Whilst there are undoubtedly close calls I've had that I never knew about, the one that sticks out most still scares me when I think about it. I should preface this by saying that I had been holidaying for 10 years around the region and had become quite comfortable (but not blase) carrying small amounts of hash or bud on me, sometimes flying in but more often flying out. I learned how to isolate and deal with the prospect of getting busted and played the part of an atypical drug smuggler with practiced ease eg. an older, well dressed, clean-cut, usually business-class passenger with a confident manner and a respectable profession on my immigration card.
Anyhow, I was leaving Casablanca to fly back to the Gulf where I was working, and at the first door into the terminal I had my documents checked by a scruffy-looking little security man. He was unshaven and wearing an baggy brown uniform with a horribly rusted side-arm holstered in the cross-draw position instead of at his side :0 Looked a bit sad in a comical kind of way. He was making small talk as he leafed through my passport, asking me how much I loved Morocco, where I'd been, what food I liked most, all smiling and jolly... then out of left-field the little fucker asked, "You carry hashish?"
For a nano-second I froze! This guy's demeanor suddenly changed and now he was was reading me hard for a sign as my mind flashed uncontrollably to the matchbox-sized block of hash I had tucked down my jocks. All I can think of is that he must have blinked in the time it took me to get my shit together and laugh the question off with a hands raised "Nah, not me, mate." Pregnant pause. Then all happy and cheery again, he waved me through where I cleared check-in and then set off the metal-detector going through security. This never happens as I always check myself thoroughly to avoid drawing attention. I set the fucking thing off twice (for reasons still unknown) and the young-gun on the other side made me stand on a box, arms out and feet spread for a pat-down. I think he was showing-off to his mate who just stood there smoking, watching and chilled. The place was fairly quiet at the time, thank fuck, so I didn't have an audience. That moment of truth was an eternity teetering on the edge of hellfire, but my self-survival processes took over and kept me calm. The young-gun was pretty thorough everywhere else but swerved around my immediate groin area, perhaps out of cultural sensitivity to touching another man's private parts. Who knows? Anyhow, my carry-on passed X-ray so I stepped off the box, we all shrugged, smiled at each other and they waved me through
The postscript is that after that experience I never intentionally smuggled any kind of illicit ever again. I was rattled. Six months after that I gave half a matchbox of hash I scored but couldn't finish in Sri Lanka to a guy I met on the beach, rather than be tempted to fly it on home with me. In reflection I'd say I was kissed on the arse by a fairy in getting away with it for so long, but I didn't let it ever get to my head or brag about it. I never deviated from my routine, always had situational awareness and obviously avoided testing certain airports and border crossings where scrutiny was high. Morocco wasn't one of them and this being my third visit I thought I had it covered. Hah! No such thing! Stay safe.
Anyhow, I was leaving Casablanca to fly back to the Gulf where I was working, and at the first door into the terminal I had my documents checked by a scruffy-looking little security man. He was unshaven and wearing an baggy brown uniform with a horribly rusted side-arm holstered in the cross-draw position instead of at his side :0 Looked a bit sad in a comical kind of way. He was making small talk as he leafed through my passport, asking me how much I loved Morocco, where I'd been, what food I liked most, all smiling and jolly... then out of left-field the little fucker asked, "You carry hashish?"
For a nano-second I froze! This guy's demeanor suddenly changed and now he was was reading me hard for a sign as my mind flashed uncontrollably to the matchbox-sized block of hash I had tucked down my jocks. All I can think of is that he must have blinked in the time it took me to get my shit together and laugh the question off with a hands raised "Nah, not me, mate." Pregnant pause. Then all happy and cheery again, he waved me through where I cleared check-in and then set off the metal-detector going through security. This never happens as I always check myself thoroughly to avoid drawing attention. I set the fucking thing off twice (for reasons still unknown) and the young-gun on the other side made me stand on a box, arms out and feet spread for a pat-down. I think he was showing-off to his mate who just stood there smoking, watching and chilled. The place was fairly quiet at the time, thank fuck, so I didn't have an audience. That moment of truth was an eternity teetering on the edge of hellfire, but my self-survival processes took over and kept me calm. The young-gun was pretty thorough everywhere else but swerved around my immediate groin area, perhaps out of cultural sensitivity to touching another man's private parts. Who knows? Anyhow, my carry-on passed X-ray so I stepped off the box, we all shrugged, smiled at each other and they waved me through
The postscript is that after that experience I never intentionally smuggled any kind of illicit ever again. I was rattled. Six months after that I gave half a matchbox of hash I scored but couldn't finish in Sri Lanka to a guy I met on the beach, rather than be tempted to fly it on home with me. In reflection I'd say I was kissed on the arse by a fairy in getting away with it for so long, but I didn't let it ever get to my head or brag about it. I never deviated from my routine, always had situational awareness and obviously avoided testing certain airports and border crossings where scrutiny was high. Morocco wasn't one of them and this being my third visit I thought I had it covered. Hah! No such thing! Stay safe.
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