PARTING THOUGHTS Clueless in Old Tangiers By Patric Doherty 62 OREGON STATE BAR BULLETIN • JULY 2016 iStock I n the Cadiz province of southern Spain, in the region of Andalucia, sits the small city of Algeciras, which serves as the area’s major seaport and a departure point for those wishing to travel to Tangiers in Northern Morocco. It is a two-hour ferry ride across the Med- iterranean Sea. When I was a second-year Notre Dame law student, I experienced that journey along with two of my classmates, Bruce and Jerry. We were on a three-week Easter vaca- tion from studying law at the University of London under a new student exchange pro- gram. The time was April 1968, and Gen- eralissimo Franco ruled over the Spanish people with the iron fist of the dictator he had become. Months in dreary London made the lure of Costa del Sol irresistible. After exploring Granada, Malaga and Sevilla, each a “tra- ditional” Spanish city, we wanted to visit a more exotic locale. Also, we’d seen enough of the Guardia Civil, Franco’s menacing strongmen in their black patent leather tri- corne hats who would throw you in a local carcel for raising an eyebrow. As we docked in Tangiers, we encoun- tered a different — and chaotic — world. Throngs of restive Moroccans were milling about everywhere, shouting words in Arabic we did not understand. Red fezzes bobbed in the crowd. Minarets appeared in the dis- tance and Muslim calls to prayer filled the air. Traffic jams snarled every street. The place reeked of exhaust fumes and animal dung. A mob of men surrounded the ferry hop- ing to be hired as city guides. Helpless on our own, we hired an affable young man named “Joe.” With Joe in the lead, we went off to ex- plore the streets and alleys of old Tangiers, filled with vehicles of all makes, shops of all kinds and people of all ethnicities. “Hold onto your passports,” Joe cautioned. “Pick- pockets are everywhere.” So were the souvenir kiosks. While browsing, we noticed each shop offered a small pipe with a hand-carved wooden stem and little clay bowl. “For smoking hashish, very popular here,” Joe informed us. Caught up in the moment, each of us purchased a hashish pipe as a souvenir, or “recuerdo,” to impress our friends when we got back. Joe volunteered he knew a place where we could buy some “hash.” We told him we had no real interest in buying, but would go along for the “When in Rome” experience. We agreed on a place to meet at dusk. A Swedish kid from the ferry joined us, uninvited. As night settled, Joe took us through a labyrinth of dark, narrow back alleyways which would have made a fitting backdrop for any Hitchcock thriller. Finally, he arrived at a plain white stucco building. He tapped a secret knock on the door. Hushed words were whispered. The door slowly opened. We walked in, and our callow young lives dramatically changed. This was, pure and simple, an opium den. There were luxurious red velour drapes all around, with sinister looking men of all races examining the deadly choices of “product.” Drugs of every kind were being smoked, snorted or injected. We were scrutinized with hostility. Clearly, old Tangiers at night in a drug emporium was a bad place for three young American law students to find themselves. All sense of a “lark” disappeared for us at that moment. In fact, it was repugnant to watch. We slipped out the door unnoticed, looking behind us as we scurried back into the city. The Swedish kid from the ferry, who had stayed to “score” some drugs, caught up. Back at the hostel, Bruce, Jerry and I mulled over the evening’s events. “Good God, what were we thinking?” The next morning, we took the ferry back to Algeciras. We saw the Swedish kid on board. We arrived at the port and were herded into a building with the overhead sign, “Aduana,” or customs. Something we hadn’t even thought about. I made it through routinely. After an hour, Jerry and Bruce emerged from a tiny room, looking rattled and exhausted. “They found the pipes,” my friends said. “They thought we were smuggling hash into the country. They tore our bags apart and then strip searched us!” “Un recuerdo,” they told the officiales de aduanas repeatedly. “Recuerdos. Souvenirs to take home.” They were finally released, and then only because the officials saw that the clay bowls had not been lit. There was no “evidence” to hold them. We didn’t spot the Swedish kid at cus- toms. We hoped he didn’t get busted. “Mid- night Express” would be no easier to endure in a Spanish prison than in a Turkish one. For days and weeks after our Tangiers experience, we thanked God we escaped the sirens of that dreadful hellhole. Patric Doherty is a former Portland-area lawyer who has turned to freelance writing.