Little Mo Effect (eBook)

A Surgeon's Compassion for a Charismatic Moroccan Boy Transforms Many Lives

Pier Boutin M.D. (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
289 Seiten
Green Fire Press (Verlag)
979-8-9858064-5-8 (ISBN)

High in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, the chance encounter of an orthopedic surgeon and an impish boy clad in bright pink rubber boots changes both their lives... Dr. Pier Boutin responded to the call for orthopedic surgeons after the 2010 Haiti earthquake. Leading the first surgical team to arrive in Port-au-Prince, she witnessed devastating trauma and unimaginable suffering. To distract from the haunting memories she traveled to Morocco. In the Atlas Mountains, she came upon a three-year-old boy stumbling around on deformed feet. Walking is vital for survival in these remote mountains. With untreated clubfeet, this child faced a dismal future. Yet despite his struggles to walk, he giggled and smiled. His magnetic charm captivated her. She could not walk away. His needs eclipsed her own despondence after the trauma of Haiti. She thought, 'If he can smile despite his disability, why can't I?' This chance encounter would affect many lives for years to come. Dr. Boutin's compassion and determination overcame all obstacles to bring this child, Little Mo, to the United States to treat his disability. In the process, she changed his life-but he also changed hers.

High in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, the chance encounter of an orthopedic surgeon and an impish boy clad in bright pink rubber boots changes both their lives... Dr. Pier Boutin responded to the call for orthopedic surgeons after the 2010 Haiti earthquake. Leading the first surgical team to arrive in Port-au-Prince, she witnessed devastating trauma and unimaginable suffering. To distract from the haunting memories she traveled to Morocco. In the Atlas Mountains, she came upon a three-year-old boy stumbling around on deformed feet. Walking is vital for survival in these remote mountains. With untreated clubfeet, this child faced a dismal future. Yet despite his struggles to walk, he giggled and smiled. His magnetic charm captivated her. She could not walk away. His needs eclipsed her own despondence after the trauma of Haiti. She thought, "e;If he can smile despite his disability, why can't I?"e;This chance encounter would affect many lives for years to come. Dr. Boutin's compassion and determination overcame all obstacles to bring this child, Little Mo, to the United States to treat his disability. In the process, she changed his life-but he also changed hers.

Chapter 2

As we stepped out of the Casablanca airport to meet our guide, we watched the crowd of fellow travelers and their welcoming parties. Women concealed in full-length black burkas mingled with others decked out in brightly colored form-fitting dresses with their hair and faces exposed. I spotted some clad in Western garb— jeans and t-shirts. Mothers pulled their children as they tried to herd them toward the exit. Boys darted between and under the throngs of people. Men draped in long robes or squeezed into American-style blue jeans milled around. Taxi drivers shouted at the top of their lungs. A strong aroma of coffee and cumin piqued my nostrils. My senses had reached overload capacity when our guide, Abdul, spotted us in the crowd.

Abdul expertly snaked his way between travelers and their belongings and led us to his air-conditioned jeep. When we shut the car doors, we entered another world: the noises, smells and oppressing heat dissolved. During the six-hour ride to our first destination, KK shared our itinerary for the next week. She had planned each day down to the hour. The journey sounded beyond belief.

Tracy, KK, me and Julie in front of the UNESCO World Heritage Site.

As we approached the UNESCO World Heritage site of Ksar of Aït-Ben-Haddou, a light from the heavens illuminated the village and transfixed us. The six-hundred-year-old mud-constructed dwellings melded with the sand dunes as the last rays of sun painted the landscape a dusty rose. The iridescent shadows and lights reflected off the sand-toned village in such a unique way—no wonder movie directors favored this setting. Scenes from Babel, Gladiator and The Jewel of the Nile flashed across my mind as the magical vista seduced me and raised my spirits.

Ksar Aït-Ben-Haddou had blossomed at the height of the trans-Saharan Trade Route. This passageway connected the North African coast with Europe and was used by merchants to trade gold, salt and slaves. We crossed a shallow river to reach the majestic tribal village, stretching our legs as we climbed in and around the towers, gates and dwellings. Remnants of geometric carvings hinted at the exotic Moroccan style known around the world. From here, we headed to the Sahara Desert, beginning our action-packed adventure.

On our way to the Sahara, we drove through the Valley of Roses. Rows of pink buildings lined the streets in honor of the Festival des Roses, which takes place in May. The farmers reap more than 4,000 tons of petals every season. The aroma of roses perfumed the air. We stopped to buy the famous rosewater, which was supposed to purify the skin and, the seller told me, make me look ten years younger. I fell for it all, purchasing bottles of rose oils, jars of creams and bars of soap. Beautified and giddy with the overpowering scent of roses, we had to roll down the car windows to catch fresh air.

By late afternoon, we arrived in the oasis town of Erfoud, the last town before the desert. Stones embedded with fossils dating back to the Devonian Period, 380 million years ago, lined the shops’ entryways. These artifacts originated from the first Mediterranean Sea, which extended into what is now the Sahara Desert. Abdul led us into the shops; some of the shop owners had brokered arrangements with the guides to lure the tourists. The treasures inside the stores were wonderful and the salesmen possessed irresistible persuasive powers. When one of the store owners promised to ship a coffee table and two statues to my home, Tracy reminded me, “Pier, you don’t need another piece of furniture in your house. And this is only day one of our trip.” She was right. When my husband and I had merged our two families seven years ago, we had consolidated the furniture from two fully loaded houses, neither of us wanting to discard mementos of our past. Tracy managed to pull me away, and we continued our adventure.

At the edge of the desert, Abdul stopped the car and demanded our full attention. His facial expression turned very serious. Sternly, he impressed upon us the importance of our comportment once we entered this region. “Do not smile or laugh and do not look men in the eye. Do you understand? Do you understand? Don’t laugh!” He went on to explain that Spanish, French and German women came to this remote area for sex. He said the desert men of the Touareg tribe responded to the slightest nod as a come-on. Our guide frowned and repeated his warning several times. We made light of his advice until we realized he would not move on until we reassured him that we would abide by his rules of comportment.

Finally satisfied, Abdul navigated the jeep over a vast expanse of sand and maneuvered with great skill across the soft dunes toward our sanctuary for the night, La Belle Etoile, an elegant “camp”—an assembly of tents set up by the Touareg, better known as the “Blue Men” of the desert. They earned their name from the indigo dye they traded, a commodity valued by Europeans dating back to the Middle Ages. The most successful merchants draped themselves in floor-length traditional sleeved robes, indigo-dyed djellabas. The expensive deep blue color represented prosperity. After a time, the dye permanently stained their skin and they believed the pigment would protect them against malaria and sunstroke. They thus became known as the Blue Men. Enthralled by this legendary tale, I bought a blue scarf from one of the female vendors on the outskirts of the camp. With one hand she pocketed the money, while with the other she twisted and wrapped the scarf around my head in the typical local fashion. Later, when I removed the scarf, my long blonde hair had turned vivid blue.

Without mountains and trees to obscure the desert sun, day turned to night in just a few minutes. Iridescent flakes of gold illuminated the sky and transformed the darkness into a bright celestial tapestry. One after another, shooting stars whizzed across the sparkling astrological map.

Exhausted from a day of travel, I fell asleep within seconds. But it wasn’t long before the same disturbing memories disrupted my sleep, nightmares of the Haitian disaster.

When I arrived in Port-au-Prince in January 2010 with my father and my husband—both doctors—one lone lamp powered by a small generator lit the courtyard and exposed the mass of wounded assembled on the lawn. I locked my gaze on an overwhelming number of injured people, moaning in pain as they pleaded for help. They recognized us as doctors because of our surgical scrubs, and called out as we made our way across the courtyard. A woman grabbed at the pant leg of my scrubs and begged me to help her young son. She pointed to his arm, which dangled at an unnatural angle, the lower arm attached by a mere strip of skin just above the elbow. Blood and dirt caked his open wound. As far as I could see, hundreds of people lay with open and infected gashes, exposed bones and bloody stumps. They had made their way to the hospital only to discover that the earthquake had destroyed most of the buildings, which were now abandoned. Now they were spread out on blankets and stretchers in the central courtyard, hoping that divine intervention would provide doctors.

I had answered that call; no place on Earth had needed me more. But now in Morocco, with my own aching joints and sleepless nights, what help could I be to anyone?

The next morning, instructed by our guide Abdul, we got up at 5 a.m. and mounted camels by the light of the stars, laughing until our sides hurt as we held on for dear life while these ungainly beasts spasmodically sprang to their feet. We formed a small caravan and rode further into the Sahara to watch the sunrise over the undulating ocean of sand. The early morning rays on the dunes painted the horizon a liquid gold, hypnotizing us, until suddenly KK’s cell phone clamored in the silence.

We shouted at her in unison, “Turn that thing off!”

Laughing, I added, “I can’t even get reception at home!”

The incongruous and unexpected sound had shattered the serenity. Even isolated in the middle of the Sahara, technology had found us. Soon the oppressive heat of the rising sun forced us back to the cool of the tents. We exchanged our camel saddles for car seats and headed to the famous Atlas Mountains. I felt myself regaining strength once again as I breathed deeply, appreciating the exotic beauty surrounding me. My negative thoughts began to dissipate.

We stopped for lunch at the Maison Berbère in Rizzani. I suspected our guide earned a kickback every time he brought tourists to this grand carpet store with a small restaurant in the back. We traversed a long corridor and several rooms before we came to the eating area, which consisted of a few benches in the courtyard. At least five layers of patterned rugs of all lengths and widths covered every available surface: walls, ceilings and floors. Our feet floated atop the plush mountains of carpets available for our perusal or purchase. If our eyes hesitated on one rug for even a moment, a salesman would take it down and insist we feel the texture and appreciate the color and the quality. A mere glance would instigate this elaborate comical ritual. But it worked; Julie, Tracy and I each bought several rugs.

The shopkeepers rewarded us with a typical Touareg specialty, La Medfouna, which translates to ‘the buried.’ This delicious meat pie, imbued with local spices, is cooked buried in sand for several hours. The salesmen joined...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	2.1.2023
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
ISBN-13	979-8-9858064-5-8 / 9798985806458

Haben Sie eine Frage zum Produkt?

EPUB (Ohne DRM)
Größe: 4,9 MB

Digital Rights Management: ohne DRM
Dieses eBook enthält kein DRM oder Kopierschutz. Eine Weitergabe an Dritte ist jedoch rechtlich nicht zulässig, weil Sie beim Kauf nur die Rechte an der persönlichen Nutzung erwerben.

Dateiformat: EPUB (Electronic Publication)
EPUB ist ein offener Standard für eBooks und eignet sich besonders zur Darstellung von Belletristik und Sachbüchern. Der Fließtext wird dynamisch an die Display- und Schriftgröße angepasst. Auch für mobile Lesegeräte ist EPUB daher gut geeignet.

Systemvoraussetzungen:
PC/Mac: Mit einem PC oder Mac können Sie dieses eBook lesen. Sie benötigen dafür die kostenlose Software Adobe Digital Editions.
eReader: Dieses eBook kann mit (fast) allen eBook-Readern gelesen werden. Mit dem amazon-Kindle ist es aber nicht kompatibel.
Smartphone/Tablet: Egal ob Apple oder Android, dieses eBook können Sie lesen. Sie benötigen dafür eine kostenlose App.
Geräteliste und zusätzliche Hinweise

Buying eBooks from abroad
For tax law reasons we can sell eBooks just within Germany and Switzerland. Regrettably we cannot fulfill eBook-orders from other countries.