On Children and Mothers

The other day, my father and I made our way into the Sahara desert to round out our Moroccan experience. On the way to our desert camp, our driver asked if we wanted to visit a nomadic Berber family that had set up camp nearby.

Nomadic family? Berber locals?! Observing a rare gem of African life? CULTURE?!

Naturally, I jumped at the chance. It was every traveler’s dream come true.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Africa, our driver pulled up to a wicker hut and a mess of patched together blankets, which resembled a tent. We were invited inside the hut and served green tea by a cheerful elderly woman sitting cross-legged on the ground, who was warming up a teapot over a charcoal pit.

A darling little boy appeared from behind her, smiling shyly at me, and suddenly the Angelina Jolie complex kicked in.

The Angelina Jolie complex is what I like to call the compulsion of most American travelers to believe we are all superstars and that every impoverished foreign child wants to come home with us to a better life.

I swooned over the four-year-old, Mohammed, as he stared at me from behind his grandmother and then latched onto his mother once she entered the hut.

When it was time to leave, I jokingly asked our driver to ask the boy in Berber if he would like to come home with me.

The boy responded without thinking twice, “Okay. But, only if my mama can come too.”

My heart warmed at the honest response that only a mother’s child could muster and I smiled at the boy, because I understood exactly what he meant.  

Happy Mother’s Day Mama Kulka.

Sunset in the Sahara

Sunset in the Sahara

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