Chapter 17 - Hashish and Sufism in Morocco

From the moment Ali met Ahmed he understood that he'd found what he had come to Morocco for in the first place. He and three other new-comers were ushered into a sunken-down stone house in one of the elder parts of town, where pigeons nestled in the rooftops of irregular heights and the dusty streets were filled with both their melodic song and their shit. The walls of the houses were painted in white and blue, a combination that somehow keeps the flies away. To walk through these alleys was to stroll through a piece of the sky.

The steps leading down to the basement were splattered with the white droppings and the men left their shoes on low shelves to the side of the door. In bare feet, they padded into a smoke-filled room with cushions all around the sides and the floor was laden with thin straw mats. A long, wooden table ran down the centre with a still-steaming metal pot of tea and half-drunk glasses placed upon it.

Before his eyes could adjust to the dim illumination from oil lamps at the sides of the room, Ali fell into the sound of Ahmed's voice that rolled like timber from his slightly-elevated seat at the far end of the room. He could not, of course, understand the Arabic but behind the linguistic shell he could perceive the mastery of the speaker. The man's wisdom seemed apparent by the effortless ease with which his words flowed from the unseen lips, floating unsupported in the air until they faded along with the perception of the audience.

For the rest of his life, Ali will be able to close his eyes and summon from the beaten-up remainder of his functioning brain cells the sound of Ahmed's voice. It has all the credentials of sagacity without anything pithy needing to be said. The richness of the tone alone suggesting a life of relentless excavation in search of the Source from which the soul springs forth.

Before the new arrivals could fully take in their surroundings someone presented each of them with a spoonful from a large glass jar filled with a sticky, brown concoction. Of the many subtle ingredients in the mahjoom, as it was called, the only one Ali felt confident in identifying was that of pounded marijuana.

It was not more than half a day's walk to the elevated fields where the cannabis grew taller than the farmers who tended them. On many occasions, generous handfuls of the pressed pollen had been laid upon Ali and Lucette. In return, they had already steered some business in the direction of the cultivators, as European friends came looking for the 'real stuff'.

Ahmed completed his discourse in Arabic, placed a hot coal on the cone of his water pipe and cool smoke of black tobacco filled the room. By the time the smoke cleared Ali realized that the old man had appraised them all and that the severe eyes were fixated lastly upon him. Though in later years, Ahmed will temper his woolly-haired image into the more traditional combed austerity of the learned imams, at this time he gleams with an unruly magic and mischief. His spirit overspills with a presence that makes any room feel crowded.

His penetrating black eyes hunt the latent potential in others and, once found, he tears through the layers to expose it to the light so that they can see it for themselves. His pointed beard borrows something of a Satanic license for contorted humour and a slight twitch at the side of his mouth betrays a slight impatience in waiting for the understanding of others to catch up - Which was why, as on that occasion, he generally preferred to entertain a roomful of students just as a chess grandmaster might play twenty games at once against less-advanced opponents.

"Ali, I'm certain your mother is delighted that you're doing whatever makes you happy! Welcome!" And then he swept on to greet the next person, leaving Ali open-mouthed. How Ahmed could possibly have known his mother's last words to him? He looked up to meet a mirror of his own astonishment on the faces of the others to whom Ahmed had spoken - A personal secret revealed to each, just to set the tone of the evening to follow.

Ali became a regular visitor at Ahmed's tea room from which he always emerged spinning with the momentum of the mahjoom and the inconceivable conversation still ricocheting around his head.

Ahmed speaks with wild, waving arms and with complete disregard for complete sentences. He answers questions with glasses of tea and tells long, convoluted stories that no one can quite trace from beginning to end. His narratives duck and dive around the subject with a chiselling humour that eventually leaves the students aware that the answer to their queries has been sculpted in front of them. The lessons are never given only taken. It is up to his disciples to grasp the meaning in as large handfuls as their capacity allow: An abundance of learning is available if they can only throw out some of their old concepts first, to make room inside.

At their first meeting. Ali understood the gist of about 25% of what Ali said and the rest was simply a theatre of whirling arms and erupting facial expressions, which were entertaining if not coherent. The mahjoom definitely helped to abandon any preconceptions about the nature of communication and, as Ali relaxed into this freestyle mode, he became able to grasp the most of what was expressed, though he was often breathless at the end of the chase.

Ahmed leads him through dense undergrowth of metaphors, swinging on images like vines. At last, Ali crashes through a wall of brambles to emerge torn and tired onto a palm tree oasis, only to find that Ahmed is already sipping tea, waiting for him to catch up. A sentence can be replaced by a facial expression and adjectives swapped for a wave of the hand. Once an idea is grasped then the entire speech is discarded and a new drift founded upon the extracted pearl of understanding. Ahmed can go at such a space as to lose Ali altogether and then he has to dash ahead alone in the darkness to where his teacher awaits with the torch. But the dialogue never suffer retelling and, when he tries to relive the sessions for Lucette's benefit, then the words seem dead and dry of content. His foolish enthusiasm leaves him feeling like a schoolboy again.

But as vigorous as the psychic training might be, Ali always feels aware of his teacher's presence settling by his side, identifying with his perspective and plotting the most suitable way out for him. No matter how obscure or intangible the notion on his mind, Ali finds that Ahmed rarely fails to grasp the essence of the problem at once - Though the severity of the solutions makes Ali a little reticent to complain.

For this reason, Ali delays from mentioning the material question for almost a week after Lucette raised the matter. He's clearly not destined for a lifetime in the canning factory and yet has every desire to be an upright, independent member of the community, In the Islamic model of society, he reads that the nation can be seen as a large ship crossing the ocean. The imams and mullahs read the maps and points of navigation in the sky while the rest of the crew make sure the boat moves along as smoothly as possible. Any clueless star-gazers add to the weight of the ship without helping it move along.

Finally, Ali makes his roundabout question to Ahmed as to how all this esoteric tomfoolery should be funded, deciding that he can cope with whatever might be suggested, however out of the ordinary.

"Ah! I wondered when you'd ask!" Ahmed cries with delight, his eyes twinkling in anticipation, "I shall demonstrate this very afternoon!"

When the sun diminishes in intensity a little, he takes a young man to drive he and Ali through the streets of the town in a bright-red convertible - At a time when the only traffic on the road is that of sandals, donkeys and camels. They wheel around the corners with screeching tyres and passers-by stare with open mouths. People come out of their houses and stand agape as the respected mullah whizzes around like an American film star.

Finally, they pull up with an ostentatious skid in the main square, right in front of the central bureau of Narcotics Control which receives foreign funding to impede the flow of hashish to Europe. With a big grin, Ahmed walks around to the boot with Ali and hands him two large suitcases.

"What's in the cases?" Ali asks, not really wanting to know.

"Take a look!" Ahmed gaily suggests. Ali flicks open the catches of the case closest to him and has not opened it more than an inch before the all-too-familiar whiff floats out of smelly black hashish. He slams it shut with an aghast expression that his teacher seems to find immensely satisfying.

"Ahmed!" he hisses "For Allah's sake! There's everybody watching and-"

"I want you to deliver these to my residence!" Ahmed announces in a loud and cheerful voice.

"Ahmed! You can't be serious! I mean, I appreciate that-"

"See you in half an hour?" Ahmed calls as he walks round the side of the car and hops in the passenger seat. The engine starts and Ali feels a little left behind.

"Ahmed! Why are you making me do this?" Ali implores as the convertible speeds away, making a full circle of the square, waving to all the onlookers and then accelerating around the corner, out of sight.

All eyes swing over to Ali who stands frozen in the gutter with two large and conspicuous suitcases, one in each hand. All are silent as they wait to see what will be his next move. Across the street the blinds of the Narcotics Detectives twitch and Ali considers if he should just drop his burdens and make a run for it.

But then he'd definitely be implicated as the only American living anywhere near here. If he walks with the cases then at least he stands a chance of coming through this and maybe even understanding just what it is that Ahmed is attempting to show him here.

Already people are laughing and pointing their fingers at him as he takes his first infantile steps and tries to mingle with the everyday flow of the street. But as he's the only guy walking like an ostrich with an egg between his legs, he doesn't blend in so well. So he drops his shoulders from the level of his ears and as he makes the effort to breathe once again some of the pressure melts away. The attention directed upon him also fades a little as it becomes clear that there will be no more circus and he finds that the less he thinks of his situation being an issue, the less it is of interest to everyone else.

He realises with surprise that the only way to defeat the dragon is to act like it doesn't exist at all. Part of him still screams in his ear that he should be hurling himself from doorway to doorway and hustling down dark alleyways with blankets draped over him, false beard and sunglasses - But the truth is, that the less he is aware of himself the less he is seen. As he conceives of himself as being invisible, less than a shadow drifting through the streets, then eventually people are almost walking into him.

He arrives back at Ahmed's place feeling very pleased with himself. Only when he finishes his first glass of very sweet tea does he remember to what danger his trusted teacher has exposed him and how easily it could all have gone terribly wrong. Right now he could be languishing in a stinking cockroach prison cell with no hope of daylight for untold time to come. He slams down his glass and exclaims:

"Ahmed! Just what was the point of all that? Do you realize-"

"Ali," His teacher interrupts, awaiting this delayed response, "You asked me about making money, didn't you?"!

"Yes, but what-"

"So how much is a suitcase of Moroccan hashish worth in San Francisco?"

A week later, with the help of the credit of local farmers and a loan for the air fare, Ali steps onto a plane heading across the Atlantic with one medium-sized suitcase as hand luggage. As he once carried a sword like it wasn't there, he now bears a load of cannabis resin. The officials at the airport ask him why he was in Morocco.

"I'm a Muslim!" He says, "I believe there is no God but Allah and that Mphammed is -"

"Malcolm X is dead." They tell him flatly and he's waved through. Two days later he has three thousand dollars in his pocket and he's banging on the door of an old friend. The door opens to a bleary-eyed guy with long blonde hair and a joint at the side of his mouth. He blinks twice before he recognizes Ali with his shaved head and dope runner suit.

"You're coming with me to Morocco!" Ali tells him.