Thirteen in the Medina Read online

  When I spied him at reception changing some money I noticed the staff eyeing him warily. It might have been the shorts, or they might have remembered that he was the man who had checked in yesterday sporting a pink bow tied to the end of his beard. I felt a momentary pang of guilt, but just as I went to take a step towards him, I heard a voice cry out –

  ‘Keith, cooee, Keith!’

  He turned around and bestowed on Diane one of his beaming smiles, as she rushed up to greet him; and I remembered the reason why I had tied the ribbon, having been prodded into playing the practical joke by Nancy.

  Abdul gathered us all together for a head count before we boarded the bus. Today, he informed us, was a special holy Friday, hence he was wearing a long white robe instead of his usual business suit. He ran through our itinerary for the day; first to view the ruins of Volubilis and then a visit to the hill town of the Moulay Idriss, where a descendent of the prophet Mohammad, after whom the holy town is named, is buried. He advised us that the streets would be crowded with locals as it was a religious day, therefore we needed to keep together, to take care, and also be respectful; please not to take photographs of the locals or stare at them too much. I wondered whether they in their turn might be tempted to gaze in astonishment at the outfits of one or two of our party.

  We set off on our first visit of the day to Volubilis, a name which Nancy said she thought had something to do with the flower, Morning Glory, the Latin name of which is Convolvulus. Its seeds, if eaten in a high enough quantity, she further explained, can have the same effect as that of LSD, and were used by Native Indians in a root tea as a laxative, diuretic and treatment for coughs, hence these seeds may be treated with chemicals to deter ingestion. As she relayed this information, I saw Abdul take a step back and I could almost see him remembering other possibly hallucinogenic seeds she had pointed out to us, just two days ago.

  At the prospect of touring ancient Roman remains under a clear, blue sky I cheered up. I had booked this trip initially by myself and I was determined that I did not need Keith to enjoy it.

  After a quick visit to the loos, a rather basic facility situated just inside the entrance, I enthusiastically joined the rest of the group huddled around the site guide, a tiny man with skinny, bony legs ensconced in bright, baggy shorts that almost, but not quite, eclipsed Keith’s. Some guides show their status by use of an umbrella, often held aloft to direct their group towards them, others by a monogrammed neck tie, but our guide, Hari (short for Harish), I suspected, used his sartorial wear to stand out in a crowd. His English was excellent and he delivered his information in a rather piercing, high-pitched voice.

  Volubilis had been destroyed by the same earthquake in the eighteenth century that had struck Portugal, as well as affected other areas of the country, and much of the valuable stone and other building materials has long since been stripped from this ancient Roman site for reuse in Moulay Idriss and Meknes, and even further afield in Rabat. The site covers a vast area and so we were able to explore without hindrance from other tour groups, as often happens at ancient ruins, where parties are in danger of merging into each other, as crowds converge, all eager to see the same remains, and guides become hoarse with the effort of making themselves heard.

  Here, we were able to wander around, and through, what had once been elegant town houses, with intricate mosaic floors depicting stories such as the twelve labours of Hercules, or that of Orpheus playing his lyre.

  Bob very kindly offered to take a photograph of me standing under the main arch of the Tingis Gate, which marks one of the entrances to the town. At the other end of the wide main street stands the Arch of Caracalla, above which, Hari informed us, once stood a statue, now in the museum in Rabat, of this third century emperor with a captive warrior wearing tartan trews, which is possibly the earliest example of tartan clothing.

  On a different cultural level Hari also showed us the carving of an extremely large penis, which indicated the position of a brothel. Naturally Diane and Ann took turns posing for photographs next to (or astride) this monstrosity, whilst Carole and Gordon could be heard tut-tutting as they turned their backs on such behaviour. Bob tentatively enquired whether I would also like to pose for a similar photograph, but I declined his kind offer.

  As a group we had separated somewhat, luxuriating in all the available space and the lack of other people. I had spent much of the time listening to our guide, and wandering around lost in my own thoughts, although I did see one elderly gentleman struggling round, relying heavily on a walking stick, and for some reason Nancy’s words about a possible connection between the town and drug taking slipped into my mind.

  I watched the man for several seconds, just in case he needed a helping hand, however he managed slowly, but ably, to clamber over a particularly stony area of ground without mishap and I was struck by how, yet again, Gordon had been strolling around the ruined Roman site without needing to resort to using his own stick, which presumably he had left on the bus.

  Then, as I walked around the arch into a section shaded from the bright sun, I suddenly spied two people close together in the shadows spring apart and separate. I hesitated, gazed up to view the reverse side of the arch, as had been my intention, then retraced my steps back the way I had come. I hurried away from the remains, and as I did so I encountered Larry looking for his wife.

  ‘Haven’t seen Diane about have you?’ he asked, squinting a little in the bright sunlight.

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I lied, hoping that any flush on my face might be from the heat and not embarrassment or any other emotional response, and not from the untruth; after all that side of the monument had been in shadow and my glimpse of the two people had been fleeting; they might not have been part of our group at all, just a courting couple who had thought, erroneously, that they had found a secret spot in which to canoodle.

  I was loath to leave the ruins, even after the shock of coming across the secretive couple, especially when I spied a little gift shop, but Abdul ushered us towards the bus with promises of ‘shopping later.’

  We passed huge swathes of arable land, which the local farmers worked with a horse and plough. Abdul informed us that there is a local donkey festival, which has been run in recent years with prizes given for the slimmest, the fastest and also the best-looking donkey, which raised a few sniggers from the nether regions of the bus.

  Our next stop was the prophet’s hill top town, a place in which, our guide further informed us, up until as recently as 2005 non-Muslims had not been allowed to stay overnight, however all are welcome now.

  Our driver parked the bus a short distance from the centre and Abdul, urging us yet again to keep together, led the way along a path bordered by food stalls, the choking smoke and fumes produced from the cooking mingling with the exotic food smells helped to give the impression of being in a place very different to which I was familiar.

  We passed locals on foot, as well as families riding in carts and on donkeys. As we trudged up a gentle incline towards the mausoleum where the prophet is buried, I realised that all the surrounding people, dressed head to toe in long flowing garments, were darker skinned locals; we seemed to be the only tourists about. They paid us little heed though as we moved amongst them, for which I was grateful.

  Our visit to the resting place of the prophet was brief. After standing at the gate with the local residents who had come to pray and pay their respects, we then turned and began to retrace our steps back down the hill, and I noticed in an open space a group of youths and children gathered together. I strained to try and see into the midst of the group, and could just make out the thin strains of reedy pipe music. I looked around searching for the source, however it stopped abruptly. The crowd thinned a little and I spied a snake charmer at its centre. I longed to go nearer for a closer look, but I daren’t leave our group, which Abdul was steadily leading away.

  I was again struck by how everyone else was indigenous. I did not want to intrude; a tourist, a
lone, white lady in the midst of group of natives, might not be the best idea. I had no reason to suspect that they would be unfriendly, but as this was a holy day I did not want to be accused of intruding on what, for all I knew, might have held some sort of religious element.

  As the crowd which gathered around the snake charmer appeared to be wholly comprised of locals I had no reason to assume that he was not the genuine article and I longed to watch him ply his trade, but whether this was a good idea or not was immaterial; I was too late, it was evident he had finished his show and was packing his snakes away, the crowd of noisy, chattering children gradually dispersing.

  Abdul veered off the pathway we had traversed up earlier and into a more traditional food market. He paused by a fruit stall, exchanging a few words with the owner, to allow the stragglers in our group to catch up.

  The stall owner grinned, showing uneven discoloured teeth, nodded and handed something green to Abdul, which he balanced carefully in his hand. Then, with a penknife, he skilfully made a few swift cuts, and peeling back the skin, and quartering the fruit he announced, ‘Prickly pear anyone?’

  Quick as a flash, Graham’s hand shot out to try a sample; a little more slowly, Keith tentatively followed suit. All I could think of was that song from the Jungle Book. I watched Keith chew, his face thoughtful, but otherwise giving nothing away.

  ‘What does it taste like?’ I urged, curious.

  ‘Here,’ grinning, Abdul skinned and sliced a second fruit and passed me a segment. I was surprised to find it rather tasteless, I am not sure what I expected – something more bitter perhaps? But it was full of pips which I noticed Carole spitting into a tissue, however most other people seemed to be busy chewing and swallowing theirs.

  While we continued to munch away on the fruit Abdul led us on towards the restaurant for lunch, and the usual starters of cold mixed vegetables, followed by hot vegetables and chicken cooked in a tagine, with slices of melon to finish.

  I was slightly uncomfortable throughout lunch as, somehow, I ended up sitting next to Bob who was a very attentive companion, in that whatever I needed he sought to obtain – did I need a drink? And he then proceeded to order a bottle of mineral water for me. Would I like the salt and pepper? Some bread?

  After a while the constant attention became rather tiresome and I was tempted to utter some unladylike foul language to divert his attention to elsewhere. However, I was saved from embarrassing myself and seized the opportunity to put a spoke in his wheel when he commented, ‘That really is a very pleasant perfume you are wearing, quite fresh. Just right for this sort of weather,’ he beamed at me as he paid his compliment. ‘Not like the cloying, over-powering musky scents that some women use -’ here his eyes slid over towards Diane sat on the neighbouring table ‘- that are completely wrong for this humid climate. A light fragrance is just the ticket, much more feminine. Would you like some more melon, Carrie?’

  I declined the offer of more fruit with a polite smile. ‘I’m glad you like my perfume. A friend bought it for me,’ I fabricated, whilst hoping he would not notice that I had my fingers crossed behind my back. ‘It was a special present. I’ll be sure to pass on your comments to him.’ I added, stressing the last word and left the implication as to the closeness of the friendship hanging in the air. He took the hint and quickly turned to offer the plate of melon to Ann instead.

  Our afternoon tour comprised of a visit to the granaries and huge stables in Meknes that were large enough to house twelve thousand horses and had been built in the similar pink coloured stone as the buildings in Marrakesh, and which had also been destroyed by the earthquake in the eighteenth century, as had our first port of call earlier that morning.

  All too soon it was time to get back on the bus, and as I stood near Keith waiting to board I caught a hint of perfume about him that I had not smelt previously. Quickly I turned away and climbed the steps, flinging myself into the first available seat and placing my backpack on the space next to me, to prevent anyone else from sitting there.

  I decided, once we had arrived back at the hotel, that there was time for a quick dip in the pool before dinner. The combined warmth of the late afternoon sun and the slow leisurely movement through the water gave me a chance to think things through rationally and improve my mood.

  I had only had a momentary glimpse of the couple in the shadows behind the archway this morning; really just the impression of blonde hair, and I may have jumped to conclusions that it was Larry’s wife with Keith, as there had been few other tourists about, but remembering the man with the walking stick, there had been at least one other group.

  Likewise, when I had caught her fragrance on the breeze whilst waiting to board the bus, and had assumed that it emanated from Keith, further assuming it resulted from him being in close contact with her, that woman herself may have actually been standing nearby, in my blind spot.

  Therefore, I did not overly mind when Keith appeared in his trunks and slipped into the pool, making his way somewhat more speedily through the water and with slightly less splash, until he pulled up a little way from me in the shallow end; I watched the water run in little rivulets down his muscled chest back into the pool, as he stood and rung the moisture from his beard. He smiled at me a little uncertainly and enquired if I had enjoyed the day.

  ‘I know how much you like exploring old ruined places,’ he added.

  You seem to like some old ruins yourself, I thought unkindly, but aloud I had agreed that I had, and that the weather had been perfect for it. ‘I also liked the experience of visiting the holy town when the locals were making their pilgrimage to the shrine; it was a privilege to be able to share in it. Plus, almost seeing that snake charmer. I would really like to see one,’ I paused and then added, ‘a real one.’

  I had earlier mentioned during lunch that we had passed this possible side show. No-one else had been aware, although Nancy and Ann had both agreed that they had briefly heard the reedy music, although Phil had scoffed and told his wife that it was her imagination.

  As we had agreed last night that this evening we would attempt to make it to the bar in time for happy hour, and I needed to wash the chlorine out of my hair, we climbed out of the pool and went to collect our belongings that we had left poolside; towel, sandals and my backpack with water bottle and paperback book.

  However, when I approached the sun lounger where I had strewn my stuff, it did not look quite as I had left it; my bag was not securely fastened, and it was lying at a different angle to how I had laid it down. I had been pre-occupied in the pool, both reliving the moment when I had walked around the monumental arch, and trying to forget about it, and hence had been unaware as to whom else, if anybody, had been in the vicinity of the chair. Despite the size of the hotel and the number of people who had been crammed into the dining room there had been only a handful of other people swimming or lying in the warm air by the pool.

  Hastily, I tipped the contents out of my bag and checked; everything seemed to be there. My handbag containing my valuables, passport, money etc, I had previously locked in my case in the room. I rummaged through the items now lying on the lounger – book, water bottle, camera, cardi. My plastic room key card was safe in a little pocket in the top of the backpack.

  Everything was still there that should be, and also importantly, nothing was there that should not have been; I did not intend to be used to carry someone else’s illicit drugs around the country. Relieved, I scooped everything up and bundled it back into the bag. Keith maintained that his bag was as he left it, but I insisted he check it just to be on the safe side, before we trooped a little despondently back to our rooms. I say “our” but Keith declared he would accompany me to my room and we could check that also just to be on the safe side.

  While I had a cursory glance around Keith relaxed on my bed and I was a little distracted by the sight of him lying stretched out, arms behind his head, watching me check my belongings. Every now and then my eyes would stray to the damp cu
rls on his chest and the neatly tied bow on his trunks, which my fingers itched to undo.

  That evening we were informed we were to dine in the small dining room. I was unsure whether this was as a result of complaints following our experiences of the previous evening, or whether this had always been the plan. The reason we were given was that the large dining room we had used the day before – and were still to use for breakfast throughout our stay – was being used as a conference centre, and whilst it was true there were large boards advertising lectures and meetings scattered around the periphery of the entrance lobby, I wondered where were all the other tourists who had been crammed into the large dining hall last night – had they all checked out bar a small group who joined us in the smaller room?

  This secondary dining room was a fraction of the size of the other, containing only half a dozen or so round tables. Where the large room had been of hanger like dimensions, with a huge vaulted ceiling with skylight windows, this room was completely curtained in a tent-like structure, which possibly hid the fact that there were no windows and the room was completely internal within the hotel. The luxurious furnishings of the curtains and drapes continued, as the round tables were covered with tablecloths and linen napkins, in contrast to the bare wooden tables of the larger room. From the centre of the tented ceiling hung a huge chandelier; wall lights provided additional lighting, which was supplemented further by candles on each of the tables. The contrast to the mass school canteen ambience of yesterday was striking.

  Keith and I had made Happy Hour that evening by the skin of our teeth and had ordered and drunk two small glasses of red wine for the price of one. Keith had a hankering for beer but I had persuaded him that it was not a good idea to mix our drinks if we were going to share a bottle of wine with our evening meal. We were both still in a relaxed mood following our swim and sojourn by the pool, despite the scare over someone tampering with my bag.