The cruise offered a lot of excursions with guides and a bus wherever we docked, so I chose only the ones that intrigued me.
One excursion was to a Casbah in Algeria, to the underground marketplace where crime thrived within its boundaries.
I'd heard of the Casbah as a kid, but I didn't realize that many North African cities had them.
I signed up for this tour, expecting it to be thrilling and exciting, and especially safe with two guides, one at each end of our group of twenty from the ship.
I knew only two men in the group - a father and his adult son.
We got off the bus near a stone wall overlooking the city of Algiers. There was nothing on this hill, it seemed. The entrance to the Casbah was a door in a rock.
The lead guide warned us to stay together as a group, for our protection. He was an Arab in white, a very serious man, almost impatient, I thought.
The rear guide was a small man, black in color. He spoke no English whatsoever.
For some awful reason, the father decided to take a risk and stall going down through the door with the group. His son and I told him this wasn't a good idea. I think he was possessed by a ghost of juvenile stupidity and knew that his son and I wouldn't just take off and leave him there, though we should have.
He conned the guide with gestures and money and refused to listen to our fears.
The exit to the Casbah was not through the entrance door. You went in one end and out the other end of the market, so we had no choice but to go through on our own, when the father finally decided to get a brain and go.
Maybe he was persuaded by us hauling him to the door and by the violent curses of the Arab rear guide, aimed directly at him.
The door opened up onto bedlam, putting the fear of terror racing through the son and me. For before us was a sea of smells and sounds and people, a labyrinth of stalls and wares and shouting voices.
It was so crowded that we had to hang onto each other. We couldn't see our lead guide nor anyone in our group.
We made our way about fifty feet through the mess before realizing that the main aisle had many aisles running off it and that we couldn't possibly know where the guide had taken the group.
The rear guide with us knew nothing, as if this was his very first excursion as a guide. And he was as afraid as we were.
The son and I decided to split up, but keep each other in constant sight. We are tall, so could see each other above the others' heads.
Slowly, we made our way down different aisles, coming back to report to each other and then try another aisle.
For almost thirty minutes, we swallowed our panic and kept our eyes sharp on the people, looking for anyone who could hurt us. White slavery was a big problem back then, and we were warned about being grabbed.
Many strange odors came at us from food and incense, fabrics and people.
I had only glimpses of brass things and hammered copper plates, candles and wooden figurines in the stalls.
There were birds in tiny cages and animals for sale as well.
It would have been fascinating if I'd had a chance to enjoy it under the watchful eyes of the lead guide.
Finally, up ahead, the son shouted my name. He had spotted the guide, but only because that handsome Arab had discovered we were missing, along with the rear guide, and had halted the tour so they could retrace their steps to look for us.
The second he saw us pushing our way toward him, the look of worry left his face, and he screamed at us for causing him concern, screamed at us in his own language, as well as in English, letting us know how stupid we were.
And when he turned his anger on the rear guide, I knew the poor man had lost his job.
I turned my anger on the culprit and had my say right there amongst the craziness in the bowels of the frightful Casbah.
I never did return to that place. I think I'd have been even more afraid than I was that day, if I'd ever gone back.
When the lead guide opened the exit door at the far end of the market, and sunlight flooded in on us, I felt such a rush of relief, I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
The bus was parked, waiting in a spot that overlooked a different part of the city, and on a different road from where we'd left it.
I couldn't imagine why anyone would work in such a place as that market underground, where local police came in at night after the stall keepers left for home, came in to catch the sneaks and the thieves, the drug dealers and the other criminals who had hidden in there, waiting for the night to fall, so they could do what they came to do.
Maybe it's different now. It is a changed world, after all.
But back then, it was something to never forget.
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