Thirteen in the Medina Read online

  ‘Don’t take it to heart Keith; Abdul doesn’t know you, he just met you a few days ago and he just thinks, what is a young man doing here in Morocco? You must admit, you are not the usual age for such a tour. Sightseeing? Buying souvenirs? After a little something extra? This is the place where Moroccan Red, that substance much loved by rock and roll bands is grown. He would not be doing his job properly if he did not watch out for you, for all of us. And not just from the dangers of drugs, although obviously, this area is of higher risk than some others. There are other dangers as well, muggings and pickpockets, if we linger in the souks, which is why he keeps us so tightly together, or tries to, and does not really like us to stop and shop.

  ‘Then there is the danger of lost passports, not to mention illnesses and accidents, people smuggling all sorts of items, when it comes to what various countries allow to be brought in and out. Do you know, in some places you have to be careful with simple things like a packet of aspirin in your pocket? He has to ensure that us tourists abide by local laws and customs, such as keeping shoulders covered in mosques and sometimes the knees as well.

  ‘Tour guides must remain polite at all times, even under provocation, and keep peace between arguing holiday makers, and all the time he is away from his family and in the midst of strangers just like us, but cannot let his hair down and relax. For Abdul, these are two long, hard weeks and sometimes the pay is such that they rely on the tips they collect at the end of the holiday.’ After this mammoth speech Graham drained his beer and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Keith remained silent but the fire was gone from his eyes, however his shoulders slumped a little and I feared he now felt rebuked by Graham for feeling victimised. I decided to take him outside for some fresh air.

  We had our first photo stop at a vantage point across the valley, from where we could look back and view the white town, as it nestled in the surrounding countryside, a splash of pale colour amidst the green trees and the arid mountains, in shades of greys and browns.

  We then settled down for post lunch siestas with the prospect of a long drive ahead of us. As often happened we spread out, being a small group in a large coach, there was no need to sit together and Keith, still I suspected sulking, had slipped into a seat a few rows behind me, nearer to the back seat. If I turned my head a little I could see him on the opposite side, head turned slightly to view the passing vista.

  I slumped in my seat, relaxed and replete, and gazed out the window at the shifting scenery hurtling past. I refused to let my eyes close but it was hard. I wanted to experience every second of this holiday, the sounds, the sights, the smells…

  There was a sudden commotion from the nether regions of the bus. Diane was remonstrating about something. Larry, it transpired had relaxed in his seat and had removed his shoes. His wife took the opportunity to object to sitting in close proximity to him and his offending appendages and glided into the seat next to Keith for sympathy.

  It seemed a little unnecessary when there were still plenty of other vacant seats but Keith seemed to welcome her intrusion into his reverie. I fidgeted in my seat and could just see out the corner of my eye his dark head bent close to her platinum blonde hair as they chatted. Diane patted his knee and I imagined she was sympathizing with his moans about Abdul singling him out this morning, while he commiserated her on her husband’s smelly feet.

  It did not seem long before we stopped for our afternoon break, although I had been aware of every minute Keith spent chatting with Diane. As soon as the bus stopped, I slid out of my seat, bag in hand and escaped into the afternoon heat. I quickly walked towards the service station, but halfway up the steps I decided I did not feel like yet another mint tea, sometimes the added sugar makes it a bit too sickly sweet; I already felt as if I had a bad taste in my mouth. There was a bottle of mineral water in my bag that would refresh me, so I headed off around the side of the building to an open space, where I sat on the low lying bordering wall, closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sun.

  This holiday was not turning out at all as I had planned, or even hoped it would. I had envisaged a relaxing trip to see some historic or cultural sites, under a hot sun, in pleasant company, sampling exotic foods washed down with glass or two of wine.

  And then Keith had invited himself along and whilst I was pleased, it meant that I was spending my time on edge, wondering where he was, what he was doing and who he was with when he was not with me. Although some of the “company” were more “interesting” than “pleasant,” the weather, while always warm, was occasionally overcast. The exotic food seemed to be a profusion of beetroot, carrot and cauliflower for lunch and dinner, and little did I know it but for breakfast too at our next hotel; the wine was okay – when I was allowed to be served any.

  I checked my watch. Time to get back on the bus.

  When I boarded the coach, Keith was already sat in his seat. He was slumped, eyes closed, head down, his right leg bent with his foot resting on his left knee. He looked relaxed, a picture of innocence. I felt a sudden urge to jog his leg.

  However, somebody tapped my arm and I turned to see Nancy smiling at me, finger to her lips conspiratorially. Her grin split wider as silently she opened her bag and produced one of the bright pink ribbons that she had tied in her hair on the day when we had flown in, which she handed to me, while sliding her eyes towards Keith. Mystified, I took the ribbon and stared at it, while she mimed tying a bow and then rolled her hand into tube, which she stuck under her chin to mimic his beard.

  I did not need any further encouragement. Deftly, I tied a pink bow at the bottom of Keith’s beard. He never stirred.

  Quickly, I resumed my seat. Abdul approached and started to make a quick head count. He hesitated when he reached Keith and then had to start over again from the beginning.

  The last people to take their seats were Diane and Larry, who had thankfully replaced his shoes. She stopped by Keith’s seat, her mouth open, about to say something, when her husband, with the firm pressure of his hand in the small of her back, urged her on towards their seats at the rear of the bus.

  His action reminded me that someone had attempted to push me into the path of the horses yesterday and I looked at him through fresh eyes – but if he had indeed been the person responsible I could think of no reason as to his motive, other than that any possible injury to me might attract some sympathy from Keith and thus deflect that man’s attention from Larry’s own wife.

  It was only an about an hour’s trip to our next hotel, a large chunky looking building located in the centre of Fes, which already had half a dozen coaches parked outside. And oh joy, when I was allocated my room, I discovered it was on the same level as the approach road to the parking area and as vehicles swung around a bend in the road, so their headlights would shine directly into my room. The room was a decent size, but the furniture was solid and serviceable, nothing special. No, not really the holiday I had hoped for; the previous hotels with their comforts and multiple bathrooms were fast becoming a distant memory.

  It always seemed to be the rule on touring holidays, we stayed for several nights at nice hotels; the good places we stayed for one night only.

  By the time I had showered, washed and dried my hair it was just about 8 o’clock, the time that various members of our group had agreed that we would meet for dinner. I had trouble finding the bar, after I had finished unpacking the items I thought I would need for our three nights stay. When I did eventually find the bar, Bob was already seated, nursing two drinks.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I apologised, as I was about to take a seat. ‘Is somebody sitting here?’

  Bob shook his head. ‘Happy Hour,’ he explained. ‘Two drinks for the price of one.’ As I turned towards the counter area, my interest in this establishment suddenly piqued, he added, checking his watch, ‘But I think you’ve missed it by about five minutes.’

  I noticed the bartender was suspiciously unoccupied. Maybe I would wait until we ate and then share a bottle of wine with Keit
h. The last thing I wanted on this trip was to turn into a habitual drinker.

  Karen and Graham, it transpired, had been in time for Happy Hour. They did not look very happy though. They had also been down to the restaurant on the lower ground floor but had been rebuffed by the man on the door. Currently the restaurant was full; a table might be ready for our party in about thirty minutes.

  Carole had already complained to the manager; Abdul she had not been able to contact. We had been told the dining room opened for dinner at 7.30 pm; she did not expect to be told that she could not be accommodated until 8.30 pm. I was struck by the fact that they expected whomever was currently dining to have finished their meal in an hour. Was that a reflection on the quality of the food?

  Graham was concerned as to whether there would actually be any food left. Whilst he was ruminating with Bob over the prospective quality and quantity of the fare on offer Keith sauntered in. He was again dressed in his smart black trousers, but with his hands in his pockets pushing them out of shape, somehow the neatly dressed image that he had presented a few nights ago was lacking.

  Keith seemed a little subdued as he sidled up to me.

  ‘Aren’t we going down to dinner? I’m hungry,’ he complained. I let Karen explain that the dining room was apparently currently full.

  ‘Full!’ he expostulated and started to mutter the same objections as the other men, that there would be no food left, that it would be cold, leftover dregs.

  ‘Come on,’ I urged. ‘Look on the bright side, they might replenish with fresh, hot food.’ The look on his face suggested he did not believe me.

  The arrival of Carole, with Gordon in tow, in an effort to drum up support that perhaps a table for our party might be made available sooner distracted Karen, and Keith pulled me to one side and asked if I had seen what Nancy had done. Puzzled, I told him I had not seen Nancy since we had got off the bus.

  ‘No,’ he hissed, ‘on the bus; she tied,’ he leaned in closer and whispered in my ear, ‘she tied one of her pink ribbons on the end,’ he stuttered in embarrassment, ‘the end of my beard.’

  I bit my lip to stop from laughing. He looked at once outraged and mortified. ‘No!’ I just managed to say before my voice broke. I bit harder. His dark brows furrowed as his eyes narrowed as he looked quizzically at me.

  ‘You must have seen her,’ he accused, before trying a different tack. ‘If not Nancy, then who?’

  ‘Why would Nancy,’ I started, when I had myself under control, ‘why would anyone want to tie a pink ribbon on the end of your beard?’

  Now that he had drawn my attention to that feature, I noticed that it was no longer bound with the leather thong but flowing loose across his chin. Remembering how he had looked with a little bright pink bow at the end of his beard I started to laugh and he grunted in exasperation and turned away.

  When we finally gained admittance to the dining room and were being directed to our table I almost wished I had stayed in the bar with a packet of nuts. The room was huge, filled with massive long tables at which it seemed were seated tourists from every conceivable corner of the globe. As we weaved between the heaving mass of diners making their way to the buffet tables laid down the centre of the room, amid harassed waiters clearing plates, I caught snatches of conversation in various brogues, joking, complaining, chatting.

  In the end, due to the wait, Keith had bought a bottle of wine in the bar to occupy us and he duly carried what remained, still a little sulky over the trick played on him in the bus, down to the dining room. I thought at some point I had better own up before he accused Nancy, although to be fair it had been her idea and her ribbon, but I had tied the actual bow; own up, but not just now when the expression on his face was not the one I would normally have associated with my handsome, easy going friend. We still had over a week to go on the holiday, plus the journey home, and I wanted him still to be speaking to me when we arrived back home in Poole.

  Luckily there was still plenty of food left, the usual mixed salads and cold vegetables to start with, followed by a selection of chicken and fish dishes with more vegetables, rice and pasta. The range of sweets on offer was massively depleted but personally I don’t have a sweet tooth and helped myself to just some coconut topped cake.

  In contrast to the other diners, ours was subdued party. We seemed to have used all our combined energies in the period before dinner in complaining about the wait and the lateness of the hour. Once allowed in, we sat and ate on the whole in silence, not because we were hungry but because there seemed nothing more to say. Besides I don’t think any of us had much strength left to shout to be heard over the babble of the other diners, not to mention the background music of orchestral accompaniment; I made out some Strauss, The Blue Danube and Tales from Vienna Woods; perhaps tomorrow we might be serenaded with the Helston Furry Dance?

  The sober mood continued after dinner with no-one in the mood for (another) drink in the bar, although I suspected one or two (Phil, Bob) might be drinking in their rooms. Keith was still feeling victimised. He had darted one or two venomous looks at Nancy, but it was not really in his nature to say, or do, anything malicious. He absentmindedly planted a goodnight kiss on my cheek as we parted at the foot of the stairs, before he stepped into the lift with Phil and Ann, and I trudged wearily up the stairs, thinking why, after lazing around all day sitting in a bus, do I feel so tired?

  After two flights of stairs, I turned to walk along the corridor to my room. At various points along the way my nostrils were assailed by pleasant smells. I looked around, and behind the fire doors I spied scented sticks in little pots giving off inviting and exotic aromas. Maybe that was what I needed? I remembered the tiny bottle of scented body lotion on the bathroom shelf.

  Therefore, before I went to bed that night, I rubbed in some of the lotion on my arms and legs. It was a little sticky, but gave off a fresh pleasant smell of eucalyptus and peppermint.

  Strangely enough, once in bed I failed to feel tired. I had had little exercise that day and the late meal seemed to have absorbed the wine I had drunk. I lay in bed watching the headlights of the cars play around the room, as they drove into, or out of, the car park, pondering if perhaps the joke we had played on Keith had not been that funny after all.

  Chapter Eight – Friday - Volubilis

  I slept fitfully; the car headlights criss-crossing my room seemed to continue all night and, with every rev of an engine, or screech of tyres, I woke up - stuck to the sheets, as I tried to turn over, courtesy of the tacky body lotion.

  In the end I got up, switched on the kettle to make a cup of tea, and headed for the shower. The hot water seemed to reactivate the eucalyptus in the body lotion, and its fresh smell, plus the strong Earl Grey, revived me more than had the hours spent in bed. Feeling in better spirits, I headed down to the basement dining room for breakfast.

  Despite it being 7.00 am and we had been advised that breakfast was available from 6.30 am, waiters were still in the process of laying out the tables. We had been instructed that the table reserved for our group would be the same one as that we had been given the previous evening. I settled myself in the corner, revived but not enough to encourage company.

  In contrast to the previous evening, the room was almost deserted. I think I counted five other people in the room, and two of those were staff.

  There were no cups on our table, so I purloined one from another table as I passed by on my way back from the cereal bar. Next, I contemplated the cooked breakfast selection. I was a little surprised to see beetroot and sliced carrot on offer and wondered if it was left over from last night. The scrambled egg looked a little grey, but as it was early in the morning I guessed it would be hot. I scooped a spoonful on my plate, leaving the evidence of my visit in its virgin surface, proving I was the first to try it. I added some sliced mushrooms that possibly looked tinned, and some hash browns. However, on eating, the scrambled egg proved to be stone cold; possibly that had been laid out the evening before, al
ong with the beetroot and the carrot.

  I pushed the remains of my breakfast away as Carole appeared. She bid me a good morning as she looked around, as surprised as I was at the sparseness of our companions. A few more people had trickled in, but nowhere near the number who had been eating here just a few hours ago.

  We still had the background music, although this morning it was a rousing full orchestral piece. Carole shuddered, or possibly she ducked, as the cannon fired during the 1812 overture.

  I did not feel encouraged by either the food or the music to eat a hearty breakfast. I decided another cup of hot tea might stimulate me sufficiently to contemplate a pastry, in lieu of more substantial fare.

  In the end, I admitted defeat. This might prove to be the hotel that I had outlined to Keith - the one mid-stay where we were booked in for several nights, that proved to be substandard compared to the others, in terms of accommodation, food and service.

  My mood was further not improved when, on exiting the dining room I passed Bob and Keith, entering together.

  ‘Oh,’ said the older man, leaning towards me, ‘you smell nice this morning!’ He attempted a smile that appeared more of a leer. Keith unfortunately, other than biding me a ‘Good morning,’ said nothing. Perhaps he does not particularly like the smell of eucalyptus, I thought, or more likely he was just hungry. I supposed I should be grateful that someone was enticed by the scent of the body lotion. A thought, unfortunately, I later had cause to regret.

  Whatever the faults of this hotel and its food, outside the weather was glorious. The sky was a beautiful shade of azure blue, without a single puffy white cloud. Keith, on the other hand, was sporting a snazzy pair of orange and yellow shorts. I felt the need to look at him through my sunglasses.