Date: Wed, 12 May 2010 15:19:18 -0700 (PDT)
From: Aihu Fist <aihufist@yahoo.com>
Subject: Baksheesh in Casablanca

Brussels 29 June 1982

Dear John,

It's almost four months ago since we were last in Marrakech. I can't wait
to write to much longer and I hope that you are well and healthy back in
Jersey. Didn't you say you were only going to stay four or six months in
Morocco? How was Essaouira like? I guess you have done some lovely
sightseeing over there and you must've had your deal in adventure, but if
you didn't so I sure had some.

It took me a while after you left Marrakech to get settled in the crummy
bus: Oh yeah, those boys working on the bus wouldn't hoist my baggage on
the bus unless I gave them a couple of Dirham. I was a 'heavy' trip all the
way to Agadir: I felt very insecure; I was about to travel with only two
hundred Dirham in my pocket! A man from Marrakech advised me not to travel
to Agadir but instead I ought to travel to Rabat and see the Belgian
consul. Then he said:

-You can always sell me your watch for thirty Dirham.

 So I left on my own accord. Once arrived I pitched my tent in pay campsite
which had showers, a shop, and a washing machine: Next morning I set out to
try my luck at portraying the locals and tourists as I needed cash badly. I
did five portraits (Germans, Dutch and English) at fifty Dirham each. I was
about doing a sixth when I felt a hand on my right shoulder. A policeman in
plain clothes arrested me for a reason unclear yet. But I thought it had to
do with my trade here: He asked me what I was doing, I said nothing. When
he looked the other way for just a minute I ripped the price tag from my
drawing board and crumpled it my hand. I was lucky he hadn't noticed
that. I was taken to the police station: In the office my passport was
confiscated and the chief told me to come an pick it up next morning at 10
am. The charges? Working without a work permit and vagrancy. I was worried
and at the campsite everyone who heard my story couldn't believe me. In
fact they really thought I had done something else like blowing a
joint. But you know, I have never touched a joint in my life until I met
you. I will never forget you passed me on that little piece of hash you
called double zero and which I drank with a cup of tea. Most of them were
sympathetic to my distress and told me not to go. The chief had told me to
leave Agadir, but alas I was still around at 3 pm. eating in a restaurant
by the harbour. I was going to leave but since they hadn't given me a time
table I figured the afternoon was still ok. How mistaken could I be when as
on cue I turned my head around and saw the same cop who had arrested me the
day before was sitting there just waiting until I had finished eating, I
guess. He approached my table and told me to get up and ordered me to
quickly pick up my tent and backpack and follow him back to the station.

It was 6 pm when the Belgian consul arrived to see me and broker a deal
with the police. There wasn't much he could do. Like yesterday when I tried
to ask why I had to leave Agadir, the chief told me to shut up and collect
my passport next day. Now annoyed with my protests against the order to
leave Morocco, he snapped I shouldn't say anything or he'd lock me up with
the prostitutes in the cellar. But the Belgian consul said something and so
it was decided I should be deported and escorted by the same police man who
had just found me in the restaurant.

The man didn't seem pleased at all; after all he had to sacrifice his
weekend with his family to travel with me all the way to Casablanca. I was
lucky I wasn't to travel handcuffed, I thought. I thought he was a nice
guy, not talkative but when we arrived in Casablanca he carried my backpack
for which I thanked him. He said: don't you thank me before you know who I
am. The station here was quite different and much bigger than in
Agadir. The chief here sat me down and told me not to worry. Those people
in the south have made a mistake, maybe the chief was drunk he said. I
realized when I put my hand in my jeans pocket I had still a piece of
double zero which I never used and had forgotten about. Oh, my god, I
though. I got to get rid of it. So before I was walked down the stairs to
the basement I asked for the loo and I flushed it away. Surely it wasn't
worth keeping that on me after I was never going to use it anymore? The
rollercoaster I had been on in Marrakech. That one cup of tea I had with
you and I wanted to dissolve it in the tea. I basically had drunk it like
that and next thing I remember was that I was laughing hysterically and
followed by thoughtful and depressing moments. You know when I left you and
thought I was going to change my torn jeans at the Djemaa el Fnaa market?
Nothing worked out, I still had my jeans on but they had sold me a pair of
Arabian trousers, with a crotch so low that it hung between my
knees. Hilarious, it was as if they were made for men with horse dicks. But
I am digressing. I was taken to a basement where the cells were. I was
going to spend some time in there, but even the chief didn't tell me for
how long. He just said that I'd soon out on my way. Then I was searched by
the guard downstairs. He put his hands in my pockets, my heart skipped a
beat. I had been so wise to listen to my intuition just a few minutes
earlier. The man looked teasingly at me, lingered with his hand near my
private parts and touched them briefly. He winked at me, pulled out his
hand and pushed me through a door at the foot of the staircase. He found my
instamatic camera in my backpack and laughed at me about it. What was the
big deal I thought? I wasn't rich and only 23 years old. What was I
supposed to have that would gain his respect?

Then the door of the cell swung open and he pushed me inside. I quickly
counted the number of cells next to mine: there were five more. Inside mine
it was dark, our door had only a small window not bigger than my hand. Here
I was sharing a cell with seven other young kids, me being the only white
one. I thought I had a nice suntan where in reality my skin looked still as
whit as milk next to a Maghrebine one. My thoughts ran wild now that I knew
I was locked up here. Only two weeks ago I was still in Spain in
Torremolinos, scetching tourists for money, enough to feed me. My brother
who had dropped me off in Taragona (North eastern Spanish Province of Costa
Blanca) to pick me up much later he had promised. But I didn't want to go
back to Belgium that fast. I still had some money left after 3 weeks in
Peniscola, a tourist resort and so I had hitched hikes all the way down to
Valencia, Grenada, Guadix, Malaga, Torremolinos, Marbella, Puerto Banuz,
Algeciras and down to Morocco. I had just followed my instinct, drawn by
posters in travel agencies luring tourists to Morocco. I had grown tired of
Torremolinos and the fat ugly tourists flaunting their beer addiction,
besides the tourist season was over now for artists to do portraits. I
should have listen to an artist I knew, though, how said that I could make
money on the Canary Islands with Scandinavian tourists who poured in around
October. But the desire for adventure and North Africa fit the bill. The
guard looked through the small window and asked me:

-Ça va?

I nodded and leaned my head against the wall. That's when I noticed the
plastic bag with loaves of bread. I turned my head and asked the other
boys:

-How long have you been here?

We don't know, they answered, some days maybe a week, we don't know.

-Who are you and what are you in for, the same boy who had answered asked
me.

-Making portraits, I answered.

He smiled.

I didn't smile back; I had been some horrible time, more than I could chew
already. And every time I gave them the honest answer no one believed me.

-You like hash? Another one asked me.

-No, I lied.

I had come to like it after my escapade in Marrakech, but I wasn't to tell
anyone or even admit, now that I was here in custody with no idea of what
was going to happen to me. I yelled for the guard but I only heard
laughter. I was here since early morning and since I had first spoken to
the chief I hadn't been seen by anyone. In the cell with strangers equally
apprehensive and hostile to any newcomer; I felt cold, as I was only
wearing a very thin short sleeve shirt, a pair of jeans and Spanish leather
boots, which were two sizes too big for me.  It was crowded in here
already.

After the small talk of where-are-you-from? and what do you do and my name
it remained somewhat silent, until we heard harsh shouting and cries
emanating from our corridor. I couldn't see anything through the little
window, but it definitely came from our floor. It sounded like somebody
being lashed or whipped followed by wailing. The boys, seven in all pushed
me aside and wanted to look too. But no one saw anything.

It must be girls picked up from the street.

-Do you think so, I asked in my best French.

-Yes, there is a curfew out in Casablanca. No minor is allowed in the
streets after 8 pm. That's why we got picked up by the cops. The cops
presume that we sell heroin or marihuana. But it is just repression. The
people are starving and are coming out in the streets nearly every day
protesting against the high prices of food. But the cops pick on the small
fish like us.

-Girls, a voice said, though I couldn't see who.

Imagine having one here with us, a nice virgin, how we'd enjoy it. Smooth
skin and a nice pussy to get into.

You have a girlfriend? Another voice called.

I tried to adjust my eyes, but not much came of it, I still couldn't see to
clearly all the faces that were here with me. I was feeling fainter by the
hour, the stale air and the smell of urine and defecation got to me. Yes,
they wouldn't let us out to go to the loo. The guard seemed to have
vanished into thin air.

-No, no, not yet.

-Not yet? The voice echoed. I thought in Europe it is quite common to have
sex with a girl before marriage.

You must be lying, a darker voice continued. I am sure you are lying about
everything, including about the use of drugs.

There was something very eerie about this interrogation, something told me
that I was here on my own and not with people I could trust.

I turned around facing the loaves and tried to ignore all of them, my heart
beating faster. Behind my back something unintelligible for me was being
said, followed by whispers and snickering.

I should never have turned my back, it was just a sign of weakness, I
guess.

The next moment I felt a hand over my mouth, one, around my chest locking
my arms, two around my waist and two around my ankles.

It all went very fast. Too hard to describe in hindsight what happened
first, but someone unbuttoned my Levis, tore them down below my knees,
while the hand still prevented me from screaming loudly, though I tried. My
y fronts came down as well. I had no idea what this was all about until the
one sealing my mouth punched me in my stomach, still keeping his hand on my
mouth. I buckled because of the pain. I gasped for air and was about to
fall on my knees, but somehow they forced to remain on my feet.

I felt hands everywhere on my skin and lots of more excited whispers.



-if you say anything now or after, you are dead, the darkest voice said.

I said nothing, I just nodded. I had some inkling about what they were on
about.

-Here take this chunk of hard bread in your mouth and hold it with both
hands.

-Why?

-Just do it!

-But I am not hungry!

-We are, stupid, another voice whispered.

I did what I was told and remained pinned against the corner. My torso
being kept down and fingers messing about my anus on and off, rubbing it,
making it wet.

-Allez-y Ben, ne traine pas, le guarde peut venir, vite (Come on, move your
butt, the warden can be here any time son).

I had no way to move, I craned my neck backward, my chin against the wall,
my back arched now. The guy who held me close to his body, and I heard him
spit some phlegm. Next thing I felt a very hard penis head entering
forcefully my body. The pain was excruciating as he pushed ever so hard. I
bit through the stone hard bread, while he kept moving in and out, tears
welling up and rolling over my cheeks. I had tried hard to avoid this in
Spain, when several older men and peers had wanted to fuck me. My thoughts
filed through my brain like a chain of carriages while the stranger kept
screwing me. I came to the point, believe it or not, where I gave up
resisting; it would only hurt me more. When he released his load in me I
became less tense, but the tears kept on rolling from my eyes. He pulled
out and spoke an Arab word to his friends.

-Zid, he said. Having said that, someone pulled my legs back and another,
or was it the one who had just raped me, pressed my torso down to a 45
degree angle. I held my hands on the wall for support. Once more, I felt
the tip of a circumcised penis brushing against my arse hole, wet with
saliva. I tightened up in fear, clenched my teeth for the coming move. The
guy moved in while holding my waist. He nearly tore me apart, as he was
much bigger and rougher. The other guys enjoyed it because I heard them
giggle; although I didn't understand a word I knew they were encouraging
him. Not one was interested in touching my penis or caressing me, I was
just a fuck machine, a doll in which they could release their pent up
desire and semen. The guy reached an orgasm so fast and then pulled away
from me without any word to me. My arse hurt like hell, but I was given no
respite, they all had a go at me, five I believe. When their party was over
I hurriedly pulled my jeans and briefs up and dried my eyes. There was an
awful long silence and then someone told me in French: On your knees.

I knew I had no choice whatsoever to refuse, so I did just that.

-Ouvre ta bouche (open your mouth), a voice I hadn't heard yet, ordered.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could, so he could insert his cock in it. He
covered my whole head with his djelabah. His ball sac hanging over my chin,
he slid the fat cock in and out while sighing oohs and aaahs. I had never
sucked anyone in my life, although I must admit that at times I had dreamed
or fantasized about it. He didn't like the gagging effects I produced and
pulled out a couple of times to reprimand me about it. He never ejaculated
and swapped with another mate who came in my mouth in seconds. They were
all horny animals, who had barely emptied their balls and stood ready to
come again. I don't know how long it lasted, but after this they left me
alone like a bag of dirt in the corner. God knows how long before the door
opened up and the guard showed me his toothless smile.

Follow me, he ordered.

Up the stairs back to where I had been in the morning. I took a seat and
looked into the eyes of another face, another police chief. Next to me sat
the Belgian consul, another one too. Before I could even utter a word, the
chief ranted in an authoritative voice that he was a connoisseur of
Europeans. They all came to Morocco to consume drugs and he would prove I
wasn't any different, he said.

The consul tried to throw in a word on my behalf but he was told to shut
up. Like that. You have no experience, the chief said to him.

I asked the consul in my Dutch tongue to tell him there were elections in
Belgium and I needed to vote at the embassy. But that also didn't help me.

-No, the chief said, he has to leave Morocco. We will arrange a flight
straight to Belgium.

Now first I didn't want to go back that soon to Belgium and second there
was no way I would let my mum pay for a repatriation journey. I had a
luminous idea.

-Look, I said, I have family in Spain; my passport can prove that as it was
issued in Malaga.

It seemed to impress the chief, but he remained as stoic and aggressive as
ever. It was about 1 pm and the consul told me not to worry too much. I was
taken back to my cell, at least I thought so.

At the foot of the stairs I was in for a shock, a warden stood there with
his belt and a few young teenage girls lying on the floor. He was whipping
them, but stopped abruptly when he saw me.

The warden who led me, urged me to move forward. The man with the whip
winked at him and opened the last cell door in the corridor. I was going to
have my own cell, I realized. Why, and for how long?

-A tout a l'heure, the other warden said, and locked me up. The warden with
the whip resumed his job, and for half an hour I heard the girls
wailing. Then he left. Not a sound was heard anymore for maybe an
hour. Perhaps they had gone to have lunch or so. I was hungry too and
worried about my fate. I crouched and tried to forget where I was. That was
not long before a heard the clonking of the keys, somebody opened up the
door. I rose to my feet instinctively and stared into the light that
entered my cell. The man with the whip stood there with a broad smile on
his face. He looked real intense at me, a tall man in his thirties, well
built and muscled. He took off his cap and threw it on the floor, his black
hair tousled, and shiny with sweat.

-You boy, will never see your country again, he spoke in French.

-The consul will come and get me out of here, I retorted.

-Wishful thinking, the chief decides and right now in Morocco we have many
government problems. So many boys like you end up in our prisons because
they have been naughty. How old are you' Eighteen (I looked way younger
than my age and I was short, very short in comparison with him, it's in the
family's genes)?

I touched my upper lip unwittingly?hoping to find some hairs that would
prove my manhood.

-Yes, he said, no mustache, and no beard. I like roumis like you. He stood
in front of me now.

-I will shout if you touch me, I said.

-Will you? There's no one here but me and my colleague will take over from
me in an hour. The chief has already decided what to do with you and
doesn't care about your little country.

He laid his index finger over my upper lip and stroked the soft down above
it. He continued with his hand open over my cheeks and then cupped my chin.

-So sweet, a boy you are, he whispered.

He turned his back to me, walked to the door and locked us both in.

-Take off your clothes, he ordered.

-No way, I said.

-You know I have quite some influence over some matters, including
yours. The chief and I have a good understanding when it comes to boys like
you. Have you ever heard of paying baksheesh?

-Hashish?

-No baksheesh, he repeated and rubbed his thumb and index finger.

-No, I said.

-Well, baksheesh is what means mud in Arabic; we pay baksheesh for thing to
go faster or smoother. No shame, just customs, everyone earns something and
everyone is happy.

-I have no money, and you know it, I retorted, picking up on his hinting at
paying him for a service to get me out of here.

-You have no money, but that's no problem, is there? A boy like you has
other assets we appreciate here. I heard your cellmates were quite relieved
with your baksheesh, didn't they?

I let my head hang. He knew?

-You understand what I am saying?

I nodded.

-At last. Now take those clothes off and let me look at you.

I slowly kicked off my boots, rolled my jeans over my feet and peeled off
my white briefs and my shirt.

-What a boy, what a boy, he sighed as he moved toward me. I stood in the
corner getting goose bumps allover while he felt me up. His hands cupped
both my buttocks, squeezing them as if he was busy making bread out of
them.

-Take my zob, he said.

He guided my hand to his unzipped fly where I found a hard cock waiting to
be released.

-Sit on your knees and suck it hard, he hissed.

The big head invaded my mouth with accelerating thrusts I could barely cope
with.

-Faster you dog.

He must have been very randy because he couldn't wait too long to squirt
his copious strings of sperm over my body.

-That will do, for now, you wait here and don't you dare to get dressed.

He left in a hurry looking at his watch. I was getting cold and put some of
my clothes on, my short sleeved shirt and my briefs. Minutes seemed to last
hours, I dozed off, but woke up brutally when the cell door swung open
again.

It wasn't the man with the whip but the warden who had brought me down to
the cell. He was a very skinny one in his forties, with an unshaven
face. His black eyes shone with lust. He banged the door behind him and
said:

-I come to collect my baksheesh for taking so good care of you. We all owe
it to the boss for having boys like you to feast on. It keeps him and us
happy here. These are rough times in morocco and you were in the wrong
place at the wrong time, little roumi. The Arabic phone goes fast here, as
you may have guessed. So what can you do for me?

-Nothing, I barked. I already paid my due to your colleague.

-That's too bad, because everyone here earns baksheesh; do they call it
tips in your country?

-I am a little older than my colleague but I still fancy a nice little ass
like yours, what do you reckon?

He didn't take long before he fondled me by my balls.

-You are so gorgeous, Allah is my witness, if I know that in paradise boys
like will await me I will go a dozen times on a pilgrimage to Mecca.

He undid his trousers belt got his small cock out and pushed up my arse
pushing it between my legs, rubbing the fabric of my briefs. Holding my
hips he pushed deeper and came to a grinding halt. He whisked my briefs
below my bottom and started again. I felt the warm sticky pre-cum from his
hard gland.

-I want your hole so much, be good and I will do a word for you, ok?

I nodded once more and to make it easier on him and me I relaxed and parted
my buttocks for him to come inside. He had moistened his penis and my
arsehole. He smoothly made purchase of my rectum while licking my
ears. When he contracted his thighs for a first release he bit me in my
neck. Was I a prostitute now, a whore or had I accepted to enjoy this
lovemaking because I had started liking it? My thoughts ran amok between
guilt, shame and ecstasy. I didn't realise until I heard the door bang
again that he had actually gone away.

It must have been around 3 pm when the clinking clanking sound of rambling
keys got me on my feet again.

The person who walked in was the Chief inspector himself.

-Hello young man, I see and hear that you have had company. It was reported
that you have behaved and that you have been very cooperative; is that
true?

I didn't know what he was hinting at, hopefully my good behavior in the
cell and not the stuff the wardens had me forced to endure.

-Yes, sir I have.

-Unfortunately, your case is a very sad one, one of drug abuse and I
already told your consul that I cannot let you go.

-But sir?I panicked.

This could not be true.

-Now don't interrupt me here. I am the one who decides what to do with
you. My men were told to keep an eye on you and they did. There is always a
chance that the judge let's you go, but he will listen to my word first.

What will become of a young man like yours in our jails, have you any idea?

-No, I lied.

-Well, our jails are full with youngsters like you, drug addicts, petty
criminals, but also with murderers, pimps, prostitutes?

He paused here, scanning me from top to toe.

-May I ask, why you are sitting in your underwear?

-The warden told me so.

-And what for if I may ask so?

The tone of his voice implying he knew some things.

-I don't know, sir, I just did so, I followed orders.

-Good boy. Now I understand what they said about you being so cooperative.

He knocked on the door and the whip warden appeared.

The chief took off his blazer and gave to him.

The door closed again without a word being said between them.

-Turn around young man, slowly.

I was puzzled, but obeyed.

He was really a strong man the way he stood there with his feet wide spread
and firmly planted on to the ground, arms crossed.

-I am so glad you have fallen into my hands, your were god sent, boy. Come
here, he beckoned. Don't be afraid, I am a good man, although at times, in
the office, I do bark at people.

I hesitatingly walked over in to his welcoming arms. He embraced me and
held me tight against his chest, nearly suffocating me. He rubbed his nose
in my hair and took a deep breath.

-However, you are in custody for an offence.

His hands, now descending over my naked back, as if he were counting my
vertebrae.

-Beautiful lads like you have a purpose in this life.

My head spun, I couldn't believe that a police officer was actually hugging
me and lewdly stroking my back.

-You know what I mean? I mean, look at you, a boy with looks like a girl,
smooth skin, at your age? What was Allah's purpose other than to serve your
brothers in need of a good spouse. But what if you don't have or find one,
like me, who spends his time being lonely every evening?

Then a young stud like you walks in to my office and you expect me to let
you go like that?

He tut-tuted and clicked his tongue.

How would you feel about helping me out so that I can help you?

-You mean baksheesh, sir?

-Yes, something like that. All the boys pay baksheesh for good treatment
and food here, haven't they told you? I heard you paid my men, and although
I think my men are paid well by Moroccan standards, I think they deserved
some extras, sometime. But of course the cherry on the pie is always for
me.

As he said that, he grabbed my bottom with his big hairy hand.

-What do you say?

-But your men?

-What about them?

-They already?

I stopped myself right there, I was going to say that one of them already
had taken my cherry, but that would maybe upset him as he believed I had
been kept virgin for him. So, surely he didn't even know about what
happened to me in the first cell.

-Nothing sir.

That's what he wanted to hear.

He unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his fly and peeled his trousers way down
to his knees.

-I know roumis do a good job when they are told too, so take good care of
him, he said pointing at his erect penis.

With both hands I pulled the towering thing between my lips and coursed my
head up and down. It was so fat and long that I had trouble not gagging
from the beginning. When it was more that he could take, he stopped me
right there and pulled me up by my chin with one hand.

-You did so well, roumi, I wish I could keep you here a few days more, but
the consul said I couldn't. He loves boys too you know, but only our
ones. You see I look the other way, we all know he bangs poor Moroccan boys
and he knows we bang boys like you. He scratches my back and scratch his,
you see? So, he will only get you out of here when I say so.

Without a word he undressed me and maneuvered me like the others into a
corner.

-This may hurt a little, but remember, it will be your best souvenir from
Morocco, he said.

He aimed well, I however, clenched my teeth and prayed he had it over and
done with the sooner the better.

He left me with the promise of imminent freedom. It was 7 pm when a young
employee from the embassy collected me at the police station. I complained
to the consul about the lack of power and the uncertainty of nationals in
custody.

-There is nothing we can do, he said, if we help you, and then the next
arrestee will face worse treatment. This is a dictatorship, he added and we
as diplomats have to be careful.

My passport had a stamp of deportation; it read that I was not allowed to
come back to Morocco for the next decade. I had paid a high price for my
freedom. I wondered if the consul really knew what I had endured. When we
were alone in his office, he said that if it were any consolation or help
to me, I could always spend the night at his residency. The look in his
deep blue eyes didn't really convince me he didn't. I opted for another
guest house. I would travel first thing in the morning.

When I arrived in Ceuta I swear I could have embraced the Spanish soil. My
mother did not find out about it until I arrived in Belgium, having
hitchhiked all the way to Ghent, with my last hundred Belgian Francs (3
Euros), with which I bought a cone of French Fries and a train ticket home.



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