Close Calls

Morocco’s Rif Mountains

"Best hashish in Morocco," he said and smiled. "How many kilo you buy?"

I looked at Trevor, then back at Amad. His question caught me off guard. "Huh, we didn't really come here to buy hashish."

A slight pause ensued before he spoke again in English, but this time slower. "I say, how m-a-n-y k-i-l-o you buy?"

I looked at Trevor again. The two expressionless Berber men sitting next to him seemed to be glaring at me. I turned toward Amad.

"Amad, we did not come here to buy hashish," I said, also speaking slowly and distinctly.

Amad spoke Arabic to Fahim and the Berber men.

I looked at Trevor. "Do you think he believes we came here to buy hash?"

"He never said anything about buying hash in Tetuan," Trevor said.

Amad turned back to me and smiled, this time speaking in Spanish. "I don't think you understand. I asked you how many kilos of hashish do you want to buy?"

I looked at Amad. "In Tetuan you said nothing about buying hashish," I replied in Spanish. "We don't have money to buy hashish."

Amad's face turned solemn. He spoke to the Berber men again, but briefly this time, and then turned back to me.

"Okay," he said with a serious look, "you buy two kilo, maybe three, no more, yes? For you good price. You friend. Only $300 for kilo. Sell same kilo $500 to German. You American. Good deal for you, yes?"

Neither Trevor nor I wanted to buy any hash, and even if we did, we lacked the funds. We brought enough money to stay a couple of nights in Morocco and purchase a few items like a Walkman stereo set. We had about $200 worth of Spanish pesetas and another $50 to $75 in Moroccan currency.

"Amad, your hashish is really good," I said, hoping to appeal to his sense of pride. "If we had more money, we'd buy some."

His dark glazed eyes were focused and intense. The room seemed to shrink. A suffocating shroud of stale hashish smoke surrounded me. Amad's normally pleasant and congenial appearance switched to a menacing glare. A completely changed man sat in front of me. Jimmy Hendrix played in the background. As he sang, "Hey Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand," I looked around the room. It became a dungeon, a place of torture and death. Two machetes leaned against the wall beside their owners. I felt sick to my stomach.

Amad spoke Arabic to the men and then gestured by throwing his hands up into the air above him. He turned his head and looked directly into my eyes. For several seconds he just stared. "What you think this is?" Amad spoke through gritted teeth as he slammed his fist hard onto the tabletop and screamed, "Hotel? This business! We make business here! Not tourist shop! We look like shopkeeper?" He held out his hands to indicate the other people present.

"Amad, you didn't mention buying hashish at the hotel," I repeated in Spanish. "We don't have enough money to buy hashish."

"How much money you have?" he snapped, still gritting his teeth.

"Not enough," I said in English.

"Cuanto dinero?" he repeated slowly with more force.

"No mucho. No bastante para uno kilo," I said.

Amad slapped his hand down hard on the table. "Put money on table."

I looked at Trevor.

"Now!" he screamed, raising his hand and slamming his fist on the table. "All money on table now!"

I leaned forward and took out my wallet. Trevor did the same. I took out the peseta and dirham notes and tossed them on the tabletop, then started to put my wallet back in my pocket.

"On table!" Amad demanded. I reluctantly set my wallet beside the money. Trevor pulled his money out of his wallet and placed both on the table. Amad pointed to my jean pockets. "Put on table." I looked at him. He leaned forward and put his face inches from mine. "Immediamente, entiende señor?"

He slowly spoke the words in a threatening tone. The sentence literally means, 'Immediately, do you understand sir?' I took it how he meant it, which was, 'Immediately, buster. You said you didn't understand me before, but there's no misunderstanding me now, right?'