A letter recovered and turned into a real account of what happened to me in 1982
Brussels 29 June 1982
Dear John,
It’s almost four months ago since we were last in Marrakesh. I can’t wait to write too much longer and I hope that you are well and healthy back in Jersey. Didn’t you say you were only going to stay four or six months in Morocco? How was Essaouira like? I guess you have done some lovely sightseeing over there and you must have had your deal in adventure, but if you didn’t so I sure had some.
It took me a while after you left Marrakech to get settled in the crummy bus. Oh yeah, those boys working on the bus wouldn’t hoist my baggage on the bus unless I gave them a couple of Dirhams. It was a ‘heavy’ journey, all the way to Agadir; I felt very insecure, as I was about to travel with only two-hundred Dirhams in my pocket! A man from Marrakech advised against travelling to Agadir, instead I ought to travel to Rabat and see the Belgian consul, he had suggested, and he had quickly added; "You can always sell me your watch for thirty Dirhams."
So, I left on my own accord. Once arrived, I pitched my tent at a pay campsite which had showers, a shop, and a washing machine. The morning after, I set out to try my luck at portraying the locals and tourists, with pencil on paper, as I needed dough badly. I did five portraits (Germans, Dutch, and English), at fifty Dirhams each. I was about doing a sixth one, when I felt a hand pressing down on my right shoulder. A policeman in plain clothes came to arrest me for a reason yet, unclear to me. However, I had an inkling that it might have had to do with making money, moonlighting. He asked me what I was doing in town, but I preferred not to answer, I was in shock. When he looked the other way, for just a minute, I ripped the price tag from my drawing board and crumpled it in my hand.
I was taken to the police station: At the office my passport was confiscated and the chief told me to come and pick it up next morning at 10 am. What were the charges? Working without a work permit and vagrancy, was the scruffy reply. I was worried sick and when I arrived back at the campsite no one wanted to believe my story. In fact they really thought I had done something else like blowing a joint.
But you know, I have never touched a joint in my life until I met you. I will never forget the moment you presented me that stupid little piece of hash you called double zero, which I ingested with a cup of mint tea.
Most of them were only too sympathetic to my distress, and told me not to listen to the orders they had issued. The chief had told me to leave Agadir, but alas, I was still around at 3 pm eating in a restaurant by the port. I was going to leave but since they hadn’t given me a time or a deadline, I figured the afternoon was still OK. How mistaken could I have been, when, as if on cue, I turned my head around and saw the same cop who had arrested me the day before, sitting there a few tables behind me, waiting until I had finished my lunch, I guess. He walked over to my table and ordered me to get up, pick up my tent and backpack, and follow him back to the station.
I was taken to the police station: At the office my passport was confiscated and the chief told me to come and pick it up next morning at 10 am. What were the charges? Working without a work permit and vagrancy, was the scruffy reply. I was worried sick and when I arrived back at the campsite no one wanted to believe my story. In fact they really thought I had done something else like blowing a joint.
But you know, I have never touched a joint in my life until I met you. I will never forget the moment you presented me that stupid little piece of hash you called double zero, which I ingested with a cup of mint tea.
Most of them were only too sympathetic to my distress, and told me not to listen to the orders they had issued. The chief had told me to leave Agadir, but alas, I was still around at 3 pm eating in a restaurant by the port. I was going to leave but since they hadn’t given me a time or a deadline, I figured the afternoon was still OK. How mistaken could I have been, when, as if on cue, I turned my head around and saw the same cop who had arrested me the day before, sitting there a few tables behind me, waiting until I had finished my lunch, I guess. He walked over to my table and ordered me to get up, pick up my tent and backpack, and follow him back to the station.
It was 6 pm when the Belgian consul arrived to see me and broker a deal with the police. There wasn’t much he could do. The day before, when I tried to ask why I had to leave Agadir, the chief told me to shut up and collect my passport next day. Now annoyed with my protests against the order to leave Morocco, he snapped at me and growled that in my interest I shouldn’t say anything or he’d have me locked up with the prostitutes down in the cellar. The Belgian consul said something on my behalf, and so it was decided that I should be deported and escorted by the same policeman, who had just arrested me in the restaurant the day before.
The man didn’t seem pleased at all; after all, he had to sacrifice his precious time which in the weekend he shares with his family, to escort me all the way to Casablanca.
I was relieved, though, that I wasn’t to travel handcuffed, I thought. I thought he was a nice guy, a gentleman, not talkative but for when we arrived in Casablanca where he decided to carry my backpack for which I thanked him. He did not like my thanks, instead he said; " Don’t you thank me before you know who I am."
The station here was quite different and much bigger than in Agadir. The chief here sat me down and told me not to worry. "Those people in the South must have made a mistake, surely, heck, maybe the chief had drunk a bit too much," he apologetically said.
I was relieved, though, that I wasn’t to travel handcuffed, I thought. I thought he was a nice guy, a gentleman, not talkative but for when we arrived in Casablanca where he decided to carry my backpack for which I thanked him. He did not like my thanks, instead he said; " Don’t you thank me before you know who I am."
The station here was quite different and much bigger than in Agadir. The chief here sat me down and told me not to worry. "Those people in the South must have made a mistake, surely, heck, maybe the chief had drunk a bit too much," he apologetically said.
It was then that I realized, when I put my hand in my jeans pocket that I had still a piece of double zero which I had never used and had forgotten all about. Oh, my god, I thought. I must get rid of it. So before I was walked down the stairs,down to the basement I asked for the loo where I dropped the damn thing and flushed it away.
Surely, it wasn’t worth keeping that on me, after all, I had never had the intention to use it. Certainly, not after the rollercoaster I had been on in Marrakech. You know, that one cup of tea I had, in which I had wanted to dissolve it. Do you remember that basically I had gulped it down like that, and the next thing I remembered, was that I was laughing hysterically, followed by thoughtful and depressing moments.
Surely, it wasn’t worth keeping that on me, after all, I had never had the intention to use it. Certainly, not after the rollercoaster I had been on in Marrakech. You know, that one cup of tea I had, in which I had wanted to dissolve it. Do you remember that basically I had gulped it down like that, and the next thing I remembered, was that I was laughing hysterically, followed by thoughtful and depressing moments.
You know, John, when I left you and I thought I was going to exchange my torn blue jeans at the Djemaa el Fnaa market? Nothing worked out, I returned from the market, and still had my jeans on, They did not want it, but they did sell me a pair of Arabian trousers, with a crotch so low that it hung between my knees.
Hilarious, it was as if they were made for men with horse dicks. But I am digressing. I was taken to a basement where the prison cells were located. I was going to spend some time in there, but even the chief didn’t tell me for just how long. He matter-of-factly said that I’d be soon on my way. Next thing he had me searched by the guard downstairs. He put his hands in my pockets, my heart skipped a beat. I had been so wise to listen to my intuition just a few minutes earlier. The man looked teasingly at me; He also winked at me, pulled out his hand and pushed me through a door at the foot of the staircase. He found my instamatic camera in my backpack and laughed at me about it. What was the big deal I thought? I wasn’t rich and only twenty-three years old. What was I supposed to have that would gain his respect?
Hilarious, it was as if they were made for men with horse dicks. But I am digressing. I was taken to a basement where the prison cells were located. I was going to spend some time in there, but even the chief didn’t tell me for just how long. He matter-of-factly said that I’d be soon on my way. Next thing he had me searched by the guard downstairs. He put his hands in my pockets, my heart skipped a beat. I had been so wise to listen to my intuition just a few minutes earlier. The man looked teasingly at me; He also winked at me, pulled out his hand and pushed me through a door at the foot of the staircase. He found my instamatic camera in my backpack and laughed at me about it. What was the big deal I thought? I wasn’t rich and only twenty-three years old. What was I supposed to have that would gain his respect?
A moment later, the door of one of the cells-there were four in a row- swung open and he pushed me inside. Inside mine it was quite dark; the door had only a small window not bigger than my hand. Here I was, sharing a cell with seven other young kids, me being the only white one. I thought I had a nice suntan but in reality my skin looked still as white as milk next to a Maghrebine one. My thoughts ran wild, now that I knew I was locked up here. Only two weeks ago I was still in Spain in Torremolinos, sketching tourists for money, enough to keep me going. My brother who had dropped me off in Taragona (North eastern Spanish Province of Costa Blanca) to pick me up much later as he had promised.
But I had not wanted to go back to Belgium that soon. I still had some money left after barely three weeks in Peñiscola, a tourist resort, and after having reasoned that I could visit some other places until my brother would come back to pick me up where he had dropped me, I could hitched rides all the way down to Valencia and back. However, I had not counted on my adventurous spirit, which pushed me further and farther, until I reached the point of no return. It was Grenada, Guadix, Malaga, Torremolinos, Marbella, Puerto Banuz, Algeciras, and down to Morocco. I had only followed my instinct, drawn in by posters on windows in travel agencies, luring tourists to Morocco. Also, I had grown tired of Torremolinos and the fat ugly tourists flaunting their beer paunches. Besides, the tourist season was over, and now, for emerging portrait artists like me it was going to be difficult to live from hand to mouth.
I should have listened to an artist I knew then, though, He'd suggested that like he does every year, I could make money on the Canary Islands from Scandinavian tourists who poured in around October. But the desire for adventure and the thrill of breaking out of this tourist ghetto, I saw that North Africa would fit the bill. The guard looked through the small window and asked me; "Ça va?"
But I had not wanted to go back to Belgium that soon. I still had some money left after barely three weeks in Peñiscola, a tourist resort, and after having reasoned that I could visit some other places until my brother would come back to pick me up where he had dropped me, I could hitched rides all the way down to Valencia and back. However, I had not counted on my adventurous spirit, which pushed me further and farther, until I reached the point of no return. It was Grenada, Guadix, Malaga, Torremolinos, Marbella, Puerto Banuz, Algeciras, and down to Morocco. I had only followed my instinct, drawn in by posters on windows in travel agencies, luring tourists to Morocco. Also, I had grown tired of Torremolinos and the fat ugly tourists flaunting their beer paunches. Besides, the tourist season was over, and now, for emerging portrait artists like me it was going to be difficult to live from hand to mouth.
I should have listened to an artist I knew then, though, He'd suggested that like he does every year, I could make money on the Canary Islands from Scandinavian tourists who poured in around October. But the desire for adventure and the thrill of breaking out of this tourist ghetto, I saw that North Africa would fit the bill. The guard looked through the small window and asked me; "Ça va?"
I nodded and leaned my head against the wall. That’s when I noticed the plastic bag with loaves of bread. I turned my head and asked the other boys; "How long have you been here?"
"We don’t know," they answered, "some days maybe a week, we don’t know."
"We don’t know," they answered, "some days maybe a week, we don’t know."
"Who are you and what are you in for?" the same boy, who had answered, asked me.
" For making portraits," I answered.
" For making portraits," I answered.
He smiled.
I didn’t smile back; it had been some horrible time so far, more than I could chew already. And every time I gave them the honest answer no one had believed me.
"You like hash?" Another one asked me.
"No," I said in trepidation. I had not really liked it that much, some of the trip had been good in so far that it made my laugh and laugh with no ending in sight, but also too much of doom and gloom I had seen.
I had come to like some of it, after my escapade in Marrakesh, but I wasn’t going to to tell no stranger or even admit, now that I was here in custody with no idea of what was going to happen to me. I yelled for the guard, but I only heard laughter from the darkness. I was here since early morning and since I had first spoken to the chief I hadn’t been seen by anyone. In the cell with strangers equally apprehensive and hostile to any newcomer; I felt cold, as I was only wearing a very thin short sleeve shirt, a pair of jeans, and Spanish leather boots, which were two sizes too big for me. It was too crowded in here already.
After the small talk of where-are-you-from? and what-do-you-do- and what-is-your-name it remained somewhat silent, until we heard harsh shouting and cries emanating from our corridor. I couldn’t see anything through the little window, but it definitely came from our floor. It sounded like somebody was being lashed or whipped followed by a haunting wailing. The boys, seven in all pushed me aside and wanted to look, too. But no one saw anything.
It must be girls picked up from the street.
"Do you think so," I asked in my best French.
"Yes, there is a curfew out in Casablanca. No minor is allowed in the streets after 8 pm. That’s why we got picked up by the cops. The cops presume that we sell heroin or marijuana. But it is just repression. The people are starving and are coming out in the streets nearly every day protesting against the high prices of food. But the cops pick on the small fish like us."
"Girls," a voice said, though I couldn’t see who said it.
"Imagine having one here with us, a nice virgin, how we’d enjoy it. Smooth skin and a nice pussy to get into."
"You have a girlfriend?" Another voice called out to me.
I tried to adjust my eyes, but not much came of it, I still couldn’t see to clearly all the faces that were here with me. I felt fainter by the hour, the stale air and the smell of urine and defecation got at me. Yes, they wouldn’t let us out to go to use the loo. The guard seemed to have vanished into thin air.
"No, no, not yet."
"Not yet?" The voice echoed. "I thought in Europe it is quite common to have sex with a girl before marriage."
"You must be lying, a darker voice continued. I am sure you are lying about everything, including about the use of drugs."
There was something very eerie about this interrogation, something told me that I was here on my own and not with people I could trust.
I turned around facing the bread and tried to ignore all of them, my heart was beating faster. Behind my back something unintelligible for me was being said, followed by whispers and snickering.
I should never have turned my back, it was just a sign of weakness, I guess. God knows how long before the door opened up and the guard showed me his toothless smile.
"Follow me," he ordered.
"Follow me," he ordered.
Up the stairs back to where I had been in the morning. I took a seat and looked into the eyes of another face, another police chief. Next to me sat the Belgian consul, another one too. Before I could even utter a word, the chief ranted in an authoritative voice that he was a connoisseur of Europeans. They all came to Morocco to consume drugs and he would prove I wasn’t any different, he said.
The consul tried to throw in a word on my behalf but he was told to shut up. Like that. You have no experience, the chief said to him.
I asked the consul in my Dutch tongue to tell him that there were elections in Belgium and I needed to vote at the embassy. But that also didn’t help me.
"No," the chief said, "he must leave Morocco. We will arrange a flight straight to Belgium."
Now, firstly I didn’t want to go back that soon to Belgium and secondly, there was no way I would let my mum pay for a repatriation ticket. Then out of nowhere a brilliant idea occurred to me.
"Look," I said, "I have family in Spain; my passport can prove that as it was issued in Malaga."
It seemed to impress the chief, but he remained as stoic and aggressive as ever. It was about 1 pm and the consul told me not to worry too much. I was promised I would leave the police station by 3 pm. The consul wished me good luck and left me with the warden who led me back downstairs.
At the foot of the stairs I was in for a shock, a warden stood there with his belt and a few young teenage girls lying on the floor. He was whipping them, but stopped abruptly when he saw me. A man lay on his back with blood oozing out of his neck. Where was I?
The warden who egged me on, urged me to move forward.
"A tout à l’heure (see you later)", the other warden said, and locked me up. The warden with the whip resumed his job, and for half an hour I heard the girls wailing. Then he left. For maybe an hour, not a sound was heard anymore. Perhaps they had gone to have lunch or so. I was hungry too and worried about my fate. I crouched and tried to forget where I was. That was not long before I heard the clinking sound of the keys. Somebody opened up the door, I rose to my feet instinctively, and stared into the light that entered my cell.
It was 6 pm when a young employee from the embassy who was sent for me to collect me on a moped from this horrible place. When at the consulate, I complained to the consul about the lack of power he displayed at the police station and how horrible it had been there.
"There is nothing we can do," he said, if we help you, and then the next arrestee will face worse treatment. This is a dictatorship," he added, "and we diplomats have to be careful." But he also said that ‘I was in the friendliest of North African countries’.
My passport had a stamp of deportation; it read that I was not allowed to come back to Morocco for the next decade. I had paid a high price for my freedom. I wondered if the consul really knew what I had endured.
By 9 pm I was on a bus to Ceuta and landed at 6 am on Spanish soil. I shouted: “Viva España!” In Algeciras I reclined myself against a palm tree in a park in the vicinity of a truck parking lot. Some youngsters, only a few years younger than me, approached me out of curiosity and in very relaxed way we chatted for a little while. I felt I was safe in Spain; I had put the ordeal behind me, so I believed. No sooner had I given it a thought or two of their mates arrived and spoke to my newly made friends. Thinking that I did not understand their lingo, I heard them asking whether I was a foreigner. Within seconds they turned toward me and demanded ‘dinero’ (money) from me. I kept my wits about me and replied in my caballero way; “Un momento”. I walked toward another tree a stone throw away from where we sat, and hauled a big bread knife out of my backpack. “Come and get,” I threatened. I was going to sell my skin dearly, I reckoned. I couldn’t believe I had just dared to say this, but I did!
They backed off a little, said nothing, grinned, and walked away. The idea of sleeping on the beach, or elsewhere to avoid paying a Guest house did not strike me as safe any longer, however, I did move into an unfinished apartment nearby. The thugs kept hanging hung around all night waiting from me to come out from the construction site where I had spent a few hours waiting for to go away.
This was ridiculous and so after they had disappeared, I went to the train station and booked a seat on the express train to Madrid.
It had been a nice ride and cheered me up, and I managed to stay in a hostel dorm for three days and visit the Prado where Picasso’s Guernica had just come back from the USA.
I was left with a meager hundred fifty pesetas (maybe five Euros). In Madrid, no one was interested in getting his portrait done by me. I did manage to find another T.I.R (truck parking lot) where an English lorry driver agreed to take me aboard his. He dropped me off in Irún at a motorway fast-food outlet, where I found another Briton who took me all the way to Ghent, where with my last one-hundred Belgian Francs (3 Euros), I bought myself a Belgian chips and a train ticket home. My mother never found out about my misadventure until I saw her face to face.
"They told me you are a cat that always lands on its four feet," she said, happilly to have me back home. Apparently, my brother had had no time to come and pick me up, but was only worried back home and wondered when I would appear.
Warm regards, friend!
Alann De Vuyst
By 9 pm I was on a bus to Ceuta and landed at 6 am on Spanish soil. I shouted: “Viva España!” In Algeciras I reclined myself against a palm tree in a park in the vicinity of a truck parking lot. Some youngsters, only a few years younger than me, approached me out of curiosity and in very relaxed way we chatted for a little while. I felt I was safe in Spain; I had put the ordeal behind me, so I believed. No sooner had I given it a thought or two of their mates arrived and spoke to my newly made friends. Thinking that I did not understand their lingo, I heard them asking whether I was a foreigner. Within seconds they turned toward me and demanded ‘dinero’ (money) from me. I kept my wits about me and replied in my caballero way; “Un momento”. I walked toward another tree a stone throw away from where we sat, and hauled a big bread knife out of my backpack. “Come and get,” I threatened. I was going to sell my skin dearly, I reckoned. I couldn’t believe I had just dared to say this, but I did!
They backed off a little, said nothing, grinned, and walked away. The idea of sleeping on the beach, or elsewhere to avoid paying a Guest house did not strike me as safe any longer, however, I did move into an unfinished apartment nearby. The thugs kept hanging hung around all night waiting from me to come out from the construction site where I had spent a few hours waiting for to go away.
This was ridiculous and so after they had disappeared, I went to the train station and booked a seat on the express train to Madrid.
It had been a nice ride and cheered me up, and I managed to stay in a hostel dorm for three days and visit the Prado where Picasso’s Guernica had just come back from the USA.
I was left with a meager hundred fifty pesetas (maybe five Euros). In Madrid, no one was interested in getting his portrait done by me. I did manage to find another T.I.R (truck parking lot) where an English lorry driver agreed to take me aboard his. He dropped me off in Irún at a motorway fast-food outlet, where I found another Briton who took me all the way to Ghent, where with my last one-hundred Belgian Francs (3 Euros), I bought myself a Belgian chips and a train ticket home. My mother never found out about my misadventure until I saw her face to face.
"They told me you are a cat that always lands on its four feet," she said, happilly to have me back home. Apparently, my brother had had no time to come and pick me up, but was only worried back home and wondered when I would appear.
Warm regards, friend!
Alann De Vuyst
