Thirteen in the Medina Read online

  We appeared to be the only group at the site, as we trooped single file along a narrow stony pathway, which meandered through the town. Not only was the site of historical interest but also horticulturally; Abdul stopped and pointed out a banana tree and it was interesting to see the bunches growing upside down. Then we walked along a bit further and Nancy pointed out a tree that she understood to have hallucinogenic seeds.

  I walked carefully, watching where I was putting my feet, not only to guard against tripping on the uneven stones but to look at the actual stones themselves. I picked up and discarded one or two before spying something with a reddish tinge. I rubbed the dirt off it carefully as I turned it around in my fingers.

  ‘What have you found?’ Graham peered myopically over my right elbow. ‘Something interesting?’

  ‘I think,’ I hesitated, unsure, but hopeful, ‘I think, it’s a piece of red Samian ware.’ I handed the shard of pottery over. It was about the size of my thumbnail and looked swamped in Graham’s bearlike hand. He turned it over and rubbed it, much as I had done.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ he agreed, handing it back.

  ‘What is it? What have you got?’ Keith appeared on my left side, hand outstretched for a look.

  Before I could reply Graham answered, ‘Some Roman pot.’ I handed the fragment to Keith who examined it carefully before returning it, then started looking around himself.

  As we walked on a few paces I spied a plain piece of pottery rim, distinguishable from the surrounding stones by its smooth curved surface. I stooped down to pick it up and add it to the samian ware in my pocket.

  ‘Are you keeping those bits?’ Graham enquired, bending down to examine a stone.

  I nodded. ‘It’s normally okay to keep one or two small pieces that you find,’ I explained. ‘I usually check with the tour guide and they normally say it’s alright, as long they are small fragments that you find on the ground. Stuff that might otherwise be trodden on and ground underfoot, but it’s not permitted to take large bits, or heaven forbid, knock off bits of monuments or anything.’

  ‘Didn’t someone do that once?’ commented Hugh, ‘Knock a bit off an Easter Island statue?’

  Graham nodded, ‘I think you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘A bit of ear or something.’

  ‘So what happens in a situation like that?’ Hugh patted his pockets in a search for his cigarettes.

  ‘When I was in Egypt a few years ago,’ I began, ‘in the Valley of the Kings, one of our group saw a Japanese tourist take a photo inside a tomb, which is banned. There are signs up everywhere telling you that it is prohibited. Anyway -,’ I stooped to pass under a low hanging branch, ‘- this tourist took a picture and one of the guards warned him, but he did it again.’ I paused to concentrate on the path, which had begun to slope downhill.

  ‘So what happened?’ Keith urged, ready with a steadying hand in case I slipped.

  ‘He was taken away by the guards.’ I replied. ‘We asked our tour guide what would happen and he said that he thought the man’s camera would be confiscated and that he would be deported and banned from visiting again.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ commented Graham. ‘After all, if there are warning signs that say please don’t take pictures and a guard also warns you in case you haven’t understood, but I expect the signs are written in several languages and have the universal symbol of a camera with a red cross through it, meaning “no”, if you ignore all that you deserve what you get in my book.’ We all nodded and muttered agreements.

  ‘But Carrie can keep her piece of pot she found?’ Keith queried.

  ‘Well, she hasn’t damaged anything, it was there on the ground and has probably been trodden on by countless people,’ Graham said.

  ‘It depends on the circumstances,’ I said. ‘And where you are. When I was in Jordan the tour guide picked up one or two bits himself and handed them round, whereas, in Turkey they have signs up saying it is an offence to remove anything from a site, as it is part of their heritage. Even pieces of pottery that are scattered over the ground are covered by this regulation. Bags are thoroughly checked at the airport on departure. Our tour guide advised people against picking up bits, but then I think possibly that was because one man had a chunk the size of my fist.’

  I looked at Keith’s crestfallen face. ‘But I am sure here it would be okay if you found a small piece like I have.’ He looked a little happier. ‘But just a small piece and only one or two,’ I re-iterated. ‘I once picked up some fragments in Tunisia and put them in the back pocket of my trousers, as that was the only pockets I had. Three hours sitting on the coach later I had quite a numb bum!’

  Graham laughed, but warned me, ‘Just make sure you check any signs,’ he said, wagging his finger at me. ‘Just be careful.’

  In hindsight possibly he was warning me against more than just picking up discarded pieces of pottery.

  Our next stop was at the Mausoleum of Mohammed V and the Hassan Tower, a twelfth century minaret which, along with its accompanying mosque, Abdul informed us as we gathered around him on the pavement outside the complex, was never completed. Instead of the usual stairs to ascend the tower there are ramps, which would have enabled the muezzin to ride a horse to the top in order to conduct the call to prayer.

  On the other hand, the mausoleum is a relatively recent construction being completed in the 1970’s and after a brief stroll around the ruins of the tower we sauntered across to the other building along each side of which guarding the entrances stood rather tall, serious looking young men.

  As is often the case it is permitted to stand next to these guards and have a quick photo taken and, as Abdul explained about how we should keep a respectful distance and remain courteous in this solemn resting place, I noticed Ann and Diane suddenly put on a spurt in an effort to find a young man next to which they could have their photos taken. Diane’s efforts were rather in vain as Larry declared he was not hurrying in this heat – and he had the camera.

  There seemed to be four young men, one along each side, and as Diane and Ann jostled in front of the nearest, I had wandered around the far side and there in relative shade was possibly the tallest guard I had ever seen, dressed in a white suit with flowing trousers topped with a bright red cloak and a little squarish green hat.

  Nervously I inched forward, nodding a silent greeting to the youth and placed myself what I considered to be a respectful distance whilst still being within the same camera shot. I think I just about came up to the chap’s armpit. Keith went through his David Bailey routine, first with my camera and then using his phone, after which we swapped places and I took a couple of shots of him so that he could send one to his nephew, Colin. We both thanked the young man for his time, took a quick peek inside the mausoleum, which after all was supposed to be the object of our visit and then made our way back to the coach.

  The entrance to the area was guarded by two mounted Royal guards and as Keith and I passed through the gateway we came across Larry and Hugh admiring them – or rather admiring their steeds. Reminiscent of the Roman soldiers in their flowing cloaks that Colin had admired and aimed to emulate, these security officers sported billowing white capes over their pristine white uniforms.

  In the same way that the sentries had all seemed to be particularly tall – was that a requirement of the job I wondered? – the horses seemed magnificent specimens worthy of our appreciation. As Larry was pointing out – from a respectful distance – their coats gleamed with health and they radiated muscular strength, and I assumed he was referring to the horses but the men looked okay to me as well. I heard Larry say, ‘Hmm, yes, vet,’ before I became aware of a disturbance coming from somewhere behind me.

  I turned just in time as two more mounted guards, presumably on their way to replace their colleagues, were bearing down on us. Or I should say, bearing down on me. Keith had wandered over to Larry and Hugh, leaving me marooned in the middle of the pavement with two extremely large horses approaching from behind
. I quickly spun around to beat a retreat in the other direction, only to find that now in front of me were the original two horsemen who had begun their own leave taking manoeuvre.

  Flustered, I did not know which way to move in an effort to get out of their way. Momentarily I panicked and then froze as my brain told me not to move and that the men could easily see me and move around me.

  Then, just as the horses approaching from the rear were about to draw level, I realised I was not alone in the middle of the pavement. I felt a hand shove me in the small of my back and I suddenly lurched forwards into the path of the oncoming stallion. Simultaneously, as I sucked in my breath in surprise, another hand reached out to steady me and stop me from falling into the path of guards.

  I looked across into the concerned eyes of a soldier dressed in a more usual green uniform. His hand gripped my arm painfully but I was grateful for the support. By now the four horsemen had completed their exercise; the two incoming were settled in place by the gateway, the outgoing were clopping steadily away into the distance.

  The soldier released his grip on my arm as Larry and Hugh rushed across each asking the same questions, was I alright? What happened? Did I trip? The soldier was looking nervously at me and I gathered that his function in the proceedings was to keep over-enthusiastic members of the public (or troublemakers) away from the sentries, as they went through their little performance – and he had not been as observant as he should have been in not preventing the incident. He also did not appear to speak English, unless he was as shaken as I was and finding it hard to speak coherently.

  I tried to assure everybody that I was fine, as by now the whole group seemed to be gathered around me. Somewhat shakily, I smiled my thanks at the soldier for his steadying hand and he melted away into the crowd.

  No, I did not know what happened I told them, it had all happened so fast, with horses in front of me and also behind me. I tripped and stumbled, I explained.

  Except that I was sure someone had deliberately tried to push me into the horses’ path, but whom? Any why would anyone wish me any harm?

  It was a short journey in the coach to our stop for lunch at the Oudaya Kasbah, described as a city within a city, a picturesque area of Ribat which is located at the mouth of a river, but it gave me enough time to compose myself.

  Perhaps I had over-reacted and it had been an accident, just someone trying to get a better view of the horses, trying to nudge me out of the way. But in that case why didn’t the culprit own up or apologise? However, the pressure of the hand thrust into my back still seemed to burn and suggest otherwise.

  The Kasbah entrance was up a wide staircase and through an imposing doorway. Then we were through into narrow little streets lined by white and blue painted buildings. Abdul issued strict instructions for us to keep together as he led us along to a vantage point where we could view the wide mouth of the river, and then it was back through more winding narrow streets to the restaurant where we were booked for lunch.

  Even after the traumas of the morning I realised I was hungry. Lunch was the familiar routine of cold mixed vegetable starters followed by the main meal being served in a large terracotta tagine. In between courses Keith showed me a small piece of pottery he had managed to find at Sala Colonia. Graham again expressed an interest in the fragment.

  ‘It’s just a harmless way of collecting souvenirs,’ I told him. ‘I’m saving one of my plastic water bottles for some Sahara sand.’

  The older man nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’re aiming to do the camel ride over the sand dunes then?’ he enquired and I agreed that that was my intention.

  Keith added, ‘Carrie has all these odds ‘n’ sods on display on her mantelpiece.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gordon seemed interested. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Some volcanic rock,’ I replied. ‘I collected some samples several years ago from Mount Vesuvius so when I went up Mount Etna last year I picked up some from there too.’

  ‘So, you’ve been to Sicily?’ Graham asked. ‘That’s interesting.’

  But before I could comment further Diane, who was seated on the neighbouring table to our rear, leaned back so as to come between us and laying a hand on Keith’s arm asked him, ‘And what do you do?’

  Tuning into the conversation on that table I realised they were discussing their various occupations, after Larry’s admission earlier in the morning whilst he had been admiring the horses.

  ‘Oh, I work in a shop,’ replied Keith. Whilst some people might be tempted on holiday to inflate their job status – as who would ever find out? – my young friend was his usual honest, open self. ‘You?’ he asked in return to which Diane fluttered her hand and made a little moue.

  ‘Oh, this and that, you know,’ she said vaguely. ‘Sometimes I help out Larry if one of his assistants is sick,’ she added, seeming to imply that such a role was not in her usual remit. As we were seated on the other table and thus might have missed the crucial revelation she repeated it for our – or Keith’s – benefit, ‘He’s a vet, you know.’

  I don’t think Keith was as impressed with this titbit as she had expected him to be, as he just commented, ‘Oh,’ while I had visions of Diane sporting a large, pink washing up glove with her hand shoved up a cow’s backside like James Herriot in the television series.

  Meanwhile, Ann turned around and added, ‘And Hugh’s an acupuncturist you know? We seemed to be graced by some very clever people on this tour,’ she giggled but I noted she failed to inform us of her husband’s profession.

  ‘It’s funny but sometimes on holiday you find several people in the group with similar jobs,’ added Karen. ‘Last year when we went to Portugal nearly everyone seemed to be teachers or college lecturers; here we seem to have a medical bent. I’m a theatre nurse.’

  Ann tittered, took a large gulp of her wine and offered, ‘Well I did a basic first aid course once – does that count?’

  ‘Of course it does!’ Carole asserted, taking us by surprise, as often she declined to join in the general conversation. ‘Any sort of first aid course is very important. It should be compulsory in schools,’ she declared.

  ‘And so you, of course, are a certified first aider?’ Nancy asked, her bright eyes narrowed as if she sensed negation.

  ‘St John’s ambulance,’ Carole professed a little smugly.

  ‘So,’ said Graham turning to me, ‘if you had come a cropper earlier today there would have been plenty of people qualified to patch you up. Seriously though,’ he added as he stared at me intently, ‘are you okay? Just a little shaken I expect. I didn’t really see what happened; engrossed in watching the spectacle.’

  I smiled as best as I was able and assured him I was fine. The memory of the imprint in the small of my back told me not everyone had had eyes only on the horses.

  After lunch we had a relaxing drive in the coach as we headed northwards towards Tangiers. Once there we took a brief turn through the port before setting off towards our next hotel. On the way we had a brief photo stop on a cliff top overlooking some intrepid goats, so that Abdul could point out a strip of deeper blue in the water where he claimed the tides of the Mediterranean Sea meet the Atlantic Ocean and marks the borders between Morocco and Spain.

  Then, as we neared our destination, Abdul explained that there had been a change in the accommodation plans. Due to unfavourable feedback from previous groups the tour company had decided to book us into a different hotel. To the backdrop of various gasps and murmurs Abdul assured us that we would be very comfortable and happy in our replacement lodgings.

  Keith seemed unconcerned by this piece of news but I could tell others were not so cheerful.

  I must admit before booking on a trip I normally google the various hotels to check their customer ratings in a general manner; I am aware that some people complain about anything and everything but if a place has more bad reviews than good then I would normally give it a wide berth. Plus, it’s nice to get the heads up on any noisy nightclubs in the vicinity t
hat might affect room choice. Most importantly I like to see pictures of the size of the place – the number of floors whose stairs I might have to trudge up; I certainly did not want to be given a room on the top floor of the building we had just pulled up outside.

  However, I also leave a list containing the various hotels’ details with my sister when I go on holiday in case she – or any other member of the family – needs to get in touch with me in an emergency and presumably other people do the same and therefore the details supplied would be incorrect in this instance.

  Despite the initial disgruntlement over the last-minute change of hotel we were quite a contented bunch at dinner. Whatever the failings of the replaced establishment this was another quality hotel as Keith was keen to mention when we gathered for pre-dinner drinks in the bar.

  The bar area was situated just off the main entrance foyer as if to entice unwary prospective travellers further inside the establishment. After I had unpacked, showered and changed for dinner I found Keith perched on a stool at the counter of the circular bar, behind which a smartly dressed lady in a matching business suit to those worn by the receptionists stood ready to serve. I was a little miffed that he had not come to my room to meet me but mollified to see his drinking companion was Bob.

  I had put on a flowing long dark brown skirt and a semi-fitted top in shades of gold in deference to the huge number of stars I guessed this place listed after its name and so I decided to keep the pretence up and ordered a glass of red wine; let the men drink their Casablanca beer, besides I suspected that here bottled beer would be served at a premium price and the wine would be better value. I needed to find an ATM to withdraw some more beer money, although my drinks could be charged to my room when staying one night only I preferred to settle my room bills in cash as it was a convenient way of changing large bills into something smaller with which to then buy water, postcards and souvenirs etc.