04.20.05

Morocco. Fes. March 1981.

I was on a bicycle tour--a school trip--through Morocco. I was 15. We were well into our trip, and arrived in Fes a day or two before the Jumping Over the Wall adventure.

In Fes, we stayed at the international campground in the European part of the city. The medina (the old, walled, labyrinthine part of town) was close by. I shared a tent with two guys, damn hippie school, DL and JS.

One night, after the sun plunged into night, DL and I went exploring. Actually, DL was looking for hashish. We met a couple of Moroccans that we'd met before--one of the those strange, intense, yet casual traveller's meetings--and they hooked DL up with his hash. He couldn't wait, and smoked a chunk with our new friends.

(Here's how you prepare a Moroccan-style blunt; take two pre-rolled filtered cigarettes. Remove the filters from both cigarettes, throw one filter away. Take the tobacco from the cigarettes, while keeping the paper intact. Spread the paper flat, sprinkle as much or as little tobacco as desired, then break up the hashish and spread it on the tobacco. Insert a filter at one end, and roll that bad boy. Cone-style seems to be de rigeur.)

We ended up in a barbershop. DL was more stoned than a boy should be. Sitting in a barbershop with a bunch of old, Moroccan guys and a very stoned DL, and being the only girl, didn't feel real good. At least I had the wits to remain sober. We left soon after.

We walked back through the darkened streets. We approached the campground on the side that was closest to our campsite, but furthest from the front gate. DL had a brilliant notion--let's climb over the wall! Being both ignorant and innocent, I agreed. It was, after all, about a half mile to the front gate and I was pooped. I hoisted DL up to the top of the wall, he reached down for me, and over we went.

Right into a nest of armed soldiers who guarded the campground.

It's amazing how tiny the hole at the end of a rifle is, and how big a hole it'd make in a person. Well, me.

A sobering, sane unreality washed over me--it was too fast and so slow at the same time. DL's stoned, I'm scared shitless (almost literally), half a dozen rifles pointed at us, and it's midnight in Fes, Morocco.

It must have been obvious that we weren't from 'round there because one of the soldiers took off for their captain. A few minutes later, he showed up. Fortunately, the French-speaking part of my brain finally clicked in.

"Nous sommes Americains," I bleated. Then I realized, oh shit, we didn't have our passports. Our teacher did.

Thank goodness the captain was patient. He listened to my garbled French explanation and apologies. After a few minutes, and a long tirade about our stupidity, he let us go back to our tent.

*phew*

Moral: Don't jump over walls of international campgrounds with a very stoned classmate and expect to get away with it.

Go. Be fabulous.

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