Hell to Heaven: Our Days in Morocco: a True Story

By Fred Zola and Terry Barlow

The first four chapters are a memoir of my days in Morocco 1972-1973.

I was a Hippie smoking hashish and taking LSD regularly. This led to a psychotic breakdown. Moroccan authorities placed me in a prison for the insane in Tangier.
I was rescued by British Christian Missionaries. I recovered in a facility, Hope House, operated by YWAM, Youth With A Mission, who saved my life and brought me to Christianity.

My co-author Terry Barlow lived in Hope House at the same time.Chapter 5 of our book is a series of essays by Terry of his memories of those days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669828419

Fred Zola

Terrence Barlow Terry Barlow resides by a small lake in Cary, North Carolina with Leslyn, his lovely wife, a retired nurse, to whom he has been happily married for the past 36 years. Terry has authored 10 books, including children's books, done radio broadcasting, and traveled to more than 40 countries, mostly as a short term missionary. He has taught in Spain, China and Honduras and conducted basketball clinics in Latin America and Africa. Currently he is serving as a Civil Air Patrol chaplain for several composite squadrons in eastern North Carolina and mentoring character development instructors and younger believers. He leads small worship services and Bible studies in the Raleigh area, and speaks at retirement centers accompanied by Leslyn, playing and singing gospel music there and around the community in English and Spanish with his guitar, auto harp and flute. Terry enjoys teaching the adult Sunday school class (where Leslyn is his most faithful student) at Reedy Creek Baptist Church, going for walks with his wife, and providing transportation for their three delightful grandchildren who live in the immediate area, as needed. Fred Zola Fred Zola lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife of 44 years, Nieves. They have a son and daughter and four grandsons living nearby. Fred was born in Chicago. He graduated from the Northwestern University School of Business with a degree in Marketing. He played on the Northwestern Golf team and continues to play golf to this day. He built a career in the eyeglass frame industry. His wife, son, daughter, and sister are also in the optical business. Fred was President of Congregation B’nai Israel for six years and served on the Board of Directors of the Synagogue for over 20 years. He taught Sunday School and regularly delivered the D’var Torah (sermon) at Sabbath Services.

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Copyright © 2022 by Fred Zola & Terry Barlow.

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Rev. date: 06/07/2022

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Descent into Hell

Chapter 2 Living in Hell

Chapter 3 Ascent to Heaven

Chapter 4 Living in Heaven

Chapter 5 Terry Barlow Highlights

CHAPTER 1

Descent into Hell

Ye who enter, abandon all hope.

—Dante’s Inferno

I stood next to the narrow two-lane coastal highway near my home in the small village of Khemis Sahel, where I had been living for over a year. I planned to hitchhike north the fifty-kilometer ride to Tangier and then proceed to El Majaz, a town on the Mediterranean that is between Tangier and Ceuta, to complete my hashish deal and pick up a puppy. I was getting the dog from a litter raised by Todd and Michelle, hippie friends I had met on the beaches of southern Morocco.

I looked for oncoming cars, but as usual, there was not much traffic, so my mind drifted. I thought my long hair and full beard made me a physical embodiment of the Hermit, just as it had been predicted in the tarot reading in Spain a year earlier. The Hermit card symbolizes one getting closer to the completion of the spiritual journey and the achievement of enlightenment. After three months of living alone, studying, and practicing Tibetan Buddhism and hatha yoga, I had transformed myself mentally as well as physically.

However, the Hermit was just one part of my persona—something that my hippie outfit of red- and blue-striped bell-bottoms and suede fringed vest, along with the hashish in my pack, made clear. At least the long beard fits both personas, I joked to myself as I waited for a ride in the sun.

After four hours, my spirit was buoyed when I saw an old van approaching. The van rumbled to a stop on the side of the road. I sprinted over and smelled the hashish smoke coming from inside it. The singing of the Rolling Stones welcomed me: Catch your dreams before they slip away. Lose your dreams, and you will lose your mind. I cheered inwardly. Hippies.

Hop aboard, mate, the man, who was obviously Australian, said. Going to Tangier?

Drop me just outside at the crossroads for the road to El Majaz, I replied.

It took me a moment to get used to the dark interior as the van had no side windows and a curtain over the rear window. When my vision adjusted, I saw two young women seated on cushions. The smell of patchouli mixed with hash zapped me back to my San Francisco days in Haight-Ashbury. One said I’m Sarah, and this is Ann while lighting a fat joint, and then she took a deep puff before handing it to me. I took a hit before saying, I can dig it. I passed it to Ann.

After taking a hit of the joint, Ann asked me, Where ya headed?

To get a puppy from friends. Their purebred just had nine puppies, and I have the pick of the litter. I want a watchdog, and my pup will grow to sixty pounds, I said. "I’ve already named her—Victorious Champion. The owners insist that my dog’s name begins with the letter V. Because she is a purebred, each generation’s names must be in alphabetical order."

In Australia, a purebred would go for big money, Sarah chimed in.

I’m paying with a chunk of hash, I said. I thought, Hash is better than money.

A voice from the cab said, I see a fork in the road ahead, and this shook me out of my fantasies.

I need to get out just before you enter Tangier. I’m going to El Majaz, I said, trying to look out the front window to see where I was. It’s not too far ahead.

Five minutes later, I was stoned and standing on the side of the road. There were several cafés at the crossroads. Wanting to get oriented, I walked over to one and sat down at a table. I lingered over my café au lait without the energy to move. My mind drifted to the time when I was packing for the trip. I thought about how I had wrapped a hundred-gram square of hash in a green tie-dyed cloth tied with twine. I put the hash at the bottom of my pack along with a few changes of clothes. I took special care with my boots of Spanish leather, which were part of my hippie ensemble. I polished the boots so they shined like the ocean on a sunny day. I put a white sweat sock over each boot to protect the shine.

Leaving the café in the early evening, I hoisted my pack. I was the only foreigner in this rough crossroads area. I knew that after nightfall, I would be more vulnerable. I was becoming concerned when in the fading light, a dented old truck came barreling down the road, spewing dust and smoke in its wake. After reaching me, it crept to a stop. The truck sagged as loud clinking and clanking noises escaped its engine—as if it was stopping to catch its own breath. I saw the driver and a Moroccan passenger in the cab. There were several Moroccans seated on benches on the two sides in the back of the truck. The driver said, Entra ven aqui.

As I got into the cab, I was surprised to see that a third man was on the floor—under the dashboard. I rested my feet lightly on top of the man, but neither the driver nor the other man seated in the cab gave any indication that this arrangement required explanation. The cab reeked of the smell of unwashed bodies, which overwhelmed me at first. I started to gag, but I never considered getting out.

The driver pulled out while saying, El Majaz?

I replied, Si, and then the truck moved ahead without further conversation.

We moved slowly on the curved road, and as night fell, the starlight made the surrounding rough, rocky countryside appear to be full of shadows. There was a half-moon, which was occasionally covered by the clouds. Wind blowing through the open side window hit my face and made me a bit less stoned. I began to relax.

Assassination of the King

As the truck rounded a bend, I saw a roll of barbed wire blocking the road and heavily armed soldiers standing beside it, their automatic rifles pointed directly at the cab. The driver slammed on the brakes and came to a stop as soldiers came forward from all sides. The man hiding under the dashboard pushed his way out of the cab and ran off as soon as the truck slowed down. I feared the soldiers would open fire, but they didn’t see him race into the darkness.

Two groups of soldiers were holding flashlights and shouting harsh orders in Arabic while waving their rifles. They ordered everyone out of the truck. We were lined up along the side of the road with the machine gun of a nearby jeep pointed at us.

A tall man in an officer’s uniform walked down the line with an angry expression. He stopped in front of each person and, with his face a foot from their face, screamed in Arabic while two soldiers pointed their rifles at us. He came to me and stopped and, with haughty disdain, shouted, Pasaporte! Papeles! And then he held out his hand. I reached inside my backpack and, with shaking hands, took out my passport before saying meekly, American. At that moment, soldiers grabbed one of the Moroccans from the line and, at gunpoint, forced him to go behind the parked military trucks.

The officer began to walk toward where the frightened man had been dragged to. He called two other soldiers forward and pointed to me, indicating by his gestures and rapid Arabic commands that they should go through my backpack. I was scared, and my knees began to knock. I thought about the hundred-gram chunk of hash at the bottom of my pack.

One soldier opened my backpack and began to remove the contents for inspection. First, he took out a book, an extra shirt, a pair of pants, and my toothbrush and soap, looking over each item carefully. Next, he pulled out my Spanish leather boots, which were covered by the white cotton gym socks. He started laughing hysterically and then called over the other soldiers. He held up the boots, and they doubled over laughing—as if socks outside of boots were the funniest things they had ever seen. After holding up the boots again, the soldier threw them toward the backpack and waved me forward without looking further. I walked slowly to the group that had passed the inspection with my heart pounding.

The soldiers took their time, completing their searches and interrogations. I waited for what seemed like hours, still scared that I would