Essaouira is an old fortress town along the Atlantic Ocean on the west coast of Morocco approximately 200 miles south of Casablanca. I first visited the place in 1973 while traveling in the company of an Englishman named Rufus Gunn. Rufus had been a recently disbarred barrister and was no longer allowed to practice law in the U.K. He was unabashedly gay and disbarred for being indiscreet about it. Obviously, the times have changed since then. We had met in Marbella and upon discovering a mutual interest in travelling around Morocco we decided to do so in tandem. I’d been there a month earlier and had smoked myself into a blissful oblivion with the local weed. Rufus was interested in pursuing the young men of a rampantly homosexual culture. Being a nephew of Thomas Gunn who, together with Ted Hughes, was a prominent English poet at the time Rufus decided to become an author and write stories about Morocco. Neither of us had much money but, Rufus spoke French & Spanish fluently and that was a big help in ingratiating ourselves with the local population. We were often provided free room and board by the young men that Rufus engaged. Curiously, those young men were in neighborhoods where Arabs (Muslims) and Jews lived amicably together and had been doing so for centuries.

We travelled extensively throughout Morocco for two months while accumulating a panoply of marvelous experiences. No one could have asked for a more considerate and helpful companion than Rufus. Towards the end of our journey we spent several days in Essaouira. The beach along the Atlantic Ocean was both massive and magnificent. I was determined to revisit the place someday. However, it was 30 years before that day dawned.

In 2003 I arrived there once again but, on my own. I stayed for a month in a sea view room at a joint called the Hotel Tafoukt. One evening I found myself sitting between a couple of local lads at the bar in the Hotel des Iles. The hotel is notable for having been Orson Welles’ place of residence when he was in town filming the opening scenes to ‘Othello’. The bar still exuded an old world charm and I’ve always been a sucker for old world charms. The young man on my right was named Mohammad and the one on my left was named…ah, let me think now…oh yeah…the one on my left was named Mohammad. The three of us were drinking scotch and smoking ganja. Both lads spoke English but, the one on the right spoke it best. Within half an hour I was addressing him as ‘Mo’ which is my way of saying that name minus references to the pork and the insanity. Thus, I consider it a compliment and he got a kick out of it.

During a pause in the conversation I said to Mo, “You two guys are Muslims, right?”

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re very well informed for an American.”

“Yeah, well, be that as it may…I was just wondering. I mean, here we are drinking booze and smoking ganja…isn’t that forbidden by Islam?”

“As a matter of fact, yes it is. So?”

“So…well, I mean…you know…”

“Let me explain something to you,” said Mo looking me square in the eyes. “First of all, we’re Moroccans. Second, third, fourth or whatever, we’re Muslims. As proud Moroccans, we do as we wish while not harming others. We’ve had a most enjoyable evening with you. Drinking scotch and smoking ganja has added to that enjoyment. Let’s not spoil it.”

“Fair enough. I’m happy to hear you say that.”

Mo was definitely my kind of Mohammad and our evening together continued until the bar closed.