Tangier, Morocco, North Africa, 1972, prison for the insane, life sentence.

While buying hashish, the Moroccan dealers would say, "Hash makes you crazy." We hippies knew better and laughed. For two years, I smoked hash every day and dropped acid on holidays. Some of those holidays were made up, so I had an excuse to drop more acid.

I lived on the "hash trail" that began in Amsterdam and ended in Kathmandu. The trail went right by my front door in Tangier. Traveling the trail were smugglers, flower children, outlaws, draft dodgers, and rock stars.

I was on a spiritual journey, studying Tibetan Buddhism while seeking enlightenment. My error was thinking hashish and LSD were a shortcut to Nirvana.

The Moroccans were right. Hash did make me crazy, thus prison, no future, no hope. I had to fight for food, fight for a spot to sleep, learn the difference between head lice and clothes lice.

No place could be worse; this must be hell.

Then God reached into that inferno and pulled me out.

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