The Passing Show: A travel memoir of lust, folly and high adventure

By Janet L Holmes

It was 1968 and the world was in turmoil as my sister and I cast off into the unknown. We found passage on a freighter crossing the Atlantic and disembarked in Tangier, Morocco. Hitchhiking across North Africa to Egypt, we crossed the Mediterranean Sea to Greece with its many treasures. Nearly penniless, we found work in Germany and romance in P

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet L. Holmes
• Release date: Apr 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736267615

Book preview

Prologue

What was it all about, the traipsing across the planet, the backtracking, and most puzzling, the auspicious connections? Husbands departed or decamped; children, like fledglings, successfully launched; I liked nothing better than staring into the fire, watching dream-like memories dance in the flames.

It seems fitting on the Winter Solstice, the longest night, to wander those illuminated mindscapes. I might find an answer to a question that has haunted me all these years—is life just a series of random thrashings, or is there a hidden design, some clue to the mysterious and baffling coincidences that had marked my travels?

The infamous decades of the last century, the sixties and seventies, where mind expansion and the counterculture flourished, allowed us to cast off into the unknown with boundless enthusiasm and naïve confidence. How we survived, relatively unscathed, now seems a minor miracle.

Sitting by the fire of my island home, recently divorced, my two children on their own trajectories, I finally have time to consider the puzzling events of thirty- five years ago. The pungent smoke sears my nose as I put another log on the embers. Settling in, I open the message that arrived today.

Hi Jan, wrote my old sailing buddy, Captain Mike. I’m putting the wraps on the manuscript, and I need an epilogue, a few paragraphs on you and your sister, about what has happened since you sailed with us in the Seychelle Islands.

Could I sum up all those years in a few paragraphs? The past is slippery—relative truth is hard to pin down. I’m determined to give it a try; hopefully I’ll gain insights in the process. My journals and letters will help me tell the tale. Here’s an entry from those days so long ago.

August 25, 1971……Flying out of Nairobi and finding ourselves in New York City in sarongs and flip-flops, we were experiencing a profound state of cultural shock. But the adventure began much, much earlier……

Part One

The Wanderer

Success through smallness

Perseverance brings good fortune

To the wanderer

1

Blowing in the Wind

December 18, 1968, Morocco bound, we were three days out of Norfolk, Virginia. The freighter rose the crest of forty-foot waves that slammed the hull’s thick skin with hammering blows. From the crow’s nest, my little sister and I stood, legs spread wide, held aloft in the roaring wind. Salt spray stung our eyes and scoured our skin.

Free, I whooped. We’re free at last.

Take us with you, Wind, Jude cried, her arms spread like wings.

The Wind Cried Mary, I shouted to the heaving waves.

As the storm’s power surged, singing and hollering, we descended the steep staircase to the salon below, clinging to the railing with both hands. At the foot of the stairs, I came to an abrupt halt.

Oh, my God!

Jude slammed into my back. What?

Look. The windows. They’re all broken.

Chairs had crashed against the walls; tables had overturned, and ashtrays slid like hockey pucks across the wet parquet floors.

The waves broke up the salon. I can’t believe it, I shouted over the roar. Damn, one helluva a storm.

"Si Senorita, una hurucan, said the dignified gentleman as he took our hands to lead us around the debris. At sea for forty-five years, I know these tormentas."

We careened along the ship’s corridors to our cabin, luxuriating in its snug comfort. The first days, we remained below recovering from the cross-continental journey from Seattle, a six-day marathon of pit stops in Greyhound bus terminals, amongst the unwashed and unloved of America. Now, in our cramped but comfortable cabin, I had the time to consider what had brought us to this juncture.

Our lives fell apart after our father died in his fifty-fifth year, leaving behind a small business and a widow so devastated by caring for him during his illness and death that she was subjected to electric shock in a state mental institution. My younger sister, Judith Ann, fourteen years old and unattended by parental supervision, took to the streets. The first little thug that got to her resulted in her pregnancy at fifteen. She was shuffled off to an institution for unwed mothers, and the child was adopted out.

During this tumultuous time, I was attending my first year at university. To escape family trauma, I threw myself into my studies, finding solace in Russian literature, nineteenth-century poetry, and the innumerable distractions of college life.

The backdrop to all this Sturm und Drang was the ongoing Viet Nam war, the bombing of Cambodia, the Kent State deaths of student protesters, and the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy.

I married Hal, my childhood sweetheart. We started going steady in eighth grade. I tried to break it off by high school, but he was persistent enough to climb to my second-story bedroom window to convince me to come back. The drop below was twenty feet onto the cement driveway. I let him in. When his parents deposited one thousand dollars in my mother’s dwindling bank account, I considered it a substantial sum and felt obliged. We got married when I turned twenty-one. My confused logic was—I’ve got to marry the guy to either make it or break it. I attended night classes and went to work at the university to help him finish college. He joined a fraternity, essentially a drinking club, and became an alcoholic, spending his free time at the tavern or frat house, drinking himself into oblivion.

After the inevitable divorce, my little sister moved in, and we flirted with psychedelia while still holding down jobs and paying rent. For the most part, we conducted ourselves responsibly, under the circumstances. The Zeitgeist was fermenting from the escalating Viet Nam war and the victory by Richard Nixon for President. How can one stay sane in an insane world? Turn on, tune in, drop out was the famous remedy. I wanted out. By then, I had amassed what I thought was an acceptable bankroll. Plus, I had accumulated a tidy sum in a retirement account at my university job.

At the dentist, an ad in the New Yorker caught my eye: Travel by freighter, worldwide, first-class, reasonable, relaxing. I sent the required dollar, and three weeks later, Jude and I were scrutinizing a schedule of ships plying the world’s oceans.

Here’s one, I said, underlining it twice. Yugoslav freighter, departing Norfolk, Virginia, December 16, 1968. First port of call Tangier, Morocco.

Where is Tangier anyway? Jude asked.

Africa, kid……yeah, Africa.

Oh, wow.

The Tuhorvic seemed substantial enough at five hundred feet in length with a superstructure holding two decks, passenger cabins, dining room, salon, and officers’ cabins. The quarters of the Croatian crew were somewhere below. The holds were loaded with raw timber, bound for the Mediterranean port of Trieste.

I couldn’t wait for the adventure to begin but first had to motivate my anti-social sister. C’mon Jude, let’s check out the dining room. See what’s on the menu.

Jude and I could read each other’s thoughts, a bond forged through loss. We had been on our own since our teens. Close as we were, our temperaments were poles apart. Jude avoided social settings; I threw myself into them with gusto. My sister disapproved of my easy ways. She felt threatened and beat a retreat while I galloped out to meet life, afraid I might miss something.

We didn’t look like sisters. Being of European mongrel stock, I figured I had the gypsy genes, while Jude was more Nordic with her eyes like blue lakes and her honey-colored hair. My broad face was stretched over high cheekbones, interrupted by an upturned nose and carved with slanted, olive eyes. Jude’s equine face was chiseled, her upper lip pleasingly short over big sturdy teeth. She could grin with the best of them, but her luminous eyes were sad even when she smiled. Our differences threatened to erupt into outright conflict, but most of the time, we struck a welcome balance of cheerful camaraderie—a complicated relationship, siblinghood. I felt protective of my little sister, but it was tiresome having to coddle.

Let’s go check out the passengers,’’ I said, baring my teeth in the mirror, checking for any stray bits. They might be interesting."

What’s the rush? sighed Jude, propping up her feet.

Come on, Sis. We can’t stay in the whole time.

There were seven other passengers on board, all assembling in the stuffy dining room for three hearty meals a day. Kathleen, her long gray hair pulled into a bun, was a tape-recording enthusiast.

I have been called to spread the word that Christ is our Savior, Kathleen said, thrusting a microphone in my face. Say a few words for my congregation back home.

Uh, okay. Hello there. We’re here, in the middle of the ocean. I guess we’re in God’s hands, or well, we’d better be. Thank you. I handed back the microphone.

Ben claimed to be a bachelor and a published writer. His wispy strands of reddish hair swirled over the top of a freckled pate.

If you girls need help, I know Tangier like the back of my hand. I can show you around the place.

Peter, a dignified Spaniard, made a slight bow. Forty-five years a ship’s electrician. Now, my days at sea are over. I go to Valencia. My daughter will look after me, he sighed.

I’m Pat, and he’s Edwin, said the female half of a couple in their forties from Connecticut—he, preppy New England; she, elegant and Japanese.

Two bulky Slavs kept to themselves, smoking cigarettes in the corner.

Jude and I spent our first evening at sea in the officer’s cabin serenaded with Croatian chanteys and plied with cherry brandy.

Ready now, sing, Kathleen brandished her microphone. She had an excuse to chaperone us by taping the songs, watching the carryings-on with raised eyebrows.

The humorless, long-suffering steward gave us disparaging looks that I interpreted as those little fool American tramps are more trouble than they’re worth. Undaunted, we sneaked cookies and oranges back to our cabin, clamored for seconds of gooey rice pudding and ordered countless pots of tea and refills of the tasty, red Croatian wine.

Dreary meals of meatballs in a heavy sauce or stuffed cabbage and boiled ham broke the monotony of moving across the face of the earth at twenty knots per hour. The ship pitched and rolled across the sea’s vast expanse, and in the confines of the overheated cabin, nausea rose in waves.

Uuuuggggghhh, I can’t breathe. Gotta get some air.

I threw open the cabin door and flung myself down the green- carpeted hallway. Grasping the brass railing for traction, Jude staggered behind, her hand pressed tight against her mouth. On deck, the roaring wind whipped our hair; the heaving green sea filled us with rapture and gave us our bearings.

Yes! That wind will clear your head, Sis, I shouted. Here we are, tiny specs crossing the boundless ocean, cast about by the winds and currents.

Richard Halliburton’s Book of Marvels spurred my romantic notions. The intrepid adventurer of the 1930s chronicled his voyages to the seven wonders of the ancient world. I knew his book by heart.

Jude snorted, "We won’t be tiny specks for long, eating all those meatballs and kartoffen."

I gave my sister a wan smile and resumed my dreamy reverie. In limbo between continents, the throbbing engines like a great heartbeat, the reassuring security of solid wood and steel, the absorbing clank of chains and rigging, contained and rocked by the ship’s motion, I felt we were being carried forth in the hold of a living creature. Clearly, the freighter was female.

Falling into shipboard routines and rhythms, Jude and I gained our sea legs, circling the deck on bracing jaunts, bundled up against winter winds. By December 24, the good ship Tuhorvic had reached mid-Atlantic. The voyagers were celebrating Christmas, the first my sister and I had spent away from home. An accordion player accompanied the crew singing Croatian carols while the passengers raised their glasses in toasts, downing burning slugs of cherry brandy. Warmed by the liquor and thinking of home, Jude and I strode the deck singing Silent Night to the sea-washed sky.

Wonder how Mom’s doing without us? Jude said, misty- eyed. Do you think she painted the tree this year?

Ordinary Christmas trees were never stagey enough for our mother, Madge. She glopped them with green poster paint until they glowed with an unearthly florescence. Our favorite blue twisty ornaments always hung at the crown.

When we blew the tiny glass horns, she would always say, This one is precious, from when I was a little girl.

We had the good fortune to be born into the post-war American middle class, otherwise known as the baby boom era. Dad was a Seattle cop, noteworthy for bringing down a Brahma bull, an escapee from a rodeo. Six feet two with blue eyes and dimples when he smiled, his thick black hair stood up off his head, Indian style. Jude and I took turns flinging ourselves onto his lap, thrilled with his dramatic groans when our pointy, little girl knees dug into his groin.

Coming of age in the roaring twenties, Madge still made finger waves in her auburn bob. She was on the short side with big peasant feet and plump, freckled arms. We lived in a substantial, four-bedroom house across from Greenlake in Seattle. Madge had been a drama major at the University and routinely redecorated the living room, pushing around the piano and sofas like props in a stage set.

For twelve years, Dad worked his way up from beat cop to detective.

Disillusioned with corruption, he came home one day and said, Madgie, do I get in on the take, or do you want to sleep nights?

Bribes were a way of life in the Seattle Police Department. Mom chose to sleep nights. He quit the force, giving up his retirement, and opened a hardware store. On weekends we piled sleeping bags into the shop truck. Jude and I rolled around in the back while we roamed the far reaches of the state.

Tormented by the demands of a small business and providing for his family, he’d say, We’re going to find a little farm.

I was seventeen, and Jude thirteen when he finally bought the farm. After grinding years of work repairing small engines, asbestos fibers had infiltrated his lungs. It took him one long year to die. There was no other option. He fought dying, working until he couldn’t stand. In the end, he became a frenzied skeleton, or so it seemed to Jude and me, as we lay on our stomachs peering through the heating vents into the sick room. It was death itself dancing in my father’s body. Dr. Bailey, our family doctor, showed Mom how to administer the morphine. Our father did not go quietly into that good night; he went raging against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas offered solace at that potent time.

Onboard the Tuhorvic, we stood at the ship’s bow. Hold on, here we go, I yelled as the freighter lunged through the churning sea. Clinging to the rigging, we rode her like a wild steed. We’re alive. Alive.

After twelve days at sea, I could smell Africa, earthy, like the taste of iron in blood.

Africa, it’s so huge. Aren’t you scared, Sis? said Jude.

Sure, I am, but … what lies ahead is adventure. Remember what Mom says, ‘You never know what’s around the next corner.’. 

Uh-huh, that was a favorite. Another one was, ‘Fools rush in where’…

Angels, yeah, we’re gonna need some on this junket, I agreed.

It was the middle of the night when the absence of movement awakened me. I peered from the porthole.

Oh my God, Sister, come look at this. I can’t believe it’s real. I can’t stand it. Jude, come look.

The Tuhovic had come to rest in Tangier harbor. The ship’s lights turned the turquoise water translucent. Phosphorescence shimmered in the wake. Like a spiraling galaxy, city lights spilled down the black silhouettes of African hills. We pressed our faces to the porthole, hoping the cool glass might convince us that it wasn’t a dream. The experience was a classic case of port fever that sailors have felt since ships were put to sea. The senses deprived of input, reeled in a hallucinatory state of heightened feeling, piercing rapture, and giddy exhilaration.

Still in our nightclothes and flip-flops, we made our way to the salon. Champagne corks were popping, and the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Passengers and crew gathered to celebrate the crossing and arrival in the first port of call.

We raised our glasses in toasts.

To the journey.

To your health.

To the Captain.

Lord be praised.

And the Croatian toast, "Zivjeli."

Jude and I downed the champagne and held out glasses for more. Fishing lines festooned the portholes; the thankful crew would be eating fresh fish. A carnival mood prevailed, suspending the rules on board. Except for that first night, crew and passengers hadn’t mingled. I had just exchanged torrid glances with the green-eyed sailor who now brushed against me as he passed down the stairs towards the cabins. He turned, and our gazes locked. I sought out Jude, who was reaching for another glass of champagne. It was now or never.

He withdrew into the shadows as I came down the stairs. I ran my hands along the wall to brace myself. I’ll just get a sweater then go right back with my sister. But that sailor—thoughts formed, dissolving into the awareness of his presence as he followed me down the corridor. Hesitating at the cabin door, he pressed into me, his hands encircling my waist, his breath moist on my skin. The door gave way, and we burst into the room, falling headlong onto the soft carpet. Deftly, as if he had done it before, he shut the door with his foot. His supple body was brown and taut, shiny with gold hairs on his arms and chest. Flames of desire shot up my spine flickered in my organs and melted my flesh.

He said my name, again and again, my full name. Janet Lorraine, he said. Oh, Janet Lorraine, and it didn’t sound ridiculous.

I whispered, Yes, Tony, yes.  Afterward, he gave me his address in Dubrovnik.

Yes, I will write. Never forget you, I promised.

I sighed, watching his lean male body disappear into his clothes. I already missed him. He left as stealthily as he had come. I composed myself for Jude’s impending arrival.

What happened? Why’d you disappear? Jude said as she threw open the door, sniffing the pungent air. It was that blond sailor wasn’t it, the one that’s been hot on your trail. Her head bobbed, knowingly.

"Yep, and it was worth it.

That’s what you think, said Jude. Anyway, I knew it.

At dawn, the passengers assembled to disembark. The sailor and I shared one last, flashing glance as the crew lined up to bid us farewell. The steward was discreetly accepting tips. Chronically optimistic, I was expecting the University retirement check in the mail when we reached Tangier but, until then, we had but twenty-five dollars between us. We presented bead necklaces strung together during the crossing.

The steward accepted them with an expression of disgust, as if to say, Just what I expected, nothing.

Bummer, Jude whispered.

It was a wretched momentary glitch we tried to shrug off as we made our way down the gangplank. Below, mysterious men huddled against the seawall, shrouded in long robes with soiled white turbans shading somber faces. We were terrified to leave the ship’s safety, but Africa was so close we could taste it.  We were propelled on our journey like a juggernaut.

I put down the battered diary and watched the flames do their magic. I haven’t forgotten the sailor and his sea-green eyes. It was worth it—a miracle every step of the way—landing in Tangier with twenty-five dollars and expecting a check in the mail. We had this blind faith that it would all work out, and it did. More or less.

2

Youthful Folly

The passengers hurried down the gangway, eager to set foot on dry land. French-speaking officials stamped our passports and welcomed us to Morocco. My sister and I walked along the quay with the little knot of fellow travelers, soon to go their separate ways. The men dozing along the wall sprang into action, proposing their services as guides, porters, and moneychangers. The shipboard nuisance, Ben, took charge.

Let me deal with these turkeys, he said.

Jude and I exchanged glances, rolling our eyes, but withdrawing while Ben made the black-market transaction, a few dollars for Moroccan francs. Marching along, we’ll ditch Ben first chance, I figured. I know Jude can’t stand him. It was taking all we had to ignore the men who clamored around us. We were under siege. Tangier was waking up as we wound our way from the harbor.

Tiny, unfamiliar yellow birds flitted above purple morning glories climbing over old mud walls. Above a deserted sweep of beach, modern buildings stood in clumps on the hills, but the harbor’s embankments were overgrown with vines and trailing creepers. In the distance, the Rif Mountains rose in blue-green folds.

For a few moments, we relaxed until hordes of young boys appeared out of nowhere, crying, Meese, speak English? Meeese, where are you going? Meese, come with me.

The pack hounded us down the alley-like streets of the medina, pulling on our backpacks. Feeling like prey, we took shelter in the first pension we saw. Initial impressions were of airy, sun-filled quarters, white-washed walls, cool tiles, and tattooed Moroccan women, wound round with cloth. Later that night, the tiles became clammy and cold, the hallways reeked of urine. There were fleas. Balancing over the toilet’s black hole, overflowing with excrement, took some adjustment. Instead of toilet paper, there was water in a rusty tin can. The hotel patrons appeared to use the shower as a urinal.

The plumbing, if that is what you’d call it, is god-awful. I slammed the flimsy door to our room. Maybe we should go to the European part of town when the check comes.

No thanks, we’d meet up with Ben over there. Sis, this is the real Morocco. Jude gestured to where the sounds and smells wafted up to the balcony. It’s not that bad.

The price is right. Can’t complain about a dollar a night.

A pyramid of oranges lured us to the street, and as we were making our purchase, a passing figure whispered, Kif, very good, very cheap.

Jude took up the offer and acquired a small packet, stuffed with the crude cannabis/tobacco combination for a few francs. Too frightened to explore further, we retreated to our room where we sat acclimatizing ourselves, unnoticed on the iron balcony, smoking kif and drinking mint tea, served by a small boy who looked barely out of diapers.

A few feet below the balcony, a lane seemed pressed into the beaten earth. In open doorways, brown, wrinkled men gathered around burning charcoal braziers, chatting and smoking pipes, wrapped in long hooded cloaks or djellabas, pulled tight against the chill. The guttural murmurs of Arabic penetrated the stillness. A man snored behind a shuttered window. We could hear drifts of a popular song. Shutters banged, and the compelling call to prayer resounded through the narrow streets. A crumbling wall revealed a corner covered in cobwebs, a tree sprouted from a roof, stairways led nowhere. Women were hidden but for their eyes. A man shrouded in a dirty djellaba shuffled along in big yellow shoes. The glow of burning coals illuminated the shadows where men baked round loaves of bread in earthen ovens.

After two days holed up in the damp room, we ventured out and fell into the rhythms of the native quarter, the casbah. The labyrinthine lanes tunneled into the earth, felt oddly welcoming. Pungent odors of human effluence mingled with scents of saffron, mint, and camel dung.

In shops the size of coat closets, leather craftsman tooled bags and wallets of embossed hide and called out, "Mademoiselle, voulez vous quelquechois? Meese, come in. Very nice."

Merchants stood sandwiched between their carpets, hung from poles spilling out into the passageways. Children and chickens ran underfoot. Sooty smoke rose from charcoal braziers where skewers of meat sizzled. Men, mysterious in djellabas, slunk into the shadows and veiled women hurried through doorways into bright courtyards, resonant with the sounds of splashing fountains and cooing pigeons. Flooded with impressions, Jude and I staggered through the unfamiliar landscape with our senses wide open, dazzled by the display, feeling terrifyingly alive. We strolled along a beach strewn with masses of sea scoured teeth, square and blunt.

What do you think they are, horse teeth? asked Jude.

Maybe camel. It’s so weird. There must be thousands here.

You’d never find these back home. Jude stuffed a few teeth in her pockets as souvenirs.

As we hiked the bluff along the sea’s edge, the sky swelled with blue-black clouds, and fat raindrops gathered into a driving rainstorm. Taking shelter in a teashop, we sat at a rough, plank table sipping mint tea as the rain made channels on the steamy windows.

This calls for a toast, I said, clinking my sister’s glass.

To the journey.

To the moment.

To life.

Taking in our surroundings, It’s so comfy, I said. Here we are drinking mint tea in a café in Tangier Morocco.

I know, said Jude. It feels familiar. Maybe it’s the rain. 

If the money would come, I sighed. I’d feel a lot better.

Yeah, it will, Jan. Don’t worry.

A few streets separated the old town from the new, and we seemed to cross centuries in a matter of minutes. Down to our last few franks, we made pests of ourselves at American Express, checking for mail. After four anxiety-filled days, the certified check arrived.

Thank God, I breathed a sigh of relief. Now we can get out of that dump of a pension. And you can get better.

In the damp room, Jude had developed a nagging cough. We moved to the Palace Hotel, still in the old quarter but with hot showers, a less filthy toilet hole, and more sun. Mesmerized by the ever-changing display of an alien and exotic world, Jude and I sat for hours at the Café Central in a square of the casbah, the Soco Chico. We wrote letters and drank countless glasses of sugary mint tea, the whole leaves bright green.

I chewed on my pen, How does this sound?

As we sit drinking mint tea, all life seems to flow by, veiled women, beggars, dwarfs, children in packs, and men in turbans on moth-eaten-camels, donkeys laden with pots, herds of long-horned goats, and shaggy sheep. We climb to the roof, where another layer of life takes place. The earthen buildings scale the hills like a geometric organism with one roof leading to another, a tumult of color and texture—a maze of surfaces. Tangier’s historic center has an organic quality, as if layer upon layer, it has grown up from the North African earth.

I looked at my sister for a response. Too carried away?

Before Jude could answer, a boy with the body of a twelve-year-old and a face of forty approached our table.

My name, Ali, he proclaimed.

I was interested, but Jude was intent on ignoring him.

The boy persisted. Where you are from? Then trying another tactic. Where you are going? he asked.

Jude turned her blue eyes toward him. We are not going anywhere, she said. Where are you going? Then under her breath, away, I hope.

That was all the opening Ali needed. He pulled up a chair and leaned an elbow on the table.

I show you dancing boy, he said.

Dancing boy? I was intrigued. Jude rolled her eyes and sighed.

Don’t worry. I take you— this night. Come here— this place. Also, my friend, Mr. Lance, he is coming. Ali gave us a knowing wink.

Back in the room, we munched on bread and cheese. Jude got out the kif pipe.

Let’s get stoned, she said.

Jude, I don’t want to. Smoking kif makes me not want to go out. I want to see this dancing boy thing. Don’t you?

I’d just as soon stay in.

But Sis, we’re in Tangier, Morocco. We can’t just stay in.

After much persuasion, I routed my sister, and we headed for the Soco Chico.

Which one is Ali? I asked when we got to the café.

Must be him. Jude nodded to the boy, accompanied by what looked to be a compatriot, a tall American kid.

This, my friend. My friend, Mr. Lance, said Ali on a fast approach

Hi, I’m Lance from Berkeley.

My friends, grinned Ali.

Quickening our pace to keep up, we followed Ali and Lance along the winding lanes into the medina until they halted at a doorway, hidden in the shadows.

A bushy beard and turban obscured the doorman’s face. No women, he sneered.

Ali slipped him some francs. With a contemptuous nod, he gestured for us to enter.

The floors in the cave-like room were uneven, the tables rough. Bare electric bulbs glared with a raw light. Embers glowed in a hollow of the earthen wall. Moroccans, some in long brown djellabas, some poured into flashy suits, played cards and checkers. Men lined the walls, watching with hooded, black eyes. Vapors of mint tea, kif, and hashish intermingled. On a low stage, turbaned musicians sat on grass mats and rich carpets, lost in the drum’s pulse and the lament of the lute-like oud. The music quickened when a boy began to move in a graceful, provocative dance. He tossed his head; his flashing, kohl-lined eyes were full of prideful scorn. Offering himself to the devotees who sat at his feet, the boy lingered as they tucked money into the folds of his garment. Feeling like an intruder, I held my breath, casting sidelong glances at the surrounding men, their eyes glistening with desire.

Jude, isn’t this bizarre?

Jude puffed on a kif pipe and sipped mint tea. Yeah, another world.

Lance, a seasoned traveler, affected indifference and drifted off into the smoky room. Later, Ali led us down the twisting passages of the night-deserted medina.

You like this place of dancing? he asked, pressing my hand at the hotel door.

An interesting experience, I said. Thank you, Ali. Goodnight. 

Securing the door behind us, Jude and I scurried up the stairs to the safety of our room. I flung myself down on the narrow bed. Everything is so strange. I feel like we’ve been beamed down to a different planet. I guess we’ll just have to figure it out as we go. In a fog of kif and mint tea, three weeks passed. We had become regulars at the Central Cafe, bringing us to the attention of a local chief. As we sat drinking mint tea, a messenger presented us with an invitation to dine the following evening.

I don’t think we should go, Jan. Jude looked anxious.

Sure, we should. What can happen?

An escort in a gleaming, gold-striped djellaba arrived at the Plaza Hotel. Motioning for us to follow, he led the way to an enclosure of tent-like pavilions near the harbor. We were seated with ceremony at a long table, presided over by a turbaned, white-robed sheik. There were mutual attempts to communicate in French without much success.

Platters of steaming saffron couscous, topped with succulent mutton, arrived. Our wine glasses were filled and refilled. We were offered countless pipes smoldering with hashish. The Hayward sisters were in over our heads as we slumped into a stupor.

Something in the Sheik’s manner alerted me. Maybe it was his hooded eyes sliding to the men watching from the sidelines or his wet, red mouth bulging from the coarse hairs of his black beard. I felt a stab of fear. Jude is usually the wary one. My eyes sought out my sister’s. Oh great, she’s been sucking up the hashish. I guess it’s up to me.

Who is this fruitcake anyway, and what does he want? What about those men loitering nearby, sizing us up? Am I paranoid? Maybe he is being hospitable. My mind raced. I had read about white slavery. My sister and I would end up slaves in a harem. I might survive, but Jude would never make it. I can’t let that happen. If we disappeared, no one would know. Mom would be heartbroken. Like in a nightmare, my body was paralyzed while my mind fought its way through a thick, sticky soup. A gut-gripping fear brought me to my feet.

"Excusez moi, I mumbled and clutching my sister’s arm. I hissed, Sis, we gotta get outa here."

We groped the yielding tent walls, searching for a way out. Dizzy and disoriented, we lurched through the maze-like enclosures,. Are we prisoners, or is this paranoia? Panic gave way to sheer terror; my bowels heaved.

Oh my God, Sister, I have to go to the bathroom.

What? Where? Wait until we get back.

But there was to be no waiting. Desperate and mortified, I crouched behind a curtain where I left a large deposit on the bare ground. It seemed to do the trick. A passage opened, and we ran stumbling toward our hotel.

It was confusing. Were we free to leave all along, or was it because of what I