Introduction
This is the continuing tale of a group of Hippies travelling through Europe and North Africa in the 1970's. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Previous Episodes:
Time Well Waisted : Buying my dream van from Oobahly Kanoope
Time Well Waisted : Loosing Wico and finding Sue
Time Well Waisted : The prequel - It's not easy being a freak.
In this time of the Corona Virus, most people of the world are in lock down. They do not have jobs to go to. They are not being directed what to do with their day other than the directives from the Health Authorities about hand washing and social distancing. They must fill their time in their day using their own initiatives. Thinking of this situation took me back in my thoughts to a by gone winter in the early 70's and the insights of Gus the Hippie.
It was the autumn of 1973, only a short week away from when one could withdraw from my first year university courses and still get my tuition fees refunded. Overtaken by wonderlust the decision was made to cash in my academic chips in return for a one year open airline ticket to Europe for a whopping $187. My travelling funds were a little less than double that. Finding the warmest and cheapest location to bed down for winter was my top priority.
After landing in London and shaking the jet lag out of my hitchin' a ride thumb, with winter on my heels, my travels led me south as straight as a crow could fly while trying to cling to the remaining heat of Europe's late autumn. It was not long before my travels found me sleeping near the border post between Ceuta and Morocco. An Oil Crisis was under way and westerners where not welcome in the Moroccan Kingdom.
Persistence paid off. After successive attempts at entry the custom's agents must have realized that they were dealing with a hippie who had left his politics at home. Finally, with the pounding of their entry stamp striking hard against my passport, the permission was given to enter their lands. With a call of peace, in the name of their God, they opened Morocco and its lovely dirty blonde hash to me.
Morocco seemed to keep that crazy world outside its borders. That world where oil prices mattered. Where Asia would fall to communism, like dominoes, if Vietnam fell. Where The Man would crush you if they found you holding a certain herb. Morocco was a time machine. Walking about the walled city of Fez was a walk through the past.
City of Fez
My forced southern march seemed to have worked into my muscle memory. Even after being granted entry into the Kingdom my journey continued southward at a fairly rapid pace. After a quick tour of the fabled walled city of Fez and a quick stop in Marrakesh and the marvels of its famous square, it was finally only the threat of the desolate sands of the Sahara which brought me to a halt in the sleepy fishing town of Essaouira.
Marrakesh's Square
The term town is used loosely. It may have been incorporated as a city, yet at least at that time it had the feeling of a town about it. The police force consistent of a hand full of officers. The Chief was introduced to me by a hippie chick who dated him. She also introduced me to Carlos who ended up being my landlord while in Essaouira.
Essaouira
Carlos had been in the Guardia Civil. It is the para-military police of Spain, a remnant from Spain's facist past during the reign of their dictator, Francisco Franco. Carlos was connected. He was the one who introduced Essaouira's Police Chief to his hippie girlfriend. He rented rooms in his three story home off Essaouira's medina. It was my luck to find one available one day when visiting a friend who lived there.
Example of Traditional Arab Homes
Carlos' main passion was to get as much of Morocco's wonderful blonde hash as he could to all those peace loving drug smoking hippies of the western world. He would help out in any way he could. He would procure the hash for you. He would package the hash for you in all kinds of inventive ways, from beautifully carved chess boards to the covers of hard bound books. If you did not already have an idea of how to get it home, Carlos would suggest one. If you had never thought of sending hash home Carlos would suggest it. He was a man on a mission, doing his part to keep the counter culture ticking.
Gus and his girlfriend had a room at Carlos' place as well. Gus' goal, for that year, was to make it to Afganistan for his birthday and buy a kilo of hash which was going for about $200 at the time. His plan was to light it on fire in his pup tent and get, possibily, higher than any hippie had been at that time without the aid of LSD.
It became a daily ritual for a group of us from the house to make our way to the beach towards sunset to have our end of the day spliff. It was on one such excursion that Gus first floated his theory. He contended that not everyone could sit on a beach for hours in their day, nor know how to pass their time through music or poetry writing when not on the beach. He figured that the average straight could not handle it. They would go bonkers not knowing what to do with themselves. His contention was that it's not easy being a freak.
It seemed amusing at the time and it became a household catch phrase when in Essaouira, yet in this age of locked down cabin fever and social distancing Gus' words ring truer than ever. It's not easy being a freak.
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