The Call of the Muezzin

After finishing our drinks Mustafa said we’d better be off. We followed him down the alley that we’d come up earlier and he told us to wait while he went off to talk to a ragged group of men in dirty kaftans crouching Asian style on the corner of the alley. It was an anxious wait and when he disappeared with a tall, thin man the anxiety became intense. Just as Harry and I were beginning to discuss our options a beat up old taxi pulled in alongside us and Mustafa leaned out the back window and told us to get in alongside him. In the front of the taxi alongside the driver sat the tall, thin man who Mustafa had disappeared with. He turned around to mutter something in Arabic to Mustafa. I was somewhat taken aback by his severely pock marked face offset by a big bushy moustache but it was his eyes that sent a chill through me. He was clearly blind in one eye as it slipped about like a fried egg in an oily pan but then I realized that the other eye was staring right through me and I turned my head away to avert his gaze as the driver put the car into gear. We were off.

As we pulled away from the town the late afternoon sun stretched across the nearby hills and the whole valley took on a pinky glow. I was overwhelmed by the beauty and was basking in the joy of being in Africa when we were stopped at a military checkpoint. Mustafa reassured me that it was simply a routine check. I didn’t ask any further despite being stopped 4 or 5 more times. I was on automatic pilot. I suppose Harry must have been as well because while he’d been adamant about not taking a taxi at the border but he had not been opposed to our taking one now.

When we arrived in Tetouan the driver stopped outside of the medina and the guy with the wonky eye turned to speak to Mustafa. Mustafa then turned to us “you are lucky …. today Morocco’s best carpet makers are displaying their wares in the market. I, Mustafa, would be honoured to to take you there … it would not be easy for you to find your way only those of Tetouan know their way in the medina. Come with Mustafa, and I will take you to your hotel then we go to the market. Come!” We followed him like sheep not noticing the man with the wonky eye slipping away. The medina was a rabbit warren of alleyways untouched by time. We passed huge stalls of nuts and spices as men in kaftans and white skull caps rushed past. Eventually Mustafa led us to a ramshackle building which he proudly proclaimed was our hotel. We checked in, unloaded our packs in the sparse room that we were directed to. And then off again at a relentless pace following Mustafa up and down and back and forth along alleys so narrow that you could only just pass another coming your way.

Finally we arrived at a large building with a darkened doorway. Mustafa told us to wait and ducked his head inside re-emerging with a tall bearded man who greeted us with a smile and invited us in for a glass of mint tea. We were led down a dark hallway into a brightly lit room where hundreds of carpets of varying colours and sizes and styles were hung on the walls or draped over benches or simply piled up on the floor. We were invited to sit at a low table away from the room’s entrance where we could take in the whole scene. As soon as we sat a small man with beady eyes quickly entered the room from a small side door that I hadn’t realised was there, bringing a tray with two glasses of green, mint tea and then just as quickly disappeared again.

“So you like Moroccan carpet?” asked the tall bearded man as we sipped our tea.

“Ah…yes. Yes we do”, I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Good, good, I show you many carpet after finish tea” he said with an intensity that reminded me of the stare of the wonky eyed passenger in the taxi.

“My name, Ishmael, many people know Ishmael. I buy only best quality carpet, no machine, only traditional carpet made from hand”

“Oh right”, I replied hoping to sound suitably impressed.

“now I show your carpet. You look only best, everyone in Morocco know Ishmael” as he spoke he held up various carpets in front of us, describing their origins and how long it had taken to make each one.

“which one you like?” Ishmael asked after showing 10 or so of the ‘best carpets in Morocco’

“they’re all good, aren’t they Harry?” I said turning to my mate who looked as perplexed as I did

“Ah….yeah. All of them” he said looking at me with a ‘ let’s get the hell out of here’ sort of look

“Maybe you not see one you like. Ali!”, he called to a thickset man who I hadn’t realised had been lingering by the doorway, instructing him to carry over a pile of carpets by the door.

“Maybe you like this one eh? This come from Morocco south, made by people of desert, they only sell carpet for Ishmael. You like, eh? Maybe you buy this one?”

“It’s very nice thanks but I don’t want to buy a carpet. I couldn’t carry it anyway, you see we are planning to back pack our way through Africa” I thought it was time to make our position clear.

“No problem Ishmael send carpets to all country. You trust trust Ishmael. Look, I show you, many foreign peoples buy carpet from Ishmael. Ali!”

This time Ali brought over a large scrapbook with messages scrawled on it from Swedes and Germans, Dutch and British, Americans and Australians all extolling the virtues of purchasing a carpet from Ishamael and some stating in an obviously contrived and artificial way that Ishmael was to be trusted.

Ishmael looked at us with a big self-satisfied smile.

“Where are you from?” he asked. “America?” he suggested before we could answer.

“No, New Zealand, I said, hoping that he’d never heard of the place.

“Oh yes, New Zealand”. He said with an even bigger grin. “Many New Zealand peoples buy the carpet from Ishmael. Look, here I find ….” He said looking quickly and deliberately through the scrapbook, “….yes, yes here New Zealand peoples. Look!” he shouted with excitement.

Sure enough there was a message hurriedly scrawled from Teresa and Debbie of Timaru saying that Ishmael’s carpets were the best carpets in all Morocco, probably in the world”

“So now you buys” he said walking towards me in a very deliberate manner. “Well which one?” he asked with his arms outstretched indicating the variety of choice that we had.

“I’m afraid that we don’t want to buy any” I said quickly this time, my voice shaking.

“Everybody buy from Ishmael. Ali!” Ishmael gave Ali a quick instruction in a low voice.

“You go with Ali”, Ishmael announced pointing a finger at Harry. Harry got up a look of hopelessness on his face. As he turned to me I tried to say something but nothing came out and he followed Ali out of the door and then I heard them climbing some stairs behind the room that we were in.

“Now which one you buy?” Ishmael demanded an answer this time with a menacing look.

“I don’t want to buy anything” I repeated quietly.

“Hussain!”, Ishmael called. The little beady eyed man who had brought the mint tea quickly reappeared. Ishmael stood on one side of me doing all the talking with Hussain on the other.

“OK, how much you pay?” said Ishmael nodding at the last carpet he showed us, the one made by the desert people.

“I am not buying anything”, I said in a determined voice, which gave me heart because I was feeling trapped and intimidated and nowhere near as sure of myself as my voice sounded.

“how much, how much?”, Ishmael bawled at me, clearly he was angry now. “You write how much you pay”, Ishmael cried and as he said it nodded to Hussain who thrust a pen and paper in front of me.

“write, write, how much you give me?”

“I told you ….”

“No tell me just write”, he demanded

I sat there deliberately not taking up the pen wondering about Harry, about what was happening upstairs even now there could be a knife at his throat. I knew Harry well enough to know that he was likely to say something that would only fire them up more. I should never have allowed us to be separated. God, I was worried about what they might have done to him

“Here you write!”, now Hussain had put the pen in my hand and was absurdly trying to write down a figure on the paper by grabbing my hand with the pen in it and moving my hand up and down on the paper.

“This is fucking crazy”, I yelled getting up quickly and thrusting Hussain’s hand off mine. “Where’s my friend?”, I demanded from Ishmael.

“He up the stair” he replied in a defeated voice with a pathetic hurt look on his face.

I swept out of the room and stormed up the stairs two at a time hoping that I wasn’t too late. But at the top of the stairs was an identical scene to the one that I had just been participating in. Harry was sitting in a chair, Ali on one side and another similarly thickset man on the other. Harry got up when he saw me and we raced off down the stairs and outside into the pre dusk light.

Mustafa was there leaning against a doorway. He looked up when we came out and shook his head and said he was sorry. I didn’t really know what to say to him but as I was about to suggest he show us back to the hotel I heard a voice behind me It was a tall skinny man with a thick black moustache and a wonky eye.

“I take you to hotel”, he said and as we had no idea how to find it ourselves and with it getting dark and our nerves already shattered we hastily agreed. I quickly looked back to Mustafa as we set off but he’d already gone.

“I take you to hotel, but first stop at my house, my mother, she worry, you know mother, always worry about son. It ok my house on way to hotel. OK?”

“yeah, yeah, ok”, I replied, we really had no option anyway.

As we walked alongside a concrete wall he suddenly ducked through a gap and then stuck his head back out and said, “in here!”. We ducked through the low archway and found ourselves in a small courtyard.

“Abdullah!”, cried a female voice and we looked to our right to see a small, wiry woman wearing a head scarf coming towards us. Well he said that he was going to see him mother and seeing her there made me feel more relaxed. She could have been anyone’s mum of course but she was hardly likely to pull out a knife and hold it to anyone’s throat. Abdullah exchanged a quick word with his mother and she scuttled off across the courtyard to where she had come from. Abdullah led us off to a small, open room on the edge of the courtyard.

“My mother bring tea”, he said and sure enough she quickly returned with a tray and two glasses of the ubiquitous mint tea.

“Where you from?”, he asked and I felt decidedly uneasy as he looked straight through me with his one good eye, the other eye was turning about slowly and gave the impression that he was looking over my shoulder at the same time.

“Ah… from New Zealand”. I replied, a little detached as I was wondering when we would be heading back to our hotel.

“Oh, New Zealand. I know people from New Zealand”

“oh do you?” I replied, sipping on the tea as I looked across at Harry.

“You want hashish?” he asked and again the same intensity that I’d seen in the eye of the passenger in the taxi. There was an icy grab of my guts as I realised that we were still entangled in the same mess that we’d really been caught up in since crossing the border.

“no,no we would just like to get back to our hotel thanks”, I replied quickly.

“why hurry, we can have hashish and go hotel later”

“we’ve got a bus to catch in the early morning”, Harry pitched in

“Where you go?”

“We’re going to Tangier”, I lied and looked over at Harry.

“Tangier, Tangier. Bus go to Tangier like dog have piss”

“Sorry?”, I said not following what he’d just said.

“Dog he always piss. He walk out of house, he piss. He walk to corner, he piss. He see other dog , he piss. He always piss”

“Oh, I see. So there are many buses to Tangier?”

“Many, many buses to Tangier. Everyone go to Tangier. Tangier beautiful. I love Tangier, my mother love Tangier, Everyone love Tangier”

“Well it looks like we made the right choice”, said Harry sarcastically as he took another sip of tea.

“Before you go Tangier, you try hashish from Tetouan. Tetouan hashish best hashish from Morocco. Morocco hashish best hashish in world. Everyone love Moroccan hashish. I show you Tetouan hashish, you love it. I call my brother, you wait”

“What are we going to do?”, I said to Harry when he had gone.

“What can we do? We’d never find the hotel, we don’t even know the name of it. And I don’t know about you but I’m not game to wander about out there. I think we’re best to stay put here with this guy and try and talk him around to taking us back. I keep thinking I’ve seen this guy before”.

“No, I don’t think we should go out there now it’s getting dark and I’m not sure we can trust anyone in this godforsaken place, fuck, everyone we’ve met so far has tried to rip us off”

“That’s it, that’s it!”, cried Harry shaking his head.

“What Harry? What?”

“This fucking Abdullah with the wonky eye, seen him before?”

“I’m not sure”

“Remember the guy in the taxi?”

“I don’t think I saw the driver…..wait, the passenger in the front. Fuck, you’re right. What the hell is going on?”. I asked myself and Harry. We heard some laughter in the courtyard and then footsteps. Abdullah came back in carrying some candles. He lit one and dripped the wax onto the far end of the wooden table and stuck the candle upright in it. He then came down our end of the table and repeated the same thing. Now he called out to someone outside.

“Now you meet my brother, this Mohammed”, said Abdullah proudly as he slapped his brother on the back. His brother was a big man with the same bushy black moustache as Abdullah.

“My brother teach you on hashish. Here he have hashish from different place in Morocco and different type of hashish made in Tetouan. Tetouan hashish best hashish in Morocco”. We’d heard it all before and I was sure we were going to hear it again before the night was out. Abdullah reached into his brother’s bag and began to pull out the different types of hash. The first one was a huge round block the size of a small pizza and the thickness of a block of cheddar. I couldn’t believe how big it was, the only hash I’d seen was back in London. It was a cube shape and no bigger than one of the old wooden dice that you used to see. Abdullah could see that we were surprised and was satisfied that we were impressed. Each type of hashish produced was accompanied with an explanation of its origins and how potent it was. Finally he pulled out a bag of greenish dust.

“Now this the most strongest hashish in Tetouan and Tetouan hashish most strongest in Morocco and Morocco hashish most strongest in world. So this most strongest hashish in world!” Abdullah laughed at the logical sequence, no doubt because he’d managed it in a foreign tongue. As he laughed so did Mohammed. Harry and I jumped as his laughter boomed out although I don’t believe that he understood because he hadn’t uttered a word in English.

“Now we smoke” said Abdullah with a big smile on his face. “But we not smoke this one. If you smoke this one maybe you fall off and die” and he roared with laughter. Mohammed’s laughter boomed out again over the room and I nearly shat my pants.

“Mohammed cut some hashish. Good hashish, then you smoke, if you like then you buy”

Mohamed cut the big cheddar sized block in front of him then pulled out a knife with a massive blade on it, a good two inches across which made Harry and me sit up fast and straight. Then he proceeded to turn it slowly in the flame of the candle at the far end. Behind the knife and the flame clearly lit were the big black moustache and the big toothy grin of Mohammed. It was an eerie sight, especially on top of all the events of the day. I think it was at that stage that I decided I had to get out of this country and I had to get out fast. If Harry decided to stay, which I doubted, then fine, but I would be out at the first opportunity, if I got that chance.

After what seemed like an age but in retrospect was probably only a few minutes, Mohammed announced something to all in Arabic and he used the big knife to cut off a small segment from the block. Abdullah prepared the joint quickly and efficiently and circulated it around. Abdullah took a few big hits and grunted his approval trying to hold in the smoke as long as possible for maximum effect as he passed it across the table to me. I accepted the joint from him, I looked at it and then at Harry.

“Smoke, smoke!”, urged Abdullah blowing out the last of the smoke that he had inhaled.

I was determined not to get stoned because I was already not coping with things as they were. I took the joint and put it to my lips but in the immortal words of the later U.S. president I did not inhale. I then passed it onto Harry who took a couple of short hits and then on to Mohammed. Mohammed reacted the same as Abdullah. Abdullah took the joint off him and sent it on to me without taking another hit. Again I only really simulated the act before passing the joint on to Harry. Then Harry with the most appallingly obvious attempt at deceit, dropped the joint straight into his mint tea. Now I was more scared that I’d been all day, all my life! I could just see Mohammed running us through with his big thick blade.

But Abdullah did not seem concerned at all. He was more interested in our views on the quality of the smoke.

“Eh, eh?”, he said turning from me to Harry and back again with the pride and expectation of an award winning wine maker. “Good, no?” he prompted.

“The best”, I said quickly, “best hashish in world”, I said inadvertently taking off Abdullah. I quickly looked up as I said the words but he hadn’t cottoned on and in fact was very pleased with my response.

“Eh, eh?” he looked across the table at Harry demanding a response from him as well.

“Best hashish in world”, he added quickly and sarcastically.

“Good, good”, said Abdullah with relish, drawing out each word as he uttered them. “How much?”

I looked at Harry and he looked at me showing that he didn’t follow either.

“How much what?” I asked

“How much you want?”

“We don’t want to ….”

“Ah, Mark……”, Harry called me quickly nodding down towards the other end of the table where Mohammed was again turning his big blade in the flame his big grin illuminated in the light.

“How much, how much?”, Mohammed asked in a heavily accented and throaty voice, laughing to himself as he spoke.

“you buy half!”, said Abdullah.

“No, too much” replied Harry

“OK, half half” Abdullah suggested

“No, about this much”, Harry showed Abdullah with his fingers indicating an amount nearer to 1/20th of the original block.

“You don’t like Tetouan hashish?” Abdullah called out as if he’d received a personal and deliberate affront. “Everybody like Tetouan hashish! Tetouan hashish best hashish in world”. “What do you want eh? Why you come Morocco? You no come for Morocco carpet, you no come for great Tetouan hashish, why you come?”.

“We come to see your country we heard that it was very beautiful”. I thought I would work on his patriotism but he was only patriotic it seems when it came to hash.

“Pah, you come from New Zealand long way to see Morocco because Morocco beautiful country? Your country so bad eh? Listen my friend, Morocco not beautiful country. Morocco bad country. Morocco people live like dog. Morocco childrens born in dirt, they no wear clothe, wear rag. They no go school become big lawyer make lot of money. Your country, rich country. Everyone got nice clothe, everyone got tv, got car. Morocco children get sick, they die. My country I get rob, no tell policeman because policeman want come rob me more. Your country different, no?

You no understand everyone try sell carpet. They try sell hashish for foreigner. Why? Why? Because they live like dog, you live like king. You come my country and you want me be nice and smile and make nice photograph so you show your friend that you go strange place. Tell me friend you come my country important more than me buy foods for mother, buy medicines for mother? Yes? You want me be nice for you have fun, for me stay in dirt?”

When Abdullah had finished I saw that he was right, that Africa appealed because it was exotic and exciting and different. He was right, I had not considered the way I would be seen. What I represented to people born into a world away from Western comforts and opportunities and security. I came from the “Brave New World” and these people were cut off from that world. They were condemned to what they could make from the old world and the few scraps that were thrown to them. I was humbled and felt the injustice but I was not prepared to trade places. I had not moved my eyes from Mohammed’s big blade turning slowly in the flame with that chilling grin illuminated behind it. Right now self-preservation was my over-riding passion.

“how much, how much?”, Mohammed’s voice boomed out again and his laughter shook the table.

“Half half”, I said quickly.

Abdullah indicated the amount to Mohammed and he cut the chunk off the block and wrapped it in dirty newspaper that was lying on the table.

“You pay me 100 dollar!”, Abdullah demanded.

“I only have pounds” I said

“Pound, dollar, deutshmark, anything but no Morocco dirham. You give me 50 pound”

If I paid him that would be it. Our freedom for 50 pounds. Jesus if that was all it took it was a bargain. We weren’t interested in the hashish but it was a bargain all the same. Then for the first time that day I had an idea one that I hoped would guarantee us a way out of this mess.

“OK 50 pounds. I don’t have the money on me we’ll have to get the money from our hotel. It was an out and out lie, Harry had all our money in the money belt he was wearing, the way it had been since we left Dover but if we could get back to the hotel we could get out of Tetouan, and if we got out of Tetouan we could get out of Morocco.

“OK, we go now hotel” Abdullah announced pushing his chair back as he got up from his seat. With a mixture of hope and relief I eased my chair back and gave a quick nod to Harry to follow.

By the time we got to the hotel Abdullah was back to the joviality of the early evening. Harry and I were beginning to get very hopeful that we’d now shake off this gang of hustlers or whatever they were. When we entered the hotel I allowed Harry time to nip off to the room and extract the cash from the money belt while I stalled Abdullah in the hotel lobby. Harry came out quickly with the 50 quid and Abdullah was off with a big beaming smile.

“Thanks you my friends. I was a pleasure to do your business to you. If you look for more hashish come to Abdullah, you ask the hotel man he tell me to come. But my friends you be careful in this town there are many bad mens not can be trusted like Abdullah. Morocco mens see the foreign mens he think dollar sign — please take your care. Well good night my New Zealand friends …”

And with that he disappeared into the night.

We quickly returned to the room, bolted the door and sat on our beds trying to make some sense out of the day.

“What are you thinking we should do from here mate?”. As I’ve said I’d already decided I was getting out of the country pronto, but I wanted to know if Harry was thinking along the same lines.

“I think we should get the fuck out of this country and out of North Africa as soon as humanly possible”

“Great! Yes! Let’s get the fuck out of here. We’re probably best to get out through Tangier eh?”

“Yeah, from what Old Wonky Eye was saying about the buses”

“Yep, but we’ve still got the problem of finding where the bus leaves from and …”

There was a knocking at the door, and it felt as if an icy hand had clutched at my guts. I wasn’t sure what to do. Who would it be now? Were we to be dragged back into the whirlpool that had engulfed us since stepping over that border? Again the knocking, this time more urgent.

“Hello, hello”, called a heavily accented voice from the other side.

“What do you want?”, I called back sharply.

“I need see passport”, said the voice.

“Police!” whispered Harry.

“What do you mean? Why police?”

“The fucking hash man. We’ve been set up. I remember hearing about foreigners languishing in Moroccan prisons after being set up to buy hash!”

“Show me passport” called the voice again.

“Yeah, just give me a minute to open the door” I yelled back. Then to Harry “whatta we do, fuck!”

“Chuck it outta the fucking window”, he urged me. I looked at him, nodded and then ran for the window. My heart sank, below the window one of the narrow alleys of the medina wound itself up the slope, people were passing back and forth along it. There was no hope of ditching the hash there. The roof of the building opposite was less than 10 metres away. That was it! It was a straight forward throw to get it onto the roof across from our hotel.

I sized it up with a practice attempt and then flicked it up high enough to get it onto the roof but in my panic as I threw the hash went straight up in the air and crashed in the middle of the alley just falling behind an old woman hobbling along. I held my breath any moment somebody would surely race over and pick it up. It was just sitting there in the middle of the alley, surely somebody would see it. But nothing happened and people continued to scurry past completely oblivious to the small package that could seal our fate.

“Please I need passport!”

I unlocked the door and opened it just a fraction. There were 5 or 6 young North African men on the other side.

“What do you want?” I asked again.

“Mister, I need passport” said the young man who had been the one knocking.

“What for, why do you need my passport?”

“You stay in hotel, everyone show passport”

“OK, but only one of you come in” I said deciding that I was going to control things now. I’d had enough of being led around behind people I realised I could not trust. He sat on the bed and wrote down the details from the passports and again I was able to relax. This was nothing, this was not the police. Even in Spain we had to give our passport details, in fact in Spain it was more intrusive because we had to hand over our passports for the duration of our stay.

“Sank you” the young man said getting up from the bed once the form was completed.

“That’s ok” I said and as a sign of goodwill, and I meant it, shook his hand and opened the door enough for him to squeeze through. As soon as he’d gone I raced back to the window. Sure enough there was the small newspaper wrapped package. Somebody must have inadvertently kicked it as they walked along because it was further up the alley and closer to the opposite side. If nobody had picked it up now then nobody would know where it had come from.

“Hey, have you read the guidebook about this place?” Harry asked as I came away from the window.

“Is it in there?”

“Yeah, listen. ‘Be prepared for hustlers in this town — there are lots around trying to sell dope”

“What else?”

“That’s it mate, that’s all they say about Tetouan. I thought you’d read the whole book”

“I had mate. But I read it about 2 months ago. And if you recall this morning we were headed for Fez before our ‘friends’ conspired to redirect us here. The name Tetouan just didn’t register but fuck it. I buy a fucking book on Africa and the only fucking place we get to in the whole fucking continent and I didn’t look up before we got there. And, you know what, I remember reading about the place now, back in London. I remember it so well because I thought at the time that that’s a good place to steer well clear of”

We spent the night on our beds continuing to try to make some sense out of the day and what we would do in the morning to get the hell out of Tetouan.

It was still dark when the call of the muezzin rang out chillingly across the silence of the city. It spoke to me as a threat, as a reminder that we were in a place that we didn’t know anything about and didn’t understand and that we were not out of there yet. I tried to distance myself from my fears and appreciate the beauty and significance of this first experience in an Islamic land. But self-preservation was not a concept easily shoved aside.

As soon as there was a decent light coming through the shutters, Harry turned to me and said “let’s go”

“Now…. but where, where do we go?”, I replied not wanting to go back out there. To the insecurity of the streets and alleyways of Tetouan. At least in our room we were safe, or so it seemed.

“I don’t know, but I do know that we won’t find out by hanging around in here. Do you want to die?” which was a little over the top in the cold light of day but at that time in that place it didn’t seem out of place.

“No, come on, let’s do it then”.

I don’t know if it was a deliberate ploy on his part to scare me into action, or whether he’d just got carried away with everything that had been going on but it was early morning and we were both still jumpy after the previous night and this was a strange land.

We had never really unpacked and had not undressed and so were quickly out of the hotel and onto the street. There was still a greyish light on the street and few people were around. We’d decided to try to figure our way out of the medina because clearly it was not a place that a bus could easily negotiate its way in We got to the end of the alley that our hotel was on and were standing on the corner with the guidebook open at the map of Tetouan when a youth dressed in the dirtiest of rags approached us.

“You….ok?” he asked

Immediately I was on the defensive. He was easily the most down and out individual I’d seen. But what were we to do? We couldn’t find the bus station on our own, we were going to have to get help from someone. Surely we could find somebody to trust in this godforsaken town. And then it occurred to me, if he was so poor and downtrodden then he obviously wasn’t in the habit of ripping of Westerners. Maybe, just maybe he represented the real Morocco. Not the one preying on unsuspecting foreigners. Of course we’d seen the other side of Morocco first. The hustlers approach the foreigners and fleece them for all they can get. The dope hustlers were a symptom of the tourist trade — created by it and sustained by it. As we were about to find out this was the view of Morocco that most Westerners held. But what were everyday Moroccans like? Perhaps he was closer to the real Morocco than the dope hustlers.

At that time we really were desperate to escape Tetouan. We took a chance with this guy. Maybe it all seems exaggerated and a bit melodramatic now but I know it was very real at that time and in that place. We saw it as a choice between freedom and bondage to the town and the gang of hustlers.

The youth lead us out through the gates of medina and opposite us was the bus station. “bus … Tangier, bus ……. Tangier” he said pointing excitedly across the street. We shook his hands and slapped his back and when we’d both done it we did it all over again because it felt so good to see our road to freedom but also it was good to gain that reassurance that Moroccans were not all hustlers. That while their hustlers were hardened and aggressive they were the ugly front that reflected back on ourselves our own greedy Western desires. The real Morocco perhaps lay somewhere less accessible to tourists.

As the bus pulled out of the station we had a sense of exhilaration. We were like escaped prisoners of war experiencing the thrill of the escape but well aware that the job was not over that we would need to keep our guard until our feet were safely back in Spain.

The trip to Tangier was a pretty one in the early morning light on a straight road bordered by rocky outcrops on either side. But our minds were firmly fixed on Tangier and what we would need to do to ensure that we were well and truly out of the grasp of the Berber hustlers. Our spirits had lifted markedly with the good fortune we’d experienced to get away from Tetouan and we were confident now that we had learnt a hard lesson and that our destinies were now back where the belonged i.e.. in our own hands.

The bus station in Tangier is situated within a short walk of the ferry terminal. Again, fortune was on our side. I’d had visions of struggling through a warren of back streets pursued by Tangier’s equivalent of the Tetouan dope hustlers. But now it was a simple stroll along the waterfront to the ferry terminal. Harry was beginning to unwind.

“Hey Mark. Tangier looks an interesting place, what say we hang around for a week or two….”

“Harry, get your fucking arse down to that ferry terminal before I kick it down there”

“I fancy a bit of couscous on the dance floor mate, what do you reckon?”

“I reckon that you’ve got a very short memory, my son”

“ha, ha, don’t worry mate. I wouldn’t want to let down all those senoritas waiting on the other side of the ditch for our return”

As we were chatting a young Moroccan man approached us.

“You want hashish?”

“Oh fuck”, I said with a sinking sensation. And said turning to Harry “not this shit again”

“No thanks” said Harry and on we walked.

“Hey you!”, a voice called from behind us. Another young man came running towards us. We quickly turned away and now the banter between us was gone and both of us were immediately locked into the one channel of thought that we’d begun the day with i.e. escape.

The closer we got to the ferry terminal the steadier the stream of young Moroccans all with the same intent and the same urgency that we were so familiar with. Each time the hash seller would follow us insisting that we buy his hashish, the best hashish in Morocco, until the next seller came along and took his place.

Eventually we arrived at the ferry terminal. Now that we’d stopped a group of sellers began to form around us.

“Let’s get our tickets and get the hell out of here” I yelled to Harry above the cacophony of competing voices that had surrounded us.

“Where the hell is the ticket office?”

“You would like to buy a ticket for the ferry?” asked a well dressed North African man completely ignoring the hashish sellers as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Yes but from where?” I hurriedly replied

“No, no. You must buy a ticket from the office at the beginning of the wharf”

“You mean we’ve got to fight our way back through all these hash sellers?”

“Don’t worry, I take you”.

We followed him with some apprehension I might add. But the hashish sellers stayed away from us as if there was some unwritten rule that only one seller should accompany the vulnerable foreigner at a time. When we returned to the start of the wharf he took us quickly to one of the little corrugated iron roofed shacks we’d past on the way without a second look. There were several of them all with signs out the front such as ‘Mediterranean Tours’ or ‘Tangier Express’. The one he took us to simply had a sign saying ‘Tangier — Algeciras Ferry Service. Inside was a small counter with three or four men behind it and a couple of men in front of it.

As we stepped in the door everyone in the office fell silent and looked at us as if we’d caught them out doing something wrong.

“Can I help you?” asked one of the men behind the counter with a thick North African accent.

“Oh yes, we’d like tickets for the ferry to Algeciras thank you. Oh, and what time does it leave?” I added.

“No, there no boat for Algeciras today”

“Damn, we missed today’s ferry” I said to Harry then turning back to the man at the counter. “OK is there a boat tomorrow morning”

“Maybe” said the man.

“What do you mean maybe is there or isn’t there a …….” I felt Harry’s hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll deal with this Mark”

“Listen, we want to get out of Morocco. We don’t need to go to Algeciras we just want a ticket to go anywhere as long as it gets us out of this country”

“What you want?” the man at the counter asked a look of derision in his eyes

“Can I have a ticket please?”

“No, we no sell ticket to the boat”

“But your sign out the front?”

“We no sell the ticket. You want hashish?”

“Let’s go”, I said grabbing Harry by the arm and quickly heading for the door.

Back we went along the pier. This time the hashish sellers had seemingly vanished. At the end of the pier we saw that a ferry had docked. And as each tourist or group of tourists alighted a young Moroccan male attached himself like a limpet to them and engaged them in a conversation the purpose of which we had no doubts.

“Hey let’s go, that could be our ferry now” I yelled.

“What do you mean could be? I don’t care if it’s going to Algeciras or bloody Libya, I’m getting on it”

“I’m with you. Let’s get the hell out of here! But we still need to get a ticket from somewhere”

“Bugger the ticket. I’m getting on that fucking ferry. They’ll have to chuck me in the water to get me off it”

As we clambered along the gangplank an officer from the ferry stopped us and asked for a ticket.

“we don’t have one” scowled Harry.

“well the normal procedure sir is to obtain one prior to embarkation” replied the officer with an exaggerated snobby Pommy accent.

“well you fucking tell us…..” started Harry.

“……we weren’t sure where to buy them” I butted in to avert the officer fulfilling Harry’s earlier words from coming to fruition.

“well sir if you and your ….. companion would like to venture to turn around you may observe a sign saying ‘Gibraltar Express’” he replied with no less sarcasm.

“Gibraltar? This ferry is going to Gibraltar?” I asked with surprise

“Well we could take you back to Australia for a price sir”

“I could like this guy if the circumstances were different” I thought to myself.

“what a wanker he was” said Harry as we came back with the tickets.

“Yeah, but in the overall scheme of things he’s the only one who’s provided us with any help since we arrived in Tangier”

“He’s still a tosser”