I arrived in Ceuta late one winter evening, having crossed the Strait of Gibraltar on the car ferry from Algeciras. It was my vague intention to travel south to Marrakesh and possibly further, or perhaps eastward to Algeria and from there south across to the Sahara; but how I meant to accomplish this I hadn’t the slightest idea. There were no definite plans in my life, simply am ardent desire for adventure, preferably in regions wild and remote. With me was Josef Akkerman, a middle-aged engineer from Oslo. He had approached me, after spotting a maple leaf on my pack, at a café in Algeciras and asked if I would allow him to travel with me, as there was no one else about who spoke English. I had said yes, keeping in mind that he might he homosexual. In Ceuta we took a room at a pension in the old quarter and made plans to leave for
By next morning it was apparent that Josef was quite unsuitable as a travelling companion: he was querulous, fussy, and impatient. He was also timid, he panicked upon discovering that it was drizzling outside and scurried off in search of a duffle coat, which he eventually found after tormenting (I am sure) countless shopkeepers. I resolved to part ways with him once we reached Tetuan.
A short bus ride from the centre of the town brought us to the frontier. Ceuta, though situated on the African mainland, belongs to Spain, and for us to enter Morocco it was necessary to pass through a border checkpoint. We left the bus and entered the customs hut. The Moroccan officers, who watch mostly for duty-free goods which their countrymen try to smuggle in from Ceuta, flicked apathetically through our passports, then stamped them “Bab-Sebta entrer 2 fev 1976” and waved us through. Outside, we waited with the tourists and assorted natives for the next bus to Tetuan.
While Josef was busy cursing the renewed drizzle (“Stoopid, stooped, stooped!”) a young Moor sidled me up and offered his help.
“You want a hotel room in Tetuan? I get you a nice one, cheap, five dirham. Okay? Maybe you want a taxi. No? Waiting for bus? Don’t wait for bus! Bus comes in two hours, fifty kilometres to Tetuan. I get you a taxi, not much, maybe ten dollars okay? You wait here. I go and talk to my friend.”
Abdul (for that, I was soon to learn, was his name) walked across the road to where several vintage Mercedes were parked. He wore a second-hand pin-striped blazer, a huge pair of green trousers tied about the waist with twine and a yellowed sweater; his dirty feet were stuck into a tattered pair of slippers. Yet, despite his ragamuffin appearance, he seemed to think himself a rakish young man about town: his woollen cap was pulled low over his forehead and he swaggered about like a little rooster, using his umbrella as a walking stick. He talked to one of the drivers then returned.
“He will give you a friend’s price, twenty dollars.”
“No.”
“No?” But this did not dismay him. “Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
“Canada! I have many friends in Canada. Teach me English good.”
He paused to glance at Josef: his voice dropped to a whisper.
“You like hashish? I get you black hash, man, the best, zero-zero. You don’t like hashish? Why not, man? All my Canadian friends like hashish. Don’t worry hashish not bad. The king makes new law, says it’s okay to smoke hashish. Two years ago.”
I suspected Abdul was lying and wished he would go away. But then unknowingly, as he chattered on, he cast out the lure that hooked the fish.
“I take you to Ketama. Hashish very cheap in Ketama. I make you good business.”
I had heard of Ketama. A few years earlier, when anything associated with illicit drugs seemed romantic, it had been a mecca for young travellers, the El Dorado of the Orient. The famous Moroccan hashish factories were there, high in the coastal mountains, and those who made the pilgrimage brought back stories of days, weeks, even years, lost in endless intoxication. It was not the cheap and abundant cannabis, however, that interested me. I fancied myself as something of a writer, and a tour of Ketama with photographs, struck me as the perfect subject for a magazine article.
“I would like to go to Ketama,” I said, “but I don’t want to do ‘business.’ I want to write about it.”
“You want to writeabout Ketema?” Abdul shrugged. “Okay. I take you there, show you where my friends make hashish.”
So, with no mention of money Abdul tagged along as my unofficial guide; I did nothing to stop him. The bus ride to Tetuan was shorter than he’d lead us to believe, just as the hotel room he found for us cost more than five dirham. (I had a feeling that he subsisted on kickbacks from concierges, taxi drivers, and hashish merchants.) By now Josef understood that I would be going my own way the next day but said if I changed my mind I could continue with him to Fez. Abdul, meanwhile, suggested we drop by his house as there were some matters to settle before heading out for Ketama. He told Josef we would be gone for fifteen minutes.
We left the new city, where our old hotel was, and passed into the medina, the old Moorish quarter. Here Abdul took me into a small dingy restaurant, ordered an overpriced dish of cous-cous(which he allowed me to pay for) and once again tried to interest me in buying hashish. I ignored his pleas. Then he led me deeper and deeper into the maze of dark, narrow streets, until we were away from everything acquainted with the 20thcentury. There, amidst the olive-skinned inhabitants and mysterious customs, I felt unspeakably alone, an outsider. Abdul was no comfort; he was wandering from souk to souk, asking the shopkeepers in Arabic for directions. I began to worry.
“Where are you taking me Abdul?”
“I can’t find my friend’s house,” he said. “Don’t worry it’s not far.”
“But you told me we are going to your house.”
“I don’t live here. I come from Casablanca.”
If I had been sensible I would have called off the venture then and there, but something—reckless curiosity, or perhaps faith in the residual goodness of man –told me ‘go on, there’s adventure here’ and on I went.
Eventually, in a street barely wide enough for the two of us to walk abreast, we came to our destination, an anonymous doorway in the wall, only to find that the friend was not home. A young woman, who I assumed to be his wife, invited me in to wait while Abdul went off to look for him. Sitting down on a low couch, the only piece of furniture in the tiny living room, I wondered what would happen next. Nearly an hour had passed since we left Josef.
Twenty minutes later there were voices in the outer hall and in walked one of the most sinister-looking men I had ever seen. For the most part his appearance was normal: he was tall, slender and well-dressed in Moorish fashion. But his face! It was like a skull, with sunken eyes and skin to tight the veins underneath stood out like tubes. His scalp, as if to complete the ghoulish picture, had been shaved smooth. I guessed that he was a few years older than myself, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six. He came over and sat beside me. Abdul was nowhere to be seen.
“How are you? My name is Mustapha.”
“I’m David.”
“I understand you want to do business with me, David?”
Abdul that buffoon! I could have kicked him. All that rigmarole about “his” house and visiting a friend and he ended up bringing me to a dope dealer. Quickly, I explained that there had been a mistake. Yes, I wanted to visit Ketama, but only so that I could write an article about it; I got the impression that I was wasting my time and stood up to leave.
“No, no, no,” he said. “Sit. Perhaps we can make a deal.”
“No business. I don’t want any hashish.” I sat back down.
“When are you going to Ketama?” he asked.
“Tomorrow, I guess.”
“Just you and Abdul?”
“Yes.”
He paused and thought about it for a moment.
“Perhaps we travel together,” he said. “For a week I tell myself I must go to my father’s farm in Ketama. Now I think I go with you and Abdul. You may stay at my father’s house and I will guide you to the makers of hashish. Would you like this?”
What was I to say? Mustapha did not strike me as any more trustworthy than Abdul, yet here in his own country there was little I could do to stop him from going where he wanted. Just then there were more voices in the hall and a moment later Abdul came in. One look at our faces told him something was wrong. I said noting but Mustapha immediately let loose in Arabic, apparently chastising Abdul for bringing him a dud customer, a teetotaller, so to speak. Abdul listened in silence, cringing.
Eventually Mustapha calmed down and ordered Abdul to sit on the carpet. His wife brought us a large plate of fried eggs and a pot of mint tea and, while we ate, Mustapha outlined his plan further. I was to pay for a taxi to take all three of us to Ketama and in return Mustapha would treat me to a “free life” on his father’s farm. The taxi fare which he said would be 100 dirham [$25], seemed hefty but I decided it would be worth the extra expense to get the inside story on the hashish trade. He then proposed we leave at once. Abdul and I both said no to this idea. Abdul, however, soon changed his mind after Mustapha said something in Arabic, and reluctantly, I gave in too, although it meant forfeiting what I had paid for my hotel room. Mustapha went into the kitchen, where we heard him talking to his wife, and when he returned he was wearing a plain brownjalleba[a hooded robe commonly worn in Morocco] and carrying a small woollen sack. Abdul and I thanked his wife for the food and we set off down the narrow streets.
On the way to the hotel we stopped at a shop owned by a friend of Mustapha, where I bought a handsome jallebawith black and white stripes, taking care not to let my two acquaintances know how much money I was carrying. I also wanted film for my camera, but Mustapha said we could get that in Ketama. We continued on our way and upon reaching the hotel Mustapha said he would go ahead and find a taxi while I fetched my pack and checked out. Abdul waited outside while I went up to the room. Josef was out. Putting on my jallebaover my western clothes, I began collecting my things and stuffing them into my pack. Suddenly the door opened behind me and there was a gasp.
“Who are you! What are you doing!”
I turned around –it was Josef.
“Goodness gracious David, I thought you were some Moroccan beggar boy come to rob our room. You have been away so long you worry me. That strange little fellow said you would be back in fifteen minutes. Why are you dressed like this?”
I explained there had been a change of plans and I was heading for the mountains that afternoon.
“Oh this is so sad,” he said. “I hope you will be safe. I don’t like the look of that Abdul, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll be okay. I’m bigger than him or his friend.”
“Yes, but they are so crafty, these Arabs, and you are such a nice young man. You are certain you can’t come with me to Fez?”
I nodded. What I was doing, I told myself, was perhaps stupid, but at least it was not dull. I crammed my sleeping back into the pack, tied the flap down, and hoisted it onto my back. We shook hands and wished each other the best of luck and I went out to meet Abdul. I never said Josef again.
Tetuan lies on the side of a hill which slopes gently down to the sea a few miles off. Abdul led me down thus hill to a decrepit part of town where Mustapha was waiting with the taxi. There was a short conversation in Arabic between the two of them, following which we got into the car, Mustapha up front with the driver, Abdul and myself in the back. Mustapha suggested a I pay the fare, which I did, and off we went. We headed eastward, taking the steep, winding road cut into the cliffs along the coast. On one side, were mountains stretching skyward; on the other, cliffs dropping 150 feet into the sea. The road seemed to consist entirely of hairpin bends, which our driver entered blindly at high speeds, honking his horn to warn anyone who might have been coming from the other direction. I say quietly, partly in awe of the landscape, partly deep in thought about my situation. Perhaps Josef was right: how was I to know what Abdul and in particular Mustapha had planned for me? They might be robbers and murderers. I imagined ways in which I could save myself if they tried to kill me; I even reached through the sleeve of my jallebaand slyly moved my jack-knife from my jeans to my jacket pocket, where it was at hand if needed.
Mustapha began to tell me about himself. He was a professional drug smuggler, he said, and this part of the coast was his “territory.” On moonless nights his hand would bring shipments of hashish and kif[marijuana] down from the mountains to a hidden cove or deserted beach. There a boat would meet them and, after taking on the illicit cargo slip over to Spain. This had gone on for years. Not too long ago, however, they had been captured by Spanish soldiers upon landing. They had been released shortly after Mustapha’s father had paid (from the sound of it) a massive bribe. But those few months in a cell, had left Mustapha as I saw him now, hideously gaunt. Eventually after an hour of driving, we came to a broad green valley. Down the middle of it a river wound its way into the sea. There was a hamlet on the bank of the river and I asked Mustapha if that was Ketama. No, he said, it was Oued Laou. Ten minutes later we pulled up to the edge of a settlement. The taxi came to a sudden stop.
“The paved road ends here,” Mustapha informed me. “The driver wants another fifty dirhamto go on to Ketama.”
I saw at once what was up: they were gambling that having come this far I would rather pay additional fare than turn back.
“You told me it would only be 100 dirham.”
“You must pay David, or we walk the rest of the way to Ketama.”
“You pay,” I said, calling his bluff. “I’ve payed enough.”
I grabbed my pack and got out of the car, Abdul grabbed my sleeve:
“David, it’s eighty kilometres to Ketama.”
“That’s okay I don’t mind walking.”
I went behind the taxi and leaned against the trunk. Mustapha and Abdul were there in an instant, furious I would not shell out the extra money.
“Why don’t you pay?” Mustapha demanded. “You said you would pay for a taxi to Ketama.”
“And you said it would only be 100 dirhamand then I would have a ‘free life,’” I said. “I see I can’t take you at your word.”
“Well, it’s forty kilometres to Ketema. You want to walk?”
“Yes. You don’t have to come.”
Mustapha resigned himself to defeat and told the taxi driver he was free to leave. Abdul, meanwhile, came out from a shop across the road carrying bread, mint tea, and a tin of jam. He asked me to pay for them. I did, but not before promising myself that these groceries were the last things I would buy for those two; otherwise, Mustapha’s “free life” would cost me a fortune before we were through.
It was shortly after three o’clock when we left. Our route lay along the bottom of the valley rock-strewn road that followed the river southward to snow covered mountains in the distance. Our destination was somewhere in those mountains, which I calculated we would not reach until tomorrow. As we went along I actually began to feel good about being there. My distrust of Mustapha and Abdul was temporarily forgotten, overwhelmed with the physical beauty of the valley and the knowledge that few Westerners had seen this part of the world. The valley, with its little hump-like-hills and green slopes rising gently into the golden haze, reminded me very much of southern California. Unlike California however, it was sparsely populated and the few people we saw were not all that wealthy. They lived in small (and to me picturesque) stone houses and tilled their patchwork fields with oxen and donkeys. Occasionally we passed a tiny mosque. But what delighted me most were the hundreds of storks feeding on the freshly plowed fields, looking for all the world like hundreds of white scarecrows against the reddish-brown soil. I wanted to take photos but dared not, as only three exposures remained on my roll of film. I wished I had bought more before leaving Tetuan.
Abdul bragged endless about how important he was in the hashish trade. He reminded me of Charlie Chaplin. There we were, heading into the rugged terrain, and he was still carrying his umbrella. He told me he knew the region in and out, but whenever I asked him something about the countryside he would turn to Mustapha for an answer. The more he talked the more evident it became that he was as much a stranger here as I was. Nonetheless he was an affable companion. At one point, after belching loud and long he asked my if that was acceptable in Canada.
“No,” I said. “It’s very impolite.”
“It’s okay in Morocco,” he said, belching again.
Shortly a deep rumbled emanated from the seat of his trousers.
“Is that okay in Canada?”
“No.”
“It’s not here either,” he confided.
Mustapha on the other hand was quiet, except to ask me how much money I was carrying. I told him $100, although I had much more, when neither of them was looking I took the other $700 and my airline ticket from my wallet and stuffed them down the front of my jeans. No self-respecting bandit would search there, I reasoned. As we neared the mountains, the road worsened until it was simply a mud track. The valley was quite narrow now and black clouds lurked over the peaks. Mustapha and Abdul began to argue about where to spend the night. The thought of sleeping out in the open did not bother me but it clearly worried Abdul. He warned us that Barbary apes would descend from their caves high in the hills and kill us if we stayed out. The matter was settled when, just as the sun was going down and a fearfully cold wind had blown up, we came upon a small hut at the foot of the mountains. The owner, who had cigarettes and some groceries for sale, invited us in. It was small and bare and had a corrugated iron roof. The only light came from the kerosene lantern and the place smelled of wood smoke. The owner said he would not spend the night there himself but we were welcome to stay.
I began right away to fill my diary, so as not to forget anything. Mustapha kept asking me what I was writing but, suspecting that he could not read English, I did not tell him I was really writing about him; instead I made up things to flatter him. During all this Abdul chattered on, finally admitting he had never been in the valley before. He also said the taxi driver was poor sighted and we were lucky to arrive in Oued Laou in one piece. I hoped the owner might change his mind and stay the night but by eleven o’clock he said good-bye and went off into the dark of his house, leaving me alone with those two. Mustapha brought out his blanket; Abdul had nothing so I lent him my sleeping bag and I slept in my jalleba,pulling the hood over my head.
I did not sleep well. All night long a damp wind howled down from the mountains, whistling and whining and rattling the roof. I was cold and had disturbing dreams, especially one in which I found myself a canoe on the brink of a waterfall and could see myself going over the edge. About four o’clock the roosters in the valley began to crow and I must have stirred in my sleep because Mustapha’s hollow voice came out of the dark:
“What’s wrong David? You’re not afraid are you?”
He and Abdul were whispering, and I found it impossible to get to sleep again. We all arose at seven and while Mustapha boiled water for mint tea, Abdul and I went outside. The landscape that last night had been obscured by darkness now lay before us in its grandeur Rising sharply all round were the mountains, which we had to climb to reach Ketama, and out from a towering gorge came the river, gilded by the rays of the newly risen sun. Abdul suggested I go for a swim, but the water looked too cold and swift. Instead, we sat on some rocks drinking our tea and eating bread and jam, and we discussed what to do next. Abdul’s night must have been as uncomfortable as mine, for he wanted to return to Tetuan. I guessed he was homesick. But Mustapha would have nothing of that and we prepared to leave.
The journey up the mountain was difficult because the path was so steep and stony. Parts of it were no more than ledges on the side of a cliff. Several times I lost my balance and slipped, but never too far. Off on the other side of the gorge Abdul said he spotted Barbary apes but I could not see anything. These apes, he told me as we were climbing, lived in caves and would eat people after killing them with rocks. We made it nearly to the top, about 1500 feet above the river, in two hours we stopped to rest by a spring. I took off my pack and leaned over to bathe my face; there were frogs floating on the surface! Oh well, I thought, this isn’t Canada and washed my face frogs and all. No, it was not Canada, and as I soon found out. After we had washed, we each sat on a rock and Mustapha wasted no words making his position clear:
“David, I think we have come far enough. You say you have $100. I want it.”
“For what?”
His demand surprised me, although I had expected a scene of some sort would eventually arise over money. Abdul but on his fiercest face to show he was backing up Mustapha.
“We have brought you here. We don’t work for nothing.”
“But you said I had to pay taxi fare, that’s all.”
“You think I am stupid David? Do you? You really think you can have the free life for 100 dirham? Don’t play games.”
“Don’t play games with me Mustapha. You are a liar.”
“Man, you don’t understand. I don’t take tourists to the mountains.”
He looked at Abdul for conformation of this statement.
“I sell drugs, make business. You waste my time.”
“You are wasting mytime. If I had known you wouldn’t keep your word I would never have come.”
“Listen. One hundred dirhamfor a taxi. That is not enough. I have a wife and children. They go hungry while I am in the mountains not making money.”
“We all have our problems. You didn’t have to come.”
That angered him.
“Look out there David. What do you see?”
“A river. Hills, fields.”
“Do you see police? Soldiers?”
“No.”
“We are in the mountains, not the city. No police, no army. People who play games can find big trouble here. Maybe someone cuts out their eyes, or cuts off their feet. No one will ever know.”
I did not have a witty reply to that. Mustapha then said something in Arabic to Abdul, who reached into his blazer and produced a small cellophane bag of white powder.
“Heroin. I want $400 for it.”
“I don’t want this. And I don’t have $400.”
“Don’t play games. Four hundred dollars.”
“No.”
For three minutes, Mustapha stared at me from his hollow eyes, saying nothing. Then:
“I give you a friend’s price: $100.”
“Forget it. I don’t want it.”
The standoff continued like this for ten minutes, each of us repeating the same arguments, over and over. At times I thought of simply standing up and walking off but was held back by the fear of a knife in my back, or worse, a bullet, if I did.
“David we may be here all day,” said Mustapha wearily.
“I don’t care. I won’t give you money for drugs. You are supposed to take me to Ketama. You broke your promise.”
“You will give us more money if we take you to Ketama?”
I weakened; after all I was the one who wanted to go to that Godforsaken place:
“Yes –if you show me around.”
“Okay. Give us $100 now.”
“That’s too much. And we’re not at Ketama yet.”
“Give us $80. That leaves you $20.”
“No, not yet.”
Mustapha looked at me with exasperation, then stood up and walked about forty feet away where he stood sulking. Abdul shifted closer to me.
“You’re stupid, man,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t give him $80. Give me $50 and I will kill him for you.”
This was the moment. Ever since I had met these crooks I had imagined myself trapped in a corner, my life or theirs. In my fantasies it had always been theirs, but now that I was in the actual circumstances –
“No that’s not necessary.”
“C’mon man don’t be stupid. You hear Mustapha and me talk in the dark last night?”
“Yes.” I remembered their whispering.
“Mustapha told me to kill you then, okay? And this morning, I ask you to swim in the river right?”
“Right.”
“Mustapha wants you to take off your clothes and then we kill you and let you go down the river into the sea.”
“I don’t want to kill anyone.”
Abdul got in a last ‘you’re stupid’ before Mustapha came back. They began talking in Arabic. Was Abdul telling him what we just discussed, or was he really on my side, I wondered. Mustapha turned back to me.
“You give me $80 now David.”
“You made a deal to take me to—”
He started talking Arabic to Abdul again.
“Mustapha?”
He ignored me. By now I was getting tired of being there, tired of not knowing who I could trust or even if I was going out get out alive. The glamour of the adventure was wearing extremely thin.
“Give us $80 now, David.”
“Okay.”
I got out my wallet and counted the bills.
“That’s for both you and Abdul,” I said handing them over.
“Yes of course.”
Mustapha was all smiles now. He thanked me for being reasonable and picked up his little woollen sack.
“I am going to my father’s farm. You want to come?”
The nerve of the guy! I said no. Abdul was not interested either. Mustapha shrugged and told Abdul to take me back to Oued Laou. Then he waved goodbye and disappeared over the top of the mountain.
“You’re stupid man!” Abdul said in disgust. “C’mon let’s run after him and kill him and get the money back.”
“Don’t bother.”
We made it back to Oued Laou in what must have been record time. I was so relieved to be rid of Mustapha that I babbled non stop almost all the way. Abdul did, however make one point clear: he was no better off financially as a result of this venture than I was. Mustapha would never pay him his share of the $80, he said. We arrived at the village just minutes before the local bus pulled in. While Abdul went off to get a soft drink I chatted with the conductor, who was fluent in French.
“Is it far to Ketama from here?” I asked out of curiosity.
“Ketama? Oh no sir, Ketama is nowhere near here. This is Oued Laou.”
“Then it’s not just over those mountains?” I said, pointing to where we’d just come from.
“No. It is very far away, perhaps seventy kilometres that way,” he said pointing to the southeast. “You must catch another bus altogether to get there.”
“How much would it cost?”
“Threedirham.”
Threedirham, I thought. Seventy-five cents.
Originally published in White Wall Review 6 (1982)