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Perhaps my love for ghassool, Morocco’s wonder lava-clay has to do with its creamy chocolate, pudding like texture. But in reality I know that it is ghassool’s healing and anti-aging powers that have made me fall in love with this rare, ancient clay. In fact, I have been covering my entire body in ghassool for nearly a decade.

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I have recommended it to numerous desperate mothers looking to rid their poor teenagers of terrible acne outbreaks. I myself have used the amazing clay a number of times to get rid of my own hormonal acne when nothing else worked. I have used it to purge and soften my face, wash my hair, detox and the list goes on and on. I could only dream of the day when I would view the source of this miraculous clay for myself. Having ended up in the wrong part of Morocco just six months earlier, I was nervous and a bit in disbelief as I approached the low Atlas, the only place in the world where ghassool Moroccan lava clay is found. We stopped several times in deserted little towns to make sure we were headed in the right direction. Unlike many parts of Morocco, this place was scarcely populated.

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Rarely did we pass a car, a donkey or even a pedestrian. Not much greenery to be seen, we were surrounded by shades of browns and reds. We finally approached a small building on our right. There were several wheelbarrows and dumpster like containers. It appeared we had finally hit our target. We asked about the exact location of the mines. The workers wanted to help but at the same time were hesitant. They were not sure that we had the proper official permission we needed to enter the area. They directed us down to their next processing station. We again were greeted with the same hesitation, but they agreed to call the engineer of the mine to try to secure our entry. One of the workers got in the car to take us to the road that would lead us to the mines. There were no signs from the road otherwise.

As we drove up the dirt “road” the kind gentleman got out in what seemed to me the middle of nowhere. I assumed he was walking back to the processing center. Much to my horror, we picked him up several hours later to drive him back. Apparently he was too far from the center to walk and simply sat there in the middle of nowhere waiting for us for hours. Bless his soul.

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I tried to take in the scenery as we neared the mines, but I was too nervous. Camels dotted the terrain. Low, sandy colored mountains spread across the backdrop. What a wonderful place for sniper fire! As morbid as this sounds, I expected bullets to spray at us any moment. We were approaching a secure area. A possession of the Moroccan king, I expected armed guards to appear from behind the mountains in black tanks in pursuit of us. But alas, my adventure would not be so eventful. All was silent as we approached the single bar that separated us from the great mountains of ghassool.

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This was the moment of truth. The whole way I kept telling myself that we couldn’t possibly get access to the ghassool mines. Firstly I didn’t think that my driver would actually know how to get there. He surely didn’t know how to get there six months prior. Secondly, unlike my last visit, I didn’t have official permission to enter this time. Thirdly, this was too grandiose of an idea to ever reach fruition. I prayed the whole way there. I prayed at the gate. This is not the first and probably won’t be the last time I found myself in this situation. Beyond the clouds of doubt, deep inside I knew that even when things looked bleak and weary, I was always blessed enough to come through victorious. With the exchange of only a few words, the man who had popped out of a canal below, pulled out a key and opened the padlock to remove the bar, our only physical barrier.

In Morocco one says “Alhamdulilah”, meaning “All Praises are due to the Creator.” I couldn’t believe we were actually approaching the mines. Only one more hurdle. We didn’t have government permission to be here and now we had to face the mines’ engineer. And face the engineer we did. The scowl on his face was the first obvious sign that he was not at all happy to see us here. For thirty minutes the engineer and the driver went back and forth in what looked like a skilled display of chess.

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I couldn’t quite understand what all was being said, but with his usual candor my driver used his charm to make several advances. But don’t worry; I used some charm of my own. I sat innocently in a chair and smiled when referred to. I drank my tea with humbleness and gratitude. My videographer (my eighteen year old son), came in with some “salams” and it quickly became apparent that this twenty-eight week pregnant woman and her young videographer were totally non-threatening. But don’t be fooled. Throughout my curtness I continued to pray.

Suddenly, rather surprisingly the engineer’s attitude changed. He smiled at me and said that he would get permission from the minister in Fez himself. Before I know it the minister asked to speak to me. I am very phone shy, but what was I to do at this moment? I spoke to a very charming gentleman who was rather warm and friendly. I was invited to visit their factory in Fez. What an invitation! I found this to be exceedingly kind of him. I thanked him for his invitation of kindness and told him on my next visit I will make sure to visit as we had already passed Fez the day before.

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The engineer handed us each a hard hat and we drove a short drive to reach the site of a current excavation. I took note of how barren the region is. Only small rocky mountains fill the landscape for miles, and I was about to experience how “rocky” the mountains actually are. We get out of the car and walk to the side of a mountain wall. At this point I realize we are standing on top of the mine, not being driven around to it. A few seconds of panic sit in. Oh boy! Well, no time to stand there and fret. From time to time I have been faced with moments where I questioned my sanity. “What? Are you crazy?” I know the answer is already yes so no point in dwelling on it. The men are already half way down the side of the mountain. It is not too far down but it is very, very steep. I am wearing an ankle length dress. The winds are blowing fiercely as a storm closes in from the High Atlas. My scarf constantly blows in my face blocking my view and occupying one of my hands. Fact check: do you remember reading the part where I am twenty-eight weeks pregnant? Well, there is no turning back now. My son maneuvers the side of the mountain with the video camera in front of me. I was pleased that he captured my fall on camera. No need to fall in vain. My boot slipped on one of the numerous loose rocks. I feared I would slide and begin to spiral uncontrollably to the bottom of the mountain side. I knew I had to gain control fast. Very thankfully I was able to grasp a few things on my way down and my fall didn’t last too long. Now- if only I could get up before the men in front of my turned around to find me in a not so upright position. Thank the Creator I managed to make it safely down the rest of the way. But now my second challenge was about to begin.