altiplano. It is important to recognize the scale of the Andes and the Altiplano. Unless you live in central Asia or in the Andes themselves, it is hard to fathom the immensity of these mountains. Outside of Alaska (which has a scale of its own) USA’s highest peak is Mount Whitney at 14505 feet. By most standards, this is impressive. By Andean standards, not so much. La Rinconada, a mining town in Peru with a population of 50000, finds itself at 16700 feet above sea level. This is a city, not a summit! Potosi in Bolivia, with a quarter million inhabitants, has an elevation of 13300 feet. Even La Paz, Bolivia’s de facto Capital, which has a population of one million, sits at 12000 feet in elevation. The surrounding mountains are the highest in the world outside of Asia (no other continent can quite compete with the Himalayas). Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Western Hemisphere (and Southern Hemisphere), has an elevation of 22800 feet. Next to lake Titicaca, Illampu, Illamani, and Janq’u Uma all break 20000 feet. Titicaca itself is the winner of two superlatives: It is South America’s largest lake, and the highest navigable lake in the world (12507ft).

The road my bus is traveling on is nearly the same altitude as the tallest mountain in Montana. Yet, we are not going over a pass. We are not switch backing up a steep slope. The terrain is flat. We are at the bottom of the mountains and already higher than nearly all of North America. The bus approaches Titicaca’s shoreline and from this angle I can begin to see that the lake stretches far beyond the nearby islands. The water is the same deep blue shade as an ocean.

Considering that Bolivia’s Altiplano is surrounded by the Andes mountains, it seems only natural that a major lake would form. Water is trapped in a basin with no escape to the oceans. The heat and humidity from the Amazon Rainforest push up the eastern slopes of the Andes exhausting tropical precipitation and producing snow atop Bolivia’s Eastern Andes Mountains. While the Western branch of the Bolivian Andes are dry and distant, the Eastern summits contain massive glaciers, shedding melting ice into Lake Titicaca through five major river systems and twenty or thirty smaller streams. The further west one gets from the Amazon the dryer the landscape becomes. No moisture makes it across the entire Altiplano to the Pacific Ocean, producing the driest place on our planet: The Atacama Desert. Fortunately for Lake Titicaca, there is a developed hydrosphere in the Altiplano, and the massive glaciers in the Eastern Range provide enough run-off to feed the great lake.

“Uh, So, where’s the border?” I ask the driver as he hands me my bag from the roof of the bus. We’ve reached the end of Peru. I’m anxious to cross before it gets too late. Daylight is fading fast and so is my fascination with the region’s physical geography.

“Just follow this road. On the other side of the bridge is Bolivia.” I stroll out over the Desaguadero River, taking a quick moment to appreciate the geographical and political importance of the river. Lake Titicaca is drained by this single outlet. It also marks the border between Peru and Bolivia. The small highway I took to arrive here, skirts the western shores of the lake in Peru and cuts into Bolivia towards the southern end of the lake via a bridge over the Desaguadero River. The combination of international border and transportation route gives birth to a border town, the least appealing of all human communities. Dangerous and slummy, the town of Desaguadero owes its existence to human migration and imaginary lines drawn by politicians.

Though the Desaguadero River should act as a barrier dividing two countries, movement across the bridge is surprisingly fluid. Herds of people and vehicles of all styles and sizes jump back and forth between the two countries. Most are going about there usual business. They are locals, and despite two time-zones, their community is a whole. They claim the right to be on either side of the river. Many of them pedal cargo back and forth across the bridge using oversized tricycles, weaving between foot traffic and makeshift shops, making a living off those who can’t pack light. Travelers are forced to spend several hours in town jumping through bureaucratic hoops. This sets up the economic base for the community. Street food sizzles on either side of the bridge, masking the stench of urine. Shops sell trinkets to tourists who have money to burn. Run down hostels advertise their location with obnoxious neon letters. Money exchanges do there best to look proper amid the chaos, reminding travelers to prepare for Peruvian or Bolivian currencies. Printers and photocopiers are scattered around the shops in case someone’s travel documents aren’t quite in order. Arching across the bridge above me, Peru thanks me for the visit, and 200 feet later Bolivia welcomes me in.

I am standing on Bolivian soil, but I have not legally entered. I’m not funneled right to the immigration officials like I would be in an airport. It’s as if immigration is optional. I could skip the process entirely and no one would stop me. I assume there would be nasty consequences when I decide to leave South America though, so I ask for directions. The immigration office barely seems any more governmental than local shops. Nothing distinguishes it from the rest of the decrepit town. An annex feeds me into a small room with a security guard overseeing migratory technicalities. Most travelers are Peruvian or Bolivian. With a flash of their IDs they are waved on to enter Bolivia. There is the occasional satisfying ‘kachunk’ of a government stamp. I approach a female border official with my American passport. As a government employee she tries to be formal, but sporadically she’ll smile or joke with her colleagues. She doesn’t want to be miserable at work. She flips through my passport and I wait for her to tell me that I need to purchase a visa in order to enter Bolivia.

“Are you leaving Bolivia or are you trying to get into Bolivia?”

“I’m trying to enter Bolivia.”

“Where is your stamp saying you’ve left Peru?”

“Was I suppose to do that in Peru?”

“Of course. You can’t just leave Peru without going through their immigration process. Go back across the bridge and have the Peruvian officials stamp your exit. And hurry! We’re gonna close soon.” She teases me, giggling about my pathetic attempt to enter Bolivia.

I’m on the bridge again, returning to the other side of the international border. From this angle the signs read differently: Bolivia thanks me for my visit and Peru welcomes me in. I walk briskly across Lake Titicaca’s single drainage and look for Peru’s immigration building. It’s easier to find than Bolivia’s, partly because a very proper ‘MIGRACIONES’ board calls my attention and partly because a hundred travelers are filed along the sidewalk waiting their turn to be blessed with a Peruvian Government stamp. I trace the line between street vendors and accept my position at the back. Minutes go by and the line remains stagnant. The reality of my night starts to creep in. I take off my unwieldy backpack, giving up hope of a speedy border crossing.

I tell myself that I’m 20% of the way to Peru’s immigration office, but this is based more on the growth of the line behind me than any kind of forward progress. Every five minutes the line inches ahead and I swing my bag forward with me one big step. In front of me a Bolivian man is trying to get his car insurance in order. At least I don’t have to deal with owning a vehicle. He explains that Bolivia will have a major vote on Sunday, and that there will be no transportation out of Desaguadero over the weekend. It will be illegal to drive. Drinking will also not be allowed over the weekend to ensure a sober vote. What’s more, if a Bolivian citizen does not vote, they will be fined. I suppose that is one way to promote freedom and democracy: impose it. Shove it down your citizens throats. For me, this has dire consequences. If I don’t get out of here tonight, I will be spending three nights in this seedy South American border town. I will be the first gringo to spend an entire weekend in Desaguadero.

Behind me there is a lady who overhears my situation, “You have to go to the front of the line. You’re not going to make it into Bolivia tonight waiting in this long line.”

“Is everyone here coming into Peru or going into Bolivia?”

“We’re all just coming into Peru. You’re the only one going to Bolivia. The Peruvian border will be open for a few more hours and we’ll be fine. But the Bolivian border will close soon. You have to go to the front of the line and beg them to let you cut in front.”

Begging is the last thing I feel like doing, “No way. I’m sure there are some people in line trying to get into Bolivia. It would be unfair if I cut to the front of the line.” I wonder how American I sound. Surely a Latin American in my situation would go to the front and charismatically work things out. The car insurance man in front of me supports my stance though. He thinks that Bolivia’s border will remain open for me, so I decide to wait out the long line. An hour later, at 7:30pm, a Peruvian official stamps my passport. I get back on the bridge, walking a little brisker now, Peru thanks me for my visit, and Bolivia welcomes me.

In Bolivia it is 8:30pm, which feels infinitely later than 7:30pm. Bolivia will close it’s immigration office soon. I tote my luggage through the Bolivian queue at a more satisfying rate. The same female border official from my first attempt awaits me.

“Where have you been? I told you to hurry!”

“There was a long line in Peru.”

“Really? Well, why didn’t you cut to the front? I told you to hurry!”

“I can’t cut a line. That’s not fair to other people.”

“Well, you probably should have. You barely made it. We are about to close.” She stamps my passport and takes a picture of me for Government records. “So I can remember you forever,” the camera makes no sound. She thinks this is the last she’ll see of me. She thinks I’m legally allowed to visit Bolivia. I wish she was right.

“Don’t I need a Visa?” I murmur.

“You have one,” she opens my passport, “see, what do you think this is.”

“That’s an old one. I think it’s expired.”

She pauses, “Oh my god,” her eyes widen, “you need a visa. We’re closing now. We have to hurry.” She is furious at me for making her day complicated, but at the same time she is embarrassed that I had to catch her mistake, “The Visa costs 160$.”

My eyes widen, “160$? I thought it was 135$.”

“It was 135$, but now it’s 160$. It’s a ten year Visa though, so it’s actually a better deal.” Why wasn’t it a ten year visa when I came six years ago? I would still have four years left on it. This time the five year extension makes no difference, as I will use up the 90 days before ten years. I will use up the 90 days in the next 90 days. It will be a ten year 90 day Visa. This new Visa will expire nine years and nine months short of the 10 year benefit.

I stop calculating how screwed I’m getting and determine how I can work with Bolivian government to get through this minor disaster. My anger can’t be directed at my border official friend. It’s not her fault. Together I’m sure we can work this out. I produce seven crisp 20 dollar bills, “I have 140$.” I remember the three dollars I’ve kept hidden behind my driver’s license. “Actually I have 143$. I thought the Visa cost 135$.”

“I told you. It used to be 135$, but now…”

“What should I do? Are there any ATMs open?”

“Not at this hour. Don’t you realize how late it is. We should have closed by now.”

“What about 60 Peruvian moneys. That’s about 20$. I can give you 143$ and 60 Peruvian moneys,” my voice tries to not sound desperate.

“We can’t take Peruvian money. This isn’t Peru! We can only accept American dollars.”

“Well. What do you want me to do? Can I exchange my Peruvian money for dollars somewhere?”

“Yea, if you go back to Peru they have places still open that can offer dollars.”

“Can I leave my bags here, please?”

“We can’t stay open just for you! Okay, fine, leave your bags here. You better hurry though.” A government job has not stripped her completely of her humanity. She wants me to make it.

I’m at a full sprint across the bridge. Bolivia thanks me for the visit and Peru welcomes me. My second attempt at entering Bolivia failed, but it looks like I’ll get one more chance. I scold myself for being underprepared. I should have brought more money for back-up. 200$ would have a been a safe amount. Instead I’m going broke. And why hadn’t I visited Peruvian immigration first? I had no plan and this is what I get: running laps between Bolivia and Peru. I can’t think straight. I’m not even really sure what I’m looking for. Out of breath I ask a lady selling bootleg CDs where I might be able to exchange money. She points, and I’m off running again.

“Can I get American dollars for 60 Peruvian moneys and 30 Peruvian cents?” I empty my money purse.

“If you give me another 60 cents I can give you 19$.”

“This is all I have.”

“Whatever.” The man’s laziness earns me a full 19 dollars, for a grand total of 162$.

Again, I’m on the bridge. Peru’s thank you flies over me, but before I can get to Bolivia’s welcome, one of the cargo loaded tricycles swerves around another to pass, barreling down on me. I shuffle towards the side of the bridge and my feet slip out from under me. My hand catches concrete and brings my feet back under me, while The tricycle zips past me, narrowly avoiding my right hip. Laughter erupts. Women selling hats on the side of bridge won’t stop cackling about how the foreigner, who’s been running back and forth all night, almost fell and got run over exactly on an international border. I’m feeling less and less human as the events of the evening unfold.

Bolivia welcomes me and I slow down to enter the government building. Straggling travelers remain in the annex collecting their documents and belongings. The door into the immigration office is closed, but unlocked. Inside, a janitor is sweeping the debris left over from the storm of migrants. I don’t see her at first, but I hear my female border official friend. She’s complaining about me around the corner. I can’t tell if she’s upset or complaining for fun. I’m the story of the day, the one traveler that didn’t have his shit together. I round the corner and lay out seven twenty dollar bills, a ten, a five, and five one dollar bills. She goes through each twenty, verifying their authenticity.

“Why did you come so late tonight? You’ve been to Bolivia before. You know how this works?”

“That was six years ago. I still don’t really know how anything in Latin America works.”

“Why are you coming back to Bolivia?”

“I have family here. And, you know, you gotta visit family sometimes.”

She takes her eyes off the 160$ and flashes me a smile, “this is true.” I want to ask her about her family. Does she travel to see them? Does she have to cross imaginary political lines to visit them? As she completes her assessment of my money she stops being my friend and reverts back to being my border official.

“We can’t accept this dollar bill. It’s not in very good condition.” She is so cruel to me. Or maybe it’s Bolivian politics that are so cruel to me. I retrieve one of my last two remaining dollars, the nicer looking one. She stares at this one as well, unimpressed. She calls in another official and asks him what he thinks about the condition of the dollar bill. He inspects it and tells her to accept it. She prints off my Visa and sticks it into my passport. I’m free. I’m legally allowed to exist in the country of Bolivia. However, my friend has one last mean trick.

“You have to do one more thing for me, honey. Bring us photocopies of your passport and your Visa. It will only cost you one Bolivian money.” It feels like an insult. Do they not have a photocopier? They know that I just spent all my money trying to get the Visa. I’m completely submissive though and accept their request.

I’m about to sprint back to Peru to exchange my last two American dollars for 14 Bolivian moneys, but the concept seems so insane that I refuse to let myself do it. Across the street I read ‘FOTOCOPIAS’ in front of a store that appears to still be open. Travelers must visit his shop constantly as they work their way through Bolivian bureaucracy. A magical machine inside that store should put an end to this nightmare. I don’t have Bolivian moneys, but I have to make this work out somehow. Inside, a man greets me with sincere friendliness. I return his warmth with desperation.

“Sir, please can you help me. I need a photocopy of my passport. I don’t have any Bolivian money. But, listen, I’ll pay you an American dollar. Please, just one photocopy. I’ve had a really tough night. One dollar is like seven or eight Bolivian moneys. Please, sir.” He responds to my begging with a look somewhere between confusion and pity, and accepts my proposal. On my way out he kisses the dollar bill dramatically, and smiles good-bye to me. Tomorrow he’ll send his son to Peru to exchange the bill for real currency, or maybe he’ll hold onto it as a souvenir. Foreign money looks cool.

Across the street, past the annex, the door is closed and an official on his way out refuses to let me in. I’ve gotten past the major obstacles, but it is small inconveniences like this that are beginning to drive me towards the edges of insanity. I’m begging again, waving my photocopy in his face. It’s the last step. It has to be. All I have to do is give my female border official friend this piece of paper. He tells me to wait and goes back in the room to ask about me. “Alright, go in.”

I’ve jumped through every hoop. I hold the photocopy in the air in triumph. My female border official friend is busy talking with a colleague and signals for me to leave it on the table. I ask if I’m all set to go and she nods and waves me away entirely uninterested. I thought we were friends. Doesn’t she want to celebrate with me? A high five, maybe? Can’t she wish me safe travels? It’s like the photocopy could be cleared away by the janitor and no one would ever notice. It wouldn’t make any difference. I retrieve my bags that I’ve left sitting in the corner of the immigration room, moving on to the next chapter of my journey.

It took at least four hours to enter Bolivia. I’m at 12500 feet in elevation. Beyond the flickering street lights of Desaguadero is South America’s largest lake, it’s only outlet under the bridge just behind me. Beyond the lake are the biggest mountains in the world outside of Asia. Down the road a couple hours is La Paz, one of the world’s most impressive high altitude cities. I’m too tired to think about the incredible geography. My night is not over. I’ve been traveling since 7am and my destination is still hours away. I try to get oriented on the Bolivian side of Desaguadero. My only instinct is to walk away from Peru. Where are the buses? How will I pay for transportation? I may have a Visa, but I only have one American dollar left. I try to focus and think of a plan, but I’m too exhausted.

Hitler

“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait another moment before starting to improve the world.”

            -Anne Frank

----

“Hitler was amazing,” Nisrine described her assignment. “He was the president of Germany. He was a powerful speaker and wasn't afraid of anything.”

The assignment was to describe a historical figure in English. She was my best student, always participating. On any other day, she was a joy to have in class. I let her finish her praise for Hitler and discussed my horror with her.

“Well, your grammar is great. But, do you really think Hitler was great? He started World War Two. He killed lots of people!”

“Yea, I know. But I just like how powerful his personality was. He just wanted what was best for his country.”

“He was bad. He killed lots of people!”

“What about America? You dropped the atomic bomb. What about that?”

“The atomic bombs were different. They ended the war.”

“Hitler was just trying to do what was best for his country.”

Our debate fizzled, our perspectives out of sync.

In Western education Adolf Hitler is the epitome of evil. He was Satan in human form. When I hear “Hitler” my gut reacts the same way as if someone were swearing at me. His swastika has become a symbol of terror. No one would dare name their kid Adolf anymore.

In Morocco, Hitler is just another name in the history textbook. He’s another politician that did some good things and some bad things. Plenty of people dislike him, but it isn't the same passionate hate you would find in Europe of America. From an Arab perspective, understanding of the holocaust is less emotionally driven. History changes according to culture.

When I was learning American history in eighth grade I remember Andrew Jackson being pretty cool. My textbook described how he fought hard to take power from the wealthy elite and distribute it to the struggling yeomen farmers. There was a small blurb in the book about the trail of tears, but that was boring. The lies and treachery and murder were boring. I overlooked his shortcomings in terms of Native American relations and regarded him as a hero. Of course, if the Seminoles had been the ultimate winners in American history, Andrew Jackson would have developed into a Hitler like symbol.

Christopher Columbus was a hero for centuries. Only very recently has his status begun to decline. He used to symbolize discovery. America owed its existence to his courage. Now, western education is beginning to understand that his discovery was hardly anything more than a stroke of luck. He ruled as the governor of Hispaniola, using torture and terror to maintain control. Textbooks are beginning to consider him as a historical villain rather than a hero.

Nisrine’s praise for Hitler was not an indication of a screwed up evil soul. She did not study history from the same Euro-centric perspective as I had. While students in America are trained to understand that Hitler is the epitome of evil, Nisrine had studied him in the same way I had studied Andrew Jackson and Christopher Columbus. Just another name.

It was unfortunate that she admired Hitler, but it didn't depress me until months later. Hitler had found his was into my lesson again. I don’t remember how. In front of a crowded classroom, Nisrine explained why she admired Hitler.

----

“He killed Jews. You know the people in Israel that are killing everyone in Palestine? They are so evil. But Hitler killed them. So, there!” She turned to me to make sure I understood her new argument. “That’s why I think Hitler was great. He killed Jews.”

I was speechless. I would wait until after class to approach her. This was not excusable according to cultural or historical perspective. It was racist. It was hateful. Unfortunately, it is not an uncommon attitude in Morocco. The conflict between Palestine and Israel is a heated issue in the Arab world. The struggle in Palestine represents Arabs’ repeated failures for at freedom. For some individuals, political frustration gets tangled with Antisemitism.

“You can’t do that. The war in Palestine is between politicians. You can’t say Jews are bad. You can never say a group of people is one thing.”

“Have you seen the news? Do you see all the Palestinians dying? Nobody cares! You know my family was all crying last night. It’s like there are these horrible things happening and nobody is doing anything. The Jewish people have all this power and they kill the poor Palestinians.”

“Listen. You can say that the people doing the war are bad, but you cannot say that Jewish people are bad. You know, they are normal people in Israel just like here. There are shop keepers and teachers and they try to live normal lives like us.”

Changing the way somebody thinks about and understands the world is not like a switch. By saying the right thing the light will not turn on or off. Only experience can change the way somebody thinks. It takes time. Months later I realized an experience that could help.

----

“She was only 14 years old when she started writing in her diary. She had so many ideas and wrote them in a beautiful way. You guys realize to help people and make the world a peaceful place you don’t have to be president. Anne Frank just wrote. And she inspired lots of people.” I was in control. Teaching in front of the class is thrilling when I feel passion for the subject.

“But what happened to her? You say she died when she was 16. Why was she hiding during the war? There is something you are not telling us. What happened?” Nisrine had felt a deep connection with Anne Frank’s quotes.

“Anne Frank was a Jewish. She was hiding for two years with her family because they were afraid of the Nazis. Somebody betrayed them and they were captured. She was sent with her family to a concentration camp. Only the father survived the Holocaust. The rest of the family died. But, even though Anne Frank died, her message lives on. Her ideas and advice continue to reach people around the world. Her life is a sad story. But it is also so beautiful.”

Nobody spoke.

“Our assignment today will be to leave our final message to the world. We are all dead. But, like Anne Frank, we have a final opportunity to leave a message to the world. The whole world will read your message. What will you write?”

After class Nisrine waited for me:

“Thank you. You took the hate away. Now I understand that Jewish people suffer too.”

Rescued

We filtered through the cluttered old city. Eastman and I followed Mickey, keeping track of his red jacket. He guided us through the crowds, avoiding distracting shop keepers. I was at the tail, carrying Eastman’s backpack, full of his bulky travel needs. He hadn't checked into a hotel room yet. To get us moving to the beach quicker I assumed responsibility for the bag, telling him he could find a hotel later. Sometimes, to get moving, you just have to go. I figured they wouldn't make me carry it on the way back. We emerged from the old city and climbed a lazy crest. Below us lay the Atlantic Ocean. The water was churning into different colors, violently stretching and contracting against a perfect sky. It was a brand new day!

I was rousing from hibernation, life pumping through my veins. The clouds and rain of the last few days had made the world so small. I hadn't seen much besides the buildings across the window from my hotel room. The ocean was vast, and nothing was stopping me from attacking it head on. I had had enough of my tiny world and the jetty poking into the Atlantic looked like a refreshing escape.

Although we had the football with us, I figured what we’d do first is walk to the end of the jetty. Mickey refused, saying he didn't want to get wet and wandered onto the dirty sand with the backpack, the football, and his stupid red jacket. Indeed, the bigger waves were crashing over the walls and rocks, slapping the walkway ferociously. A few barriers blocked the entrance of the jetty. We squeezed through them, deciding it was okay to ignore them since several people were strolling or fishing on the jetty. Further out on the jetty there were fewer people, and I wondered if I could find some privacy on the rocks. I had to pee.

Waves heaved back and forth along the walkway. Below their clashes I could hear the ocean growl. It grew deeper and louder as Eastman and I walked further into the Atlantic. He remained half a beat behind me, along for the ride, but not urging me forward. A few waves sprayed us, teasing us to go on. I determined we should reach the end of the jetty and stand on the protective wall to really witness a full demonstration of Poseidon’s power. I quickened our pace, thinking it had been forever since experiencing anything significant. I wanted something to happen.

“Stop me before I do something stupid, Eastman.” We passed a young couple huddling together against the wall. It was like they had come to the end of the world to hide their romance. There was nobody beyond them. Eastman and I became the last people on Earth.

I climbed up on the walls pushing towards the tip of the jetty. If a wave got above the wall I planned to jump off back onto the safety of the walkway. Eastman climbed up behind me. The water churned. Boiling textures slapped the rocks on the other side of our wall. The wind whipped through my thin layers. Our first real wave was rushing towards us. I no longer noticed how pure the color of the sky was. The wave rolled up the rocks and shot over the wall. It loomed over me for a moment. As planned, I dropped off the wall to get back on the walkway. The wall was only five feet tall.

The world shook. Something rattled my vision. Why was I laying in my back? The back of my head hurt pretty bad. I stood up quickly to prove to myself that I wasn't seriously hurt. I cursed loudly in confusion. I almost fell again. The walkway, at the very end of the jetty, was under several inches of water, and coated with a slippery green slime. My heels must have slipped out from under so quick that I couldn't break my fall. I had slammed onto my back and my head. It was an embarrassingly nasty fall. I sloshed through the puddles slowly, trying not to slip on the slime. Eastman casually worked his way back off the wall.

It didn't occur to me for several steps. Then, I understood that this was that kind of pain. It hurt like blood. I touched the back of my head and studied the crimson on my fingers. It was worse than I thought. I explored some more and imagined a red waterfall on my neck. I rationalized that since my hair and clothes were soaked with salty water, there was less blood than it seemed. It just looked gruesome because water spreads blood around like that.

“Are you alright?” Eastman and I met on dry ground. I had never heard that question posed so sincerely.

“Yea, dude. Fuck. God damn it.”

I wanted to avoid the young couple but they were practically right in front of us. My stupidity was shameful and it sucks to be judged. My gaze met theirs, and I could read in their eyes that they were not disgusted by my behavior, but concerned for my well-being. Their worry drew me in and the guy managed to hide the bleeding with his scarf. For a second, I wondered if he would want his scarf back. It was such a soft material. But he spoke first.

“You need to see a doctor.”

“Are you sure? Is there a lot of blood?” I wished so badly that this wasn't real.

“Yea. Find a doctor.”

I needed to explain to him that being wet just makes things look bloodier than they really are, but I didn't. The guy was right. He was clearly in a better position than me to make the judgment: dry clothes, a beautiful girlfriend, and sense enough not to climb onto the exposed walls. He was bright enough to offer a form of help by offering his expensive scarf. His girlfriend probably loved him so much when he did that. I thanked him, and then there was no reason to stay. Eastman and I retraced our steps. Anytime we passed somebody, I kept my head down, and my hand pressed against the scarf over the source of blood. I was ashamed of my belligerence.

Before reaching the barriers that blocked access to the jetty, a cigarette vendor whistled for me and jogged over. He didn't talk, but motioned for me to kneel down. He removed my scarf and applied his own bandage: a thin yellow cloth wrapped tightly around my head. Then he added the scarf over it. I don’t know if he knew what he was doing, and I swear the yellow band looked dirty, but he wanted to help. He even gave me a small pack of napkins for free. I wanted to tip him. I even took out my wallet to get some change, but I only had bills. I decided it was a good thing I didn't pay him. That would've actually been a pretty awful reaction to human generosity.

At the entrance to the jetty other Americans from our organization were collecting, exchanging hugs, ready to spend the day at the beach. The city was abuzz with American chatter, as volunteers from the furthest reaches of Morocco had come to the capital to spend Thanksgiving week. It was an impossible network of relationships and acquaintances. Blood spilling down my neck didn't help my social anxiety. I didn't want to ruin the excitement that comes with reunions.

While Eastman spoke on the phone with Dr. Toufiq, our doctor at headquarters, I tried my best to greet the group appropriately, and describe my situation. I downplayed the severity of my injury, trying my best to keep the mood light, but Em wasn't fooled and assumed control of my rescue.

“We got to get you cleaned up. Come on.” She motioned towards the entrance of what looked like a restaurant. I didn’t think the employees would really just let us barge in.

Em and Eastman pushed me ahead and we were inside, away from the wind, and the sun, and the waves. It was a bar, the rarest of establishments in Morocco. We didn't say anything to the waiters or bartenders. The bar’s layout funneled us into the back corner, where Eastman led me into an immaculate bathroom, the second rarest of establishments. Em followed us in a second later, and my rescue was in full swing.

Eastman washed my head and my neck, blood splashing into both sinks. The toilet flushed and a man stepped out of the stall.

“Oh no, what happened here? Was it the waves?” he forced communication.

“Yea. I was being stupid.” I tried to give him some room at the second sink so he could wash his hands. That’s what you are supposed to do after you take a shit. But he left us alone after dropping a few words of encouragement.

Em shined a flashlight into my eyes and told me my pupils looked good. Again, Eastman called Dr. Toufiq, explaining that there was a lot of blood. He told us to meet him at the hospital. Em wrapped the scarf around my head again. The hospital would fix me.

The scene I was causing had invited everyone to drinks. As we worked our way back out of the bar, my American friends were half way through the first round of drinks, bringing the early afternoon to life. Vince jumped out of his bar stool to offer me his hoodie, then, he ran ahead to wave down a taxi. Several others walked with me across the boardwalk to send me off.

“Get in the car. This guy is going to give you a ride.” There was no taxi, but Vince had found an obliging driver. I apologized for the inconvenience a couple of times, as Caitlin and Eastman got in the car with me. There were too many people involved in my ridiculous rescue. My heart sat heavy in my chest. The adrenaline was wearing off and the back off my head throbbed.

“What happened?” The driver asked.

“I was walking by the beach. I wasn’t thinking. I walked almost to the very end. I should’ve thought more. A wave came and hit me and I jumped and fell. And I hit my head” I said it in an I’m-not-very-fluent-in-Arabic kind of way and the stranger chuckled.

At the hospital, I sat with Caitlin and Eastman in the lobby as Dr. Toufiq discussed the situation with some hospital staff. It seemed like he was convincing them to see me right away, like this situation called for special treatment. What if the girl begging me for change earlier had fallen and cut open her head? Who would sew her head up? I battled a guilty conscious until Dr. Toufiq called me over.

I was led into a sanitary waiting room, while Caitlin and Eastman remained in the lobby. I sat on the bed shivering, holding the scarf around me head wondering if the bleeding had lessened. Dr. Toufiq explained that we had to wait on a specialist to stitch up the back of my head. He examined my wound and then made me follow his finger with my eyes. After taking my blood pressure, he ran out of ways to keep busy and sat in a chair across from me. He was good company. Doctors always have a comforting presence

All my clothes were soaked, but it was mostly the wet socks that kept me shivering. I figured I would worry about warming up later. Stitching my head was a priority over warmth. I still had to pee. I thought I would hold it until my head was fixed, but that didn’t make sense. I asked for the bathroom.

“You can tell my friends that they can go back now.” I told Dr. Toufiq back in my waiting room. “They don’t have to wait for me. They can go back.”

He went back to the lobby to tell them. When he returned Caitlin and Eastman were with him. “Your friends wanted to say good bye.” They demonstrated worry and encouragement. I wanted to tell them thank you or sorry but hugs were all we really needed.

After freezing for a half hour, the specialist arrived. I laid face down in his operating room and he began to explore my gash.

“So you are a Peace Corps volunteer. I want to tell you what I think you guys do and you can tell me if you agree.” He began to shave the back of my head around the cut. It felt like my hair was being ripped out. I bit into my shirt sleeve and let tears of pain dribble onto the bed. “America is a diverse place with a lot of backgrounds. Everyone has their own family history. It creates a sense of global mindedness in the American people. Americans have an urge to explore the world. Even more, you guys want to help the world rise. You want to share the privileges that come with the American standard of living. By volunteering you show that we all deserve small victories. By winning sometimes, we can all be happy.” The razor kept jabbing the gash. I tried to focus on the doctor’s speech. “Have you ever played tennis?” I affirmed with a muffled grunt. “Let’s say I played tennis everyday. And everyday my friend beats me. I lose every single day. What should I do? I can’t get better. Maybe I could stop playing. I could try to cheat. Or maybe I could change the rules. If it meant winning, and I was really sick of losing, I may do something extreme. Ok. Now we will inject the anesthesia. You will feel two pricks, but then the pain will go away. You see here in the Arab world, we have been losing a lot. Violence in the Middle East has been relentless and nothing seems to get solved. Lives are not improving. Even during the Arab Spring, when it seemed like a spirit of revolution could bring people out of oppression, we still lost. Imagine losing like this all the time. Would you find a different way to play? There are a lot of people who do. They figure out ways to cheat or change the rules. Ok. Now let me know if there is too much pain. We are going to begin stitching up your head. So some people decide that they can win by killing others. They figure martyrdom is a shortcut to heaven. They think that they can fly planes into the World Trade Center and go to paradise. They trick themselves. They become so sick of always losing that the only way to ultimately win is to kill or die. You see how dangerous it can be to lose everyday. Now, if we help others, and share the victories I think we can be okay. But there are a lot of people out there always losing, looking for ways to change the rules and cheat. What do you think?”

“If I always lost at tennis, I would just play another sport.” The screaming cut in the back of my head had been silenced.

He smiled, “come forward. The stitches are done. Hang your head off the table so we can wash your head.”

Icy water rushed over me, and my breath caught in my chest. Blood streamed into the bucket below me. The water kept flowing, its color beginning to fade. Then, the water was pure. The wave had passed. I had been rescued.

The specialist shook my hand, wished me well and added, “You look cold. You should change into some dry clothes.”