November 7, 1996

The waves that reach Morocco's shores are big and frothy. "We live just over there," John said pointing into the Atlantic. "Too bad we have to go the long way around to get there."

The long way around means a lot of road. First up the coast past Casablanca and Rabat, then past a dozen tiny towns that spring up just as the wheels start to gain a little momentum. It means driving onto a ferry in Tangier and driving, driving, driving through Europe. It also means passing Moroccan customs.

In fifteen months of traveling, we've crossed a lot of borders. Not once have we been searched. The border guards all took us for what we are, two travelers off to see the world. But to the Moroccans in Tangier we were something else. We were foreigners, potential smugglers; it was their job to smoke us out.

The search was thorough. Four men got in on the act. They boarded the van, dirty boots dragging across our clean carpeting, each wielding their instruments of the trade - screwdrivers. They banged them on plastic, on glass, on vinyl, on metal. "What are you looking for?" I asked. The reply I got barely scrapped the surface of an answer. "It's our job Ma'am." That's fine, I wanted to say, but could you do it with a little less swing in that wooden handle.

Morocco is tough on drugs. Tangier is apparently a heavy trafficking area and the authorities are determined to uncover the offenders. Last night we were asked to leave our spot on the beach because guards there, who watch for ships that land at night to smuggle, couldn't see the entire coastline with us parked where we were. But for all the trouble they go through on the beach and in inspecting foreign cars at the ferry dock, they seem to overlook the obvious.

When we first got here we passed a huge convoy of cars that had pulled over near a small hill. The dirt was well worn so this was obviously a place that was frequently used. People were frantically removing boxes and packages from the cars and running them over the hill. A few meters beyond we drove past a police checkpoint. The convoy of cars passed too and on the other side of the hill, just out of sight of the policemen, they were reloaded.

Our reloading was going to be monumental. The third of the four custom inspectors had walked to the back of the van with John and instructed him to empty the trunk. "Everything?" "Everything." Meanwhile I was entertaining guard number two, the 'ah-ha' man. He tapped his screwdriver under the back ceiling and then moved over and tapped it again. Now I've got you, his beady-eyed glance said. The secret compartment. Yes, indeed he was a keen one. I reached up - don't make any sudden moves Ma'am, this screw-driver is loaded and pulled. Ta da, a cabinet, cleverly concealed were our backpacks. Try again bud, I thought. There's nothing here.

During all this, I'd momentarily lost track of guard number one. Suddenly he became my focus. He was standing on the running board banging on the high top. "Hey careful," I said. He sensed it was hollow. And hollow can only mean one thing. "What is inside?" he asked me. I didn't know what to say, air, insulation, both.

"Empty this." Guard number three had returned. He pointed to the area above the top bed. I squeezed past the other two men and pulled down our sleeping bag, two Thermarest mattresses (these are hollow too, I thought, I wonder if he knows that), our batik bed sheet (pretty don't you think?) and a Moroccan kilim. Fargo was up there too but I quickly moved him to the cabinet. (How could I explain Fargo to these men. I don't know how Moroccan border guards feel about frog dissection). The kilim was the item that got the glance though. He poked it with his screw driver and ripped off the end of the wrapping paper. He dug deep to the center of the roll. "Mmmm, hmmm," he said.

The van was a mess. The garden hose, stuff sacks, bedding was everywhere. All we needed was another person to squeeze into the van and then no one would be able to move. No sooner thought than done. Guard number four pushed aside our bed sheet and plopped himself on top of the sleeping bag. With one hand he filled out a white paper, with the other he rubbed his nose. He sniffled. He sniffled louder. I looked at him. Does he want a tissue? "Drugs Ma'am, do you have drugs?"

"No of course not, " I told him. "Drugs are bad."

"Yes," he said and thrust his hand into mine in an unexpected handshake, "very bad."

The fourth guard began to speak again but I turned away. "Get out of there," I said. Another of the guards was unzipping my money belt.

"What's in here?" he asked banging on my sunglass case. "Empty this," he demanded. He reached under the seat and held up our bag of soap. He unlocked the emergency medical kit; he emptied our coins from the ash tray; he pulled up the lid to the porta-potti. Perhaps he'd like to take a look inside, I thought. That would end this search in a minute.

There were bangs; there were taps; there were inquiries. Why was their a tear in the vinyl on the door panel, they wanted to know; what was behind it; why was the high-top padded; why was there a built-in box in the cabinet with no opening. I couldn't keep us with them.

"What's left," I said out loud. John had already unscrewed the lid to our water tank for the second time. What more could there be. The food cabinet, yes, of course. That had remained closed. Perhaps they had wanted to save the best for last. It was the 'ah-ha' man who did the honors.

"What is this?" he asked. He held out a ziplock bag of white powder. He had 'ah-ha' written all over his face. Yes, he had caught us. He bounced the bag once and asked again. "What is this?"

"That's milk."

"Milk?" he said. I couldn't tell if he were mocking me or simply repeating a word he didn't know.

"Yes milk," I said. I tipped my thumb to my mouth. "You drink it."

""Hmmm," he mumbled. He gave me one of those sideways looks. The kind that says don't try to fool me lady. I've caught you red-handed. You were trying to conceal a bag of powdered milk from me. "Empty the rest," he said.

I didn't know how I was going to explain our granular TVP to him, or our pulverized muesli, or our quarter kilo of oregano. But he looked past them and didn't say a word.

Eventually the search ended and the guards left. There was nothing to find and I thought perhaps they were more upset than pleased. We left most everything as it was and pulled onto the ferry boat. One horrendously messy van was about to embark to Spain.