Thirteen in the Medina Read online

  ‘But even putting “unprepared rocks” on a shipping manifesto is surely going to raise suspicion!’ Bob exclaimed.

  I approached the layout on an end table and considered fruit or cake. I had selected the ubiquitous slice of melon and was deciding between some sort of sponge square or a pastry with what looked like pineapple on top when a young waiter appeared beside me and, depositing a fresh stack of clean dessert plates on the table whispered in my ear, ‘Go on, have both. You are like a goddess.’

  I turned towards him in surprise. He stood there grinning at me. I wondered if perhaps he had relatives living in the Rif mountains who sent him food parcels.

  ‘You are Russian?’ he asked.

  I shook my head and managed to mutter, ‘English.’

  I was still standing transfixed in shock as Keith sauntered over. The waiter cocked his head in Keith’s direction. ‘Your boyfriend?’ he enquired.

  I shook my head again. ‘Just a friend.’ I replied. He was still grinning at me as he walked back towards the kitchen.

  Keith piled a couple of slices of melon on his plate, a fig and some cake, before asking me if I was okay. Fine, I replied, just fine, after all, it’s not every day a young man smiles and compliments me and compares me to a goddess.

  Keith accompanied me back to my room. Why don’t you ever invite me back to your room? I thought as he waited silently while I unlocked the door. He did not stay long however. The air conditioning unit was still producing warm air and worse. As we reclined as best as two people are able on a single bed, Keith still trying to inveigle out of me the details of my conversation with the waiter, an invidious pong assailed me. Thinking it was a by-product of the anti-diarrhoea tablets that Keith had mistakenly taken this morning I wriggled a little further out of his grasp.

  I decided perhaps to open the window again however, as I walked around the room I noticed the smell was in fact coming from the bathroom area; it appeared that I was in some way linked to the bathroom next door and fetid air was being transferred to my room. I switched off the air conditioning, opened the window and muttered a silent apology to Keith for unjustly accusing him.

  Despite the fresh air Keith decided to go back to his own room. He still seemed a little put out that I had attracted the attention of a young, personable waiter. Presumably it would have been all right if the waiter was old or ugly or, better still, both. My mind strayed to thoughts of Diane. I shook myself. The foul air was infecting my thoughts and turning them nasty.

  I gradually became aware that I could hear voices coming from outside. Male English voices that seemed vaguely familiar. At least I was fairly confident that Keith had not made a late-night tryst with Diane. I peered through the opening. It was dark outside and, despite the fact that my room faced the front of the hotel with the car park, there was little in the way of outside lighting.

  Someone was smoking a cigarette; the smoke drifted up and I could see the red glow of the tip. Who in our group smoked? Hugh. But it did not sound like his voice and as he was quite a prolific smoker I doubted that Nancy insisted he go outside every time he lit up. They might just as well have separate rooms.

  I thought I could make out shadows, a large hat like the type that Graham wore. But aware that he does not smoke, what would Graham be doing outside and who could he be chatting to? The voices drifted away, became fainter. I fancied I heard the slam of a car door and then an engine revving. Then silence.

  I told myself I was being nosy and unduly suspicious, similarly to when I thought I heard a door quietly closing last night as Keith left my room, as if anyone would really be interested in our comings and goings.

  Time for bed I decided, climbing in alone.

  Chapter Twelve – Tuesday - Valley of a Thousand Kasbahs

  It must in some part have been due to the fresh air, as I slept well and woke feeling refreshed and ready for another day of sitting in a coach gazing out the window at scenery whizzing past. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks that Morocco is not a mosquito-prevalent country and thus I was able to keep the window open following the failure of the air conditioning unit to function properly.

  The morning was fine but a little chilly. As I closed the window I could barely discern any features outside; what should have been the car park was completely obscured by a dense fog.

  I showered, dressed and again was one of the first down for breakfast. Perhaps it is that call of the first morning early cup of tea (whereas I normally drink coffee at home, I find it is made much too strong in hotels) that beckons me. Whatever, I was one of the few early morning tourists perusing the fare on offer.

  I selected orange juice and yoghurt and settled myself at the same table as the previous evening. Almost at once the pleasant young waiter from last night appeared at my side.

  ‘Good morning,’ he greeted me, smiling broadly. ‘You slept well?’

  I nodded and swallowed at much the same time, thinking how much friendlier the staff in the hotels down south had been compared to those (other than the room maids) in the big cities of Istanbul, etc up north. It seems the world is the same all over; the metropolis is big and impersonal, but out in the rural outskirts you can get to know the people. Sometimes, whether you want to or not.

  ‘You are staying long?’ he asked me.

  I shook my head. ‘Off today,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh,’ he replaced his smile with a downward curve of his lips. A passing waiter (all waiters here I noted, no waitresses) muttered in his ear and the young man followed him into the kitchen, pausing at the swing doors to turn and flash me another one of his smiles before he passed through.

  Keith appeared when I was in the queue for tea and coffee. We watched while some women poured coffee into cereal bowls then helped ourselves out of the urns. Back at our table I mentioned this to Bob who commented, ‘Ay, yes, the French do that, pour their coffee into bowls instead of cups and then dunk their rolls.’ I glanced at Keith in a silent plea that he did not pick up this habit.

  The dining area was on the second floor. The curtains had all been drawn across last night obscuring any view but this morning they were pulled back to reveal a large patio area containing sun loungers – and what looked like four poster beds; loungers with canopies and drapes. There was also a large, obviously heated swimming pool, as wisps of steam rose up in the air to mingle with the fog, which was now clearing in places to reveal the countryside below. I decided to nip back up to my room for my camera in order to take some photos.

  I was just unlocking my door when Gordon came out of his adjoining room.

  ‘Good morning,’ I greeted him.

  ‘Oh, is it?’ he replied, a little wearily. ‘Bit of a bad night, dodgy tummy.’

  Well that explained the air conditioning.

  When I returned to the patio area Hugh was leaning on the balcony railings gazing at the view. Mist rolled over the vista, like waves over the seashore, revealing the landscape below. As each pocket of moisture cleared, buildings appeared before once again being momentarily hidden from view.

  ‘Just like a desert mirage,’ suggested Hugh, as I paused, camera at the ready to snap the township as the rolling fog parted. ‘Now you see it, now you don’t.’

  In the distant haze hills floated like islands and I was reminded of the mosque at Casablanca on its own little island. As the fog lifted it left everything looking brighter, clearer, as if it had been washed. Bright sunlight shone down on buildings that glistened. Everything looked fresh and in turn I felt energised and ready for more sightseeing.

  ‘Can you see, over there to the right,’ Hugh said, left hand raised to shade his eyes from the bright sunlight, right hand pointing to something in the distance.

  I turned to look and as I moved something back inside the dining area caught my attention. Diane had joined Keith for breakfast and, as I watched, she reached out her hand and placed it on top of his. His head was inclined slightly towards her in cosy conversation. My friendly waiter was clearing used
plates from the next table. Even from where I stood I was sure I could see a smile on his face mocking me and I heard again his words ‘your boyfriend?’ and my own evasive, negative reply.

  ‘There, that’s snow on the mountains,’ Hugh’s voice drifted into my reverie. ‘Abdul was saying that fresh snow fell overnight.’ I shivered, suddenly feeling cold, as I turned from my view of the dining room to that of the hillside.

  ‘It is still a bit fresh isn’t it?’ Hugh commented.

  I leant on the rail and contemplated the landscape below. Alternating stripes of sunlight and shade. That was how my relationship with Keith was progressing I thought. Good times of sunlight and not so good times of shadow; I wondered how well I knew him after all and what hidden depths lay beneath his surface.

  Beneath the fall of snow symbols were etched in the mountainside. I had seen similar symbols in Egypt, inscriptions to Allah I had been told then. I said a silent prayer to any gods that might have been listening to keep Keith safe from Diane. And return him to me.

  Our journey today was due to take us along the scenic route known as the Valley of the Thousand Kasbahs, with a visit to the outpost of the French Foreign Legion and as I sat (alone) in the coach gazing out of the window, my thoughts drifted again to Sunday teatime period dramas (and of course, Carry On films).

  As we drew near our destination Abdul pointed out a large, what appeared to be, mud brick building, arising as if out of the ground, its walls the same pinky reddish brown as the earth on which it stood. It was a stout, massive construction of towers and crenellations, with little rectangular windows set high up in regular patterns. It looked a massive fort and I was very impressed until Abdul explained that it had recently been built by an American film company, and that seemed to be the order of the day. Everywhere we turned it seemed film companies had been there before us.

  When we eventually arrived at the outpost it was, not surprisingly, slightly more dingy and drab in appearance than the unblemished building built by the film company. Abdul led us inside the outer courtyard and handed us over to Mohammed, our guide.

  While we waited for those in need to use the facilities, I gazed around. Actually, this building was very similar to the film set construction in that it was the same pinky reddish brown, if a little faded by the hot sun over the years but all the windows were little rectangular affairs, perched high up, as if either no-one lived at ground level or that those who did had such humdrum lives they were not granted the gift of any natural light. Of course, being basically a military installation having windows up high was only sensible, it made defence that much easier. I was reminded of Norman castles and the Crusader castles I had visited on my travels. As if to prove its military origin there was a large cannon in one corner.

  Mohammed gathered us together explaining that we were going to tour what had essentially been the commander’s house. He led us up little narrow stone stairways, through a multitude of tiny rooms, all higgledy piggledy on different levels or so it seemed; a little room here a few feet square, up several steps and into another tiny room; then to one side into a room down some steps. Most had bare walls with intricately patterned tiled borders where in a British house a picture rail might have run, in blues and greens, browns and whites, carved wooden ceilings and ornately arched doorways. Through the tiny barred windows (for our safety to stop people falling out or to keep the household in, I wondered) I could see the surrounding buildings looked much the same on the outside, each with flat roofs reached by a short flight of stairs.

  And then surprisingly, out of one window we could see what looked like Egyptian statues guarding the building opposite. But it was no surprise when Mohammed explained that the building belonged to a film studio, one of several in the area. Morocco, it appears can double for any number of countries.

  Once back outside I was a little disappointed. I am not sure what I expected the French Foreign Legion outpost to be like but what we had viewed had been the living accommodation belonging to the family of some high ranking official. It had not felt like touring a military installation such as a Crusader castle; it had appeared much the same as the palaces we had viewed previously.

  Did that make the palaces similar abodes to be defended against marauders? Perhaps. The history of most countries is filled with battles. What about the Tower of London or Windsor Castle? Homes and yet landmarks, statements of kingship or whoever was in charge. At least I could say I had seen it and learnt something.

  Mohammed then took us on a walk through the surrounding town, down little winding paths, past tiny corner shops and backstreet dwellings, with every now and then strong pongs and stenches on street corners, reminding us that we were tourists, just passing through a backwater of civilisation. At least this time we did not manage to lose anyone on the way.

  Just before we parted from Mohammed and got back on the bus he took us to a vantage point where we could stand and gaze back at the outpost walls. It really was a massive, imposing structure and did then look more like an outpost, a conglomeration of buildings huddled together against a common foe. A long boundary wall containing the people in and the foe out, just as in a Crusader castle, proving the world is the same all over.

  We had a mid-morning scenic stop to view from a distance Tifoultoute, the kasbah of a royal pasha. From a vantage point Abdul pointed out the hotel where the main stars for the film ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ had stayed. Not having seen the film myself, I was not really paying attention, but could have sworn he mentioned in his list of stars who had stayed there Julie Christie, but Hugh was insistent that the film was notable for its lack of female characters.

  I excused my lapse as being distracted by a man with a snake in a basket. You know the sort; whenever a bus load of tourists stop, some sort of sales person appears, touting for business, often tat, “jewellery” or stones and rocks or simply bottles of water.

  We passed yet another film studio complete with what by now seemed to be obligatory Egyptian statues outside on our way to lunch. Abdul explained that we were going on a little walk first. We left the bus and stepped into the blazing noon day sun. As Keith fell into step beside me any leftover gloominess from the morning was swept away. Well, maybe there was still a little nagging doubt of uneasiness that his affections were so free and easy, but then again, as I myself had said, we were just friends.

  We picked our away across a dried river bed, treading carefully over large cracks in the surface, some of the mud still being tacky. I noticed that Gordon was trudging along with the aid of his stick again today. Presumably he did not feel the need to use it on a daily basis but just when walking long distances or over uneven terrain.

  Workmen were busy on some sort of feature for yet another film company. We passed a large stone gateway which Abdul explained had been constructed for the 1986 film “The Jewel of the Nile” with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner and I admitted that I had seen that. Further along we came to the much smaller, less impressive, original stone entrance to the settlement of Ait Ben Haddou.

  As we entered the town the first thing we saw marking the benches and steps, where previous walkers had tried to scrape the mud off their shoes along the way, were little piles of the stuff littering the way like mounds of dog dirt.

  On the right Abdul pointed out a roughly circular dirt area where he claimed the fight scenes from “Gladiator” had been filmed. It seemed so small compared to the El Jem arena in Tunisia where I had previously been told some scenes, notably those of the underground cages, had been filmed. We snaked single file through streets of old houses and shops huddled on the hillside until we came out to a bridge leading back over the river bed, and made our way across it towards our eatery.

  Lunch was in a large canteen-like place with an equally large communal toilet area, men using cubicles down the left-hand side of the room with ladies down the right. For a society that at times seemed to like to keep the sexes separate it was quite a surprise.

  Gordon decided he did
not want any lunch, patting his middle he muttered he had a dodgy tummy and Abdul let him rest on the bus by himself.

  Surprisingly enough, and it was a nice change, we had soup for lunch, yellow lentil, reminding me of my holiday in Turkey, when we had eaten yellow lentil soup for lunch nearly every day. This was followed by a massive omelette cooked, inevitably, in a tagine and containing small chunks of beef that was rather salty, followed by the inevitable slices of melon.

  After lunch, as we trooped back to the bus, Abdul stopped by a large map of the country that was pinned on the wall by the door to point out the poppy fields of the Rif mountains. We were too polite to mention that we had been shown a similar one earlier; how long ago that seemed now. Although it did seem curious that our guides appeared eager to point out their drug cultivation culture that I might have thought them keen to sidestep.

  When I got back on the bus I discovered my belongings had been moved. Hmm.

  I normally keep just about everything with me. It has caused some raised eyebrows in the past that I lug my rucksack (containing handbag, water, camera, sun tan lotion, books, cardi) with me wherever I go. The only time it gets left in my room is when I take my handbag out to go down to dinner. My handbag contains not only my money – foreign and English – but also my credit card, door keys (home and hotel), my passport, medical diary of inoculation details, a pen, flight tickets, taxi documents and travel insurance. I don’t lock things in my suitcase as I have heard of people still getting passports and items stolen and I don’t trust hotel room safes; they can be difficult to programme, impossible to open and are still not a guarantee against theft.