Morocco: Coming to America

He had a bottle of water. He was about to leave his country for the rest of his life and he had one bottle of water in a dirty backpack.

The Moroccan "police" drag him down the car ramp to the dock. They claimed they were police but who the fuck knows. Everybody's police. I had to bribe two sets of "police" just to be able to go into town. My smart ass "sea-partner" refused to bribe the police, he also gave them dirty looks and cursed at them, he hates cops. Here, and in America. He's a rebel.

This is not America, I have no interest in shitting in the same place I shower, while I spend the rest of my life in a Moroccan prison, my mother sitting at home crying every night. No thanks.

I digress.

The "police" drag the would-be stowaway down the car ramp to the dock. I am on "ramp duty", I have no choice but to watch what is about to happen. They don't use their sub-machine guns. Thank God. I wouldn't have been suprised if they had. They opt instead for their night-sticks. I watch as they beat this man bloody. This man, who only wanted to come to America. That was his crime. Two of the police drag him to their car and drive away. The third police officer who is on security duty comes over to talk to me.

"What is going to happen to him," I ask.

"He will go to jail, maybe one month..." says the cop, then, after a long pause, "listen my friend, you want to buy some hashish, very cheap."

Always with the hashish.

I look at the cop and then I look up the at the gangway, the Bosun, a big Harley-Davidson looking mother-fucker is coming towards me, probably to make sure there isn't any trouble. I'm glad, I may need him.

"Go fuck yourself," I say to the cop.


MOVIE LINE OF THE DAY:
"I haven't felt this good since I overthrew the government of Chile." -The Man With One Red Shoe

Morocco: Stowaway Search

Ah stowaway searches...not quite as romantic as it might sound.

I like to say that I didn't know what being American truly was until I went abroad. They don't do stowaway searches in America. There's no need. Nobody is trying to escape. Of course, since 9/11 they do other kinds of searches on ships. But nobody is worried that someone is going to sneak on board to start anew in...Haiti.

So there I am, in the forward hold, alone, a flashlight in one hand, in the other my knife. Most ships, they send their crew in teams to go through each hold. Not my ship, the Captain likes to cut corners.

I look around, there are plenty of fucking places to hide. If I wanted to hide, I could definitely stay hidden. No problem. The shadows play tricks on your eyes, you see movement where there is none.

I stick my flashlight in a giant exhaust fan.

"If you're there," I think to myself, "just don't let me see you, I don't care, really, I just don't want to get knifed because you see me as a threat."

"Hey Cadet," the radio on my belt crackles, it's the Bosun calling, "get up here when your done, the Chief found a stowaway."


MOVIE LINE OF THE DAY:
"I'm gonna go take a celebration piss." -Rain Man

Morocco: Cargo Operations

Morocco. 1998.

It's 3am. I've been up for over 48 hours. I enter the galley of the ship and pour myself a large cup of coffee, no sugar, no milk, a couple of ice cubes and down the hatch in two swallows. I'm starting to hallucinate, I've been up so long.

I go out on the spar deck, it's supposed to be clear of cargo by now but nobody seems to be working. In between two containers I spot the problem. Three locals sitting and shooting the shit, hashish juice dribbling off their chins.

"Hello my friend," one says when they see me, "you are from America yes?"

"Yeah," I say, "you guys taking a break?"

"Where in America you from my friend," one of them asks, ignoring the fact that they aren't working.

"New York City," I say, knowing that this is the only acceptable answer. They would no more know Miami, Florida than I would know Jorf Lasfar, Morocco. The fact that I am from NYC excites them very much. They offer snipits of things they know about NYC. Times Square, Empire State Building, Twin Towers, Mickey Mouse.

"You want some hashish my friend?" one asks me. Always with the fucking hashish.

"No, thank you," I say, in my mind images from the movie Midnight Express flash by.

Riddle: How does a 19 year old cadet get three stoned Moroccans to get back to work at 3am?

I pull out a pack of Marlboro Reds. They cost a dollar a pack on board the ship but to these men I might as well be holding gold. I give them the pack and light their cigarettes.

"How about we finish off this deck, huh?" I ask.

"No problem my friend, no problem, thank you, thank you," they say.
I hear a crash down below, sounds like a forklift hit the hull.

"Fuck," I think to myself, "this is college."

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MOVIE LINE OF THE DAY:

"Well, you call those useless, yerk-toting, frisbee-chucking cheeba-monkeys and you tell them you're gonna be an hour late." -P.C.U.