Forty-eight Hours

I’m at the border of Ceuta, a seaport enclave at the tip of Morocco, governed by Spain.

In a beguiling move, Moroccan Immigration has denied this writer a “new” entry visa.

It marks the second trip in 24 hours to Ceuta, across from the Moroccan border town of Tétouan.

My document is complete and current. A mere two days old. So, what’s the fuss?

On a scuba dive group tour I had set out with my buddies on free time. While others opted for Gibralta, Fouad, our guide, leads the rest of us by bus from our hotel in Mdiq to Ceuta.

It’s my call. I’m interested in a sidebar piece about a network of virtually untouchable old Berber women who live in fancy homes in the mountains. They live large by smuggling electronic goods, alcohol and tobacco out of Ceuta.

Camels in human form, they lug overweight contraband lashed to their backs — under the very noses of border patrols — up the foothills of Tétouan, and across the mountains to drop-off zones.

Once in Ceuta, I’m deep into the dope with a few sources when Fouad cuts in and cuts short the side trip. My nosing around must have pricked a nerve, for having breezed through the Ceutan side of the plaza-like border, we run into trouble at the Moroccan end.