Jerry from Boston called today to ask when the next trip departs and how long we're traveling for. Informed him we didn't have any travel scheduled until mid-December, but that he was free to hire us out for adventure anytime between now and then. He suggested he and a friend would like to see Morocco and Tunisia for a two to three weeks beginning 10/23. We could do a Spice Road or Imperial Cities trip, or just hang around Marrakech and enjoy the hospitality of a different Berber village everyday.

Jerry wants to see the region where hashish is produced, which brought to mind a car ride to rival any movie scene I've watched, with me at the wheel of an Avis rental sedan. The passenger riding shotgun had hired me in Safi, on the south Atlantic coast. He had his wife and her mother with him and the two women occupied the back seat. We'd arrived in the Rif Mountains by taking the train from Marrakech to Fes. We'd changed trains at Sidi Kacem, a wide place on the tracks west of Meknes, an old imperial city. The small station had a tiny coffee shop and after a healthy shot of espresso the guy and I milled about the platform while the ladies freshened themselves. My client watched men in djellabas (the man's hooded over-garment) collect in small groups and talk, often smoking cigarettes. He asked if they were making drug deals? I told him not likely in this neck of the woods. No sooner than I'd answered him, however, a guy came up and in a throaty whisper asked if we wanted to buy hashish? "La," I said to him, Arabic for no.

A train arrived and we all climbed aboard. We found a first class compartment unoccupied and all squeezed inside, stowing our luggage on racks above the seats. My clients wife asked if it were dangerous to go to the hash producing capitol? I assured her it was exciting but not dangerous. I don't remember if I crossed my fingers while responding to her question, but in my heart I had reservations about our safety? Five years previously I'd been stopped by a crowd of men at a roadblock and at gunpoint had my rental car "appropriated". The hash producing area is absolutely lawless, even the Moroccan military stays out.

We traveled in silence awhile. The train made several stops in rural areas and men and women with children got off. Looking back we could see them walking on paths next to the tracks. Our arrival in Fes overwhelmed my clients. Touts and false guides literally thronged the outside of the station. We were approached by at least twenty different guys. They wanted to guide us to a hotel. Or they asked what we wanted to see? Several recognized me and nodded but kept their distance. I helped carry bags and we walked a hundred yards to a good hotel where I'm known. The desk man quickly found us two rooms and after getting my clients settled and explaining the layout I told them I'd meet them in the bar in a couple of hours or call their room, that I was going out to make arrangements for a car in the morning.

It was high season and rental cars were scarce; finally a man I knew at the Avis counter said that he would find me a 4 door sedan. I slipped him fifty dirham and crossed the street to purchase a phone card. Maroc Telcom was doubling the purchase. I bought two hundred dirham worth of minutes and received four hundred dirham worth. Since most of my calls were international the fifty bucks in airtime wouldn't last more than a week.

Back at the hotel my clients were upset about the pressure from licensed and unlicensed guides. They'd stepped outside and immediately were surrounded by men wanting to sell them one service or another. Their only escape was to re-enter the hotel.

I ate early and picked up the car while my clients ate a buffet breakfast in the hotel's large dining room. We checked out of the hotel and were on the road by nine. I told my passengers about it taking me four hours to drive out of Fes a year earlier. I'd been trying to locate the road to Ketama, the village that's the center of the hash producing region, and a Moroccan friend who was with me kept misdirecting me. He was absolutely terrified of going there but wouldn't share his fears verbally. His way was to sink the trip with misdirection and suggesting wrong turns. Finally my anger flared and I stood on the brake, skidding the car to a stop and walked around to his door, opened it and pulled him into the road. Reaching into the back seat I grabbed his pack and tossed it at his feet. "Find your way back to Quarzazate", I yelled at him. "You'll not fuck with my head another minute." Being stranded a thousand miles from home was like a splash of cold water in the face. He came to his senses and promised me he wouldn't try deceiving me again. I probably should not have told my clients about that incident. Even the guy became uncomfortable and would not make eye contact with his wife for the longest time.

I easily settled into the route this time. It was a hard five hours drive. The roads were narrow and I was unable to read the few signs that existed; I'm conversant in Arabic but cannot read it. Instead I drove with a map folded to reveal our whereabouts, on my right knee, and referred to it often, a trick I picked up flying small aircraft. By Taounate el Kchou we were famished and stopped at a hillside cafe. I knew the way easily from there. Four white travelers attracted attention so far from normal tourist routes and we were hours off that track.

Called home in the States with my cell phone explaining to DearHearts where I was and that I'd call at night with an update from Al Hoceima. We piled back into the car, heading north again. The road alternated between tarmac and gravel and because we were high in the Rif Mountains we drove slowly. There were no guard rails to arrest the descent of an out of control vehicle.

The marijuana growing region always surprises me. The area is almost alpine. There were patches of snow still on the ground. Then to my left and right the landscape climbed at a steep angle. And I saw the first cultivated plants. Marijuana bushes less than a foot tall. I pointed them out to my clients. And suddenly there was pot growing in everywhere one looked, as far as the eye could see. Around the next curve we observed a women and her young daughter tending a plot of plants. The road curved and twisted and ganja plants were everywhere. The guy who hired me wanted me to stop so he could get out. I refused. And we rounded a corner and shit, the road was blocked by another car, stopped in the middle. There were two men sitting on the fenders. They waved to me to stop.

Instinct took control. I hit the gas at the same moment I swung the wheel hard. The car bounced and gravel rattled against the passenger door. I was around the road block. A glance at the rearview mirror showed the two guys quickly climbing into their ride. I hoped it was what it appeared to be, a small Renault with little power. I floored the Ford and was able to just keep it from fishtailing. Another sharp curve and a second roadblock. This time a large black Volvo pulled sideways, blocking almost the entire track.

Off to the left a family was tending their plants and the road had a small shoulder. I used every inch to clear the Volvo and accelerate up a straight stretch of road. In the mirror I saw the first car pull up to the Volvo. Then another curve hid that view. I kept heavy pressure on the gas pedal, slowing for tight curves then speeding where it was relatively safe. Occasionally I caught sight of the Volvo and Renault behind us, but knew the Volvo was heavy and the driver wasn't going to give chase for long. And like a flash Ketama came into view. It's a small village with a huge warehouse. There were a group of men loading a truck and they stared at us as we roared through without slowing.

No one had said a word but I knew that my passengers were deeply concerned, their eyes were round with fear. Leaving Ketama the countryside becomes distinctly alpine and heavily wooded. Trees shaded the road allowing large patches of snow to remain un-melted. On both sides, both up and down hill snow seemed several feet deep.

I slowed somewhat so that I could urge the car through the worst of the snow. And after fifteen or twenty minutes of driving the marijuana plants just ceased to exist. Their presence stopped as suddenly as they had appeared an hour earlier. The uphill road suddenly turned downhill and I knew that ten minutes ahead there would be a police roadblock. I can't remember ever before being glad to see police but this time I welcomed the sight. My passengers tensed.

The cops English was very limited but they understood a hundred dirham note palmed to the nearest one who waved us through. We drove on. Even Al Hoceima, normally as boring a city as exists seemed friendly. Buildings from a recent earthquake stood at odd angles, broken but not deserted. A young boy lounged in a glassless, sagging window while his brother whipped a donkey up a path.

I got my clients settled into a hotel overlooking the blue Mediterranean. Then in my own room pulled a sole of hash from my camera case and applied flame to loosen a piece. I poked holes with my Swiss army knife in a soft drink can, crumbled some into an indentation I'd created, applied flame and inhaled. Safe again, ahhhhh.

(for another story on a similar subject see www.travelnorthafrica.com/stories.html)