I had wanted to visit Marrakesh for the sake of that first novel, a hippy fairy-tale I was writing. So I bought an airline ticket and, with fifty pounds in my pocket, I flew to Casablanca. I can't remember the name or the face of the fellow I stayed with in Casa (any more than I could remember Luke's name at that first moment in passing). On that first evening in Morocco I remember my host playing percussion on the tableware - glasses, ashtray, dishes, bottle, a jazz symphony. I remember the dog barking on the roof across the way. A chorus of dogs on roofs.
   The next morning I took my rucksack and set off to Marrakesh. This is nineteen seventy four. Who would hitch hike today? Then I still had some faith and energy as I walked out into the Casablanca morning to thumb my way to Marrakesh.

   "What's up, man!" It's a curly headed young Casablancan in a suit, a collar and tie, but a hippy for all that. What's up? I'm going to Marrakesh. How? I'm hitch-hiking. "Too much!" he said. "We are driving to Marrakesh this afternoon. We will take you."
   "Great."   
   First, he explained, he must wait for a friend. We crossed the street to a café. "Let me buy you a drink," he offered.
   "Coffee's fine."
   He went to the bar to order and to phone. He came back with the coffee. Introduced himself. Another Mohammed. We drank coffee. Waited in silence.    His friend arrived. Jeans and a sweater. Street wise. "This is Hassan," Mohammed made the introduction. "Let's go get stoned."
   We went out to Hassan's car. A Renault. Relatively new. We drove. Smoked a few joints. Mohammed explained that they were waiting to pick up "half a weight, or a weight, if we can find the money" and then they were driving to Marrakesh. There was a problem, though. Cash flow. Once they'd got the weight, they had got a couple of customers here in Casablanca, so they will have all the money they might need, but now they were a little short. Did I want a cut of the deal? Could I front them a few dinar? I explained that I'd only got fifty pounds to last me.    "Oh, fifty pounds sterling?" That's all they needed.
   "I don't know."
   "Trust me."
   "I don't think I should do that."
   We drove round Casa. Smoked some joints. "Man, that's all we need to make the deal. Lots of money for all of us. Then we drive to Marrakesh."
   Meanwhile we drove to the beach. We smoked a few joints. We walked on the beach teeming with dark bodies. Miles of beach. Millions of people. Well, thousands, thousands.
   Back in the car, more joints, more talk. "That's all we need." I weakened.    "Sure, do it." We drove to a café in the suburbs. "Give me the bread. You stay in the café. I can't take you. It's a Moroccan place. You wait. We be back. Trust me."
   Like hell I trusted him, but I gave him the money, and I waited feeling more of a fool each minute. Fool from the start. Handing over the money like an automaton just because we were stuck in a rut and my will power vanished. Oh, friends have told me it was "culture shock" and, "they walked you round in the midday sun" and, "it was probably more dope then you usually smoke," but damn it, I was totally without will. I waited an hour. Wait two? Maybe they'd come back? Why bother? I had known as I handed over the money that I was being robbed.

I asked in broken French how to find the road to Marrakesh. I paid for our coffees, and the local buss. It's afternoon and I'm on my way to Marrakesh with no more than a handful of change.