Thirteen in the Medina Read online

  Thirteen in the Medina

  By Flora McGowan

  Copyright © Flora McGowan 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places, other than those in the public domain, are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  Cover photograph copyright © Flora McGowan 2018

  This is dedicated once again to my sister, Christina,

  and my niece, Briony

  for their help, suggestions and patience

  Acknowledgements:

  I would also like to thank Mr Palin who inspired me to travel and showed that it was possible to have a holiday that did not involve sitting on the beach

  Thanks also to my friends Eddie and Pam for their help and advice

  Please note: any errors in the following narrative are down to me; I have been to Morocco whereas my proof readers/editors have not

  Contents

  Prologue One

  Prologue Two:

  Chapter One – Booking a Holiday

  Chapter Two – The Journey

  Chapter Three – Sunday Evening

  Chapter Four – Monday – Marrakesh

  Chapter Five – Tuesday – Casablanca

  Chapter Six – Wednesday - Rabat to Tangiers

  Chapter Seven – Thursday – into the Rif Mountains

  Chapter Eight – Friday - Volubilis

  Chapter Nine – Saturday - Fes

  Chapter Ten – Sunday - Sahara!

  Chapter Eleven – Monday - Todra Gorges

  Chapter Twelve – Tuesday - Valley of a Thousand Kasbahs

  Chapter Thirteen – Wednesday - to Agadir and Beyond

  Chapter Fourteen – Thursday - Essaouira

  Chapter Fifteen – Friday - Return to Marrakesh

  Chapter Sixteen – Saturday Night- The Man in Black

  Chapter Seventeen – Sunday - Going back home

  Epilogue – Home Again

  Carrie and Keith Mysteries:

  Prologue One

  Summer 2012.

  Shortly after take-off a man complained of feeling unwell; as the cabin crew began to serve snacks he became nauseous. Did the flight attendants have any anti-emetics? he enquired.

  It is not known if the substance that he subsequently slipped into his mouth was given to him by the flight attendant or whether, in fact, he had brought it with him onto the flight, either way it unfortunately seemed to have the reverse effect on the young man than the one he had professed to desire, for he vomited into the bag provided in the event of such an occurrence.

  The hovering flight attendant quickly took the soiled bag and exchanged it for several fresh ones. She also passed him a wad of tissues, which he casually stuffed in his jacket pocket before doubling over as a fresh wave of retching overwhelmed him.

  Throughout the duration of the flight the man slumped listlessly in his seat occasionally vomiting into the proffered bags. Nothing seemed to ease his distress.

  Eventually the plane began its circling descent as it neared its destination. The attentive attendant phoned ahead to warn of the impending arrival of an unwell passenger. Then she informed the man that having notified the airport of his condition he would be met with a wheelchair and could be processed swiftly through immigration and customs. An ambulance was on standby.

  ‘No,’ the young man replied. ‘I feel much better now. You have been very helpful, very kind, but an ambulance is not necessary.’

  A fair-haired lady seated a few seats away attracted the attention of the flight attendant. She was, she explained, a retired nurse and could assist the young man through the departure process and also determine whether a trip to A&E was necessary and if not, ensure that he was well enough to travel home.

  And so, it was settled. When the plane landed the young man and his new escort were allowed first off the plane. He was installed in the wheelchair and the blonde ex-nurse pushed him through the airport, quickly clearing the way through hordes of passengers from other incoming flights and thus both the invalid and his escort passed through customs and immigration and on were their way to the exit in near record time.

  Once clear of the exit, the young man thanked his female escort for her help, grinned and then head down, hands pushed into his pockets he left her to dispose of the wheelchair and walked quickly along the side of the building towards the rear of the taxi rank.

  However, before he made it to the end of the queue he paused, putting a hand to his head and swayed unsteadily on his feet.

  ‘Are you alright mate?’ a nearby taxi driver asked solicitously.

  The young man raised a pale, wan face and stared blankly at him before his knees buckled and he crumpled senselessly to the ground.

  Prologue Two:

  As I assessed all the travellers with their walking sticks and folding sticks and chair sticks I mused about the various lengthy descriptions about excursions in tour catalogues, which usually include a difficulty grading of the various walks.

  Was I the only one who read these?

  It always amazes me that trips to inaccessible places are filled with immobile tourists, who in their wildest dreams could not possibly hope to see even half of what there is on offer. Why do they not satisfy themselves with a holiday involving a gentle stroll along the seafront? Surely it is a form of masochism to go on holiday to foreign climes and have to stay on the bus and never get to see all of the sites because of a mobility problem?

  Self-denial that they have a problem?

  Or disbelief in the brochure descriptions of the physicality needed to complete the trip?

  Then I considered again all those sticks and I was reminded of that favourite trick of authors – the hollow wheelchair frame used to smuggle drugs and the walking stick that turned into a sword stick or contained a tipple in the handle – I have even seen one of these on sale in a shop so I know that they exist.

  Morocco. A hippy paradise and all these aging hippies now had walking sticks.

  Chapter One – Booking a Holiday

  Outside it was raining. Again. A steady drizzle of cold moisture. I needed cheering up. I needed sun. I switched on the television and flicked through the channels searching for something entertaining with no intellectual requirements. Ah, a Carry On film, light-hearted and amusing, and occasionally containing jokes of superior wit and clever word play. One of my favourites is Carry On Screaming, not least because the Neanderthal creatures bear a striking resemblance to my friend Keith, with their beards and straggly hair, and as he hates to be reminded of this fact I point it out occasionally. Well, quite often actually.

  However, watching Carry on Follow that Camel left me a little irritable. All that talk of sun and sand and heat.

  I decided I needed sun and sand and heat; in fact, I needed to go on holiday. But where? Decisions, decisions….

  I searched around until I located a travel brochure recently delivered by the postman and carelessly flung aside at the time, and quickly flicked through it. Italy. I’ve been there several times. I saw the leaning Tower of Pisa (at a time when it was surrounded by weights as they were endeavouring to straighten it up a bit). I’ve stood outside the Colosseum as we did not have time to go in, much to my regret. One day I will return, after all I did toss some coins over my shoulder into the Trevi fountain to ensure that fact, but not, I think, this year. I have also been to Sorrento and Amalfi
. I climbed to the top of Vesuvius (actually they take you half way up by coach) and explored the ruins in Pompeii, (twice).

  Last year I went to Sicily and have been watching episodes of Inspector Montalbano ever since (and eating broccoli with pasta, and what is it with me and men with beards? His hirsute agent can slap me in handcuffs any time). Greece is still on my list of places to visit but with the ongoing problems with the Greek economy, the risk of general strikes, stories of tourists barred from disembarking cruise ships and museums being closed, dare I risk it?

  Skimming through the brochure I came to a section advertising holidays by rail, including the Scottish Islands, hmm. I glanced out the window. A grey winter’s day in mid-February. Definitely somewhere with sun then; not Scotland. North Africa? I have been briefly to Tunisia, another place I would like to revisit to explore further afield, to venture down into the desert in the southern region but again, this is prohibited by the current political climate.

  On the small screen Jim Dale and the man whom played Sergeant Bilko were trudging wearily through sand dunes (which was probably in actuality heaped up sand in a Pine Studios car park or some other not so exotic location).

  I leaned back in my chair and idly gazed around the living room until my eyes alighted on the bookcases. On the middle one - I have three arranged along one wall of the room; one primarily for DVDs, the second for paperback novels and the third holding mainly reference books - a book caught my eye. Michael Palin’s Sahara. Extracting it I leafed through the pages. Not the Tunisian Saharan desert but Morocco. Hmm. Marrakesh sounds exotic, Casablanca; shades of Humphrey Bogart and black and white films. I read somewhere that the original screenplay was written by a man whilst he was staying in a hotel in neighbouring Bournemouth. The bright colours on the page attracted me, oranges, saffrons, deep yellows. The colours of the desert, of the bazaars. I turned back to the travel brochure:

  “Tour of Morocco. Fifteen days, full board, from Tangiers in the north to the sands of the Sahara in the south, from the former Portuguese port of Essaouira and the Spanish colonial capital of Tetouan, journey through the Rif Mountains and the High Atlas Mountains, travel along the spectacular “Valley of a Thousand Kasbahs” to the French Foreign Legion Outpost of Ouarzazate,” (I glanced back at the TV, Kenneth Williams was wearing his French Foreign legion uniform. It’s a sign, I thought, spooky, but I was used to “coincidences”). “Visit the ruins of Volubilis, Morocco’s largest Roman city. Haggle in the souks and medinas. Experience the Moroccan mix of Arabic tradition and French influence that has drawn countless film makers to the desert. Marrakesh, Casablanca, optional extra trip - camel riding into the Sahara at sun rise.”

  Not sure about that last bit; I tried riding a camel past the pyramids once. It was terrifying. The desert is not just sand; it has huge rocks in it. And there was just a little pommel handle thingy to hold on to, while all the time the rug I was sitting on slipped sideways. Still it would be nice to be able to say that you had ridden a camel in the Saharan desert. Maybe second time around it might not be so bad.

  I have a habit of buying cheap second-hand guide books from charity shops just in case they might come in handy and sure enough I had a slim, well-thumbed edition on Morocco tucked away on the bookcase so I skimmed through that as well. It advised not to expect too much from Casablanca as the film had actually been filmed in the USA. Well, as I have never seen the whole film, only snippets here and there, (I dozed off) I am not going to be too disappointed; it is still famous. The guide book listed various other “must see” sites: Volubilis, …. camel ride in the Sahara (of course).

  I compared the tour with those described in a couple of other brochures; most of these visited the same cities and the Pass in the Atlas Mountains, but none of the others included Volubilis. As I have a soft spot for Roman ruins (as mentioned, I have visited Pompeii twice, in successive weeks, Pompeii being so huge that one visit is just not enough) I concluded that this fifteen-day tour looked the most comprehensive.

  The rain had arrived in earnest and was beating on the windows. Inside his book Michael Palin was striding across rich golden saffron coloured sand. I knew where I would rather be.

  I paid the balance for my holiday towards the end of July, the required eight weeks before the departure date. I had my confirmation invoice in my hand containing the flight details when Keith turned up on my door step.

  I ushered him inside quickly, afraid of what the neighbours might think. He looked, for him, dishevelled with a distinct resemblance to the aforementioned prehistoric man. He kept running his hands over the stubble on his head making it stand up on end and he appeared not to have trimmed his beard for a while. I had not seen him for a few weeks and the change in him was a little unnerving. He had cut off his long hair and grown a beard. A long beard. He looked like a young, slim Father Christmas. He paced up and down, full of nervous energy. I forced him to sit down and enquired as to what was wrong.

  ‘Hopefully nothing,’ he replied grinning at me sheepishly so that I knew that something was definitely up. ‘Erm…you’ve got your holiday confirmation then?’ He nodded towards the invoice I had flung aside when he had knocked on the door.

  ‘I emailed you that I was going to book my airport car today,’ I said wondering what my holiday plans had to do with his agitation. ‘I fly out on thirtieth of September and I need to book at least three weeks in advance.’

  ‘So,’ he licked his lips, hesitating, ‘have you done it yet?’

  ‘Just about to.’ I replied. ‘Can’t decide whether to do it online or by phone.’

  ‘Might be easier to do it by phone,’ he suggested, adding ‘then you can book for me too.’ He reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced an identical invoice which he waved inches from my nose.

  I stared first at him, then at his invoice (when I could focus on it), and finally at my invoice, my mouth open. I closed my mouth and sat down. I did not know what to say. Finally, after I had sat frozen in shock for about five minutes Keith decided that perhaps he had better say something.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘Are you mad at me?’

  Was I mad at him? I had spent the last four or five years revelling in my independence and ability to travel on my own. The freedom to go where I wanted, when I wanted (if I could book the time off work). I never knew whom else would be on the tour until we arrived at the destination and sometimes even then it would take several hours for everyone to get together. It was liberating. It was scary.

  Travel arrangements can be intimidating to make if you have to remember to do everything yourself: visa, medicines, packing. And it can be bliss to be away from meddling family members, the bickering caused by being in close proximity for twenty-four hours a day for two weeks.

  Just sitting on a coach travelling, gazing out the window at foreign vistas. Staying in luxury hotels and being waited on, eating exotic foods with a glass or two of wine with dinner, and not having to worry about work in the morning. (Although sometimes there may be an early morning wake up call and the hurried repacking of cases; then remembering to put out your bags at some unmentionable hour before appearing at breakfast with strangers, not feeling one’s best but putting on a brave face, ready to go back out on the road and travel onto the next destination).

  Lazing by the pool soaking up the sun, seeing exhibits in museums that you have previously seen on TV in documentaries - and there they are, just tantalisingly out of reach (the Namer Stone, Tutankhamen’s gold funeral mask, the Venus of Malta to name a few…).

  This was my private heaven – did I want Keith with me?

  Did I want to leave Keith behind?

  ‘Is that why I haven’t seen you for a while?’ I asked him. ‘Were you too frightened to say?’ He sat there still looking sheepish. ‘When did you book?’ There were a lot of other questions I wanted to ask him – such as why?

  ‘I booked on the spur of the moment,’ he explained. ‘You had just paid your balance and seemed so re
laxed and pleased about it and after the problems that we had just experienced I wanted a bit of R and R as well. I was in luck - they’d had a cancellation. I think someone was ill.’

  I thought about the previous couple of months when my internet shopping had almost become a gambling addiction, with the result that I might not have had enough money to pay off the balance of my holiday. Then there was a little problem associated with a cloak that I had bought which had culminated in our uncovering the tragic tale of its original owner.

  ‘And I was getting mad with Steph,’ Keith added. ‘Colin was beginning to do my head in and I needed a break and she just didn’t get it. So this way she is forced to look after Colin herself. For two whole weeks. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?’ His voice rose in pitch; he obviously needed a break as much as I did.

  I did not want to get involved in Keith’s family arguments. His sister, Steph, is a single mother and whilst I have no doubt that she loves her son, Colin, she is incapable of looking after him. She is selfish and self-indulgent and relies so heavily on Keith baby-sitting Colin that I had begun to wonder at one point whether Colin was actually his son and not his nephew. Maybe other people thought the same. It can’t be much fun for a single man in his mid-twenties to be continually out about town with a three-year-old in tow.

  He looked up at me with those huge brown eyes, so dark they looked black. ‘You don’t mind?’ he asked hesitantly.

  Mind? I thought. I had spent a lot of money on a holiday, add in a few hundred pounds extra for the single supplement only to find a friend has booked to come along as well. Hmm. Okay, so Keith had spent a night or two at my place during the summer but he had slept in a chair in the living room. Would I have wanted to share a double room with him? Share a bathroom? For the sake of a few hundred hard earned pounds?