‘It should be all right,’ I confirmed. ‘I once read that people often develop an upset stomach on holiday, not through poor hygiene but just because their stomachs are not used to the different types of food and the way it is cooked. However, this is a five-star hotel and their water should be okay, although I probably would not risk drinking it, or possibly using it for cleaning my teeth. Did you pack a small bottle of mineral water like I suggested?’
I normally pack a small bottle of water in my case as sometimes on the first night it is not easy to buy a bottle, not immediately having any small currency, or arriving late into the night after the bar has closed for the evening, or with restaurants that only sell hugely expensive bottles. Mini bar bottles can also be rather pricy. Plus, once the bottle in the case has been used, you know your case will be that much lighter for going home and can buy souvenirs etc to take its place. A sort of exchange of weight/space displacement. Assuming, of course, that your bathroom scales have weighed your case correctly in the first place.
Reassured, Keith piled his plate with green salad and all sorts of healthy food. He might be small in stature but he has a healthy build and appetite. I mentally crossed my fingers that the food was safe otherwise he might start the holiday with a massive upset stomach. And I would be in his bad books, and I did not want to spend the next fourteen days with Keith in a sulk.
The wine waiter served Keith when he returned to the table. He then grudgingly poured a dribble in my glass and as soon as his back was turned I topped it up to just below the rim of the glass.
The salad held no surprises, no hidden bugs in unwashed greens; no unusual items masquerading as something else with hidden twangs. Emboldened I returned inside to stock up on the main course. I piled some chicken (it looked fully cooked) in sauce on my plate with some rice, a spoonful of pasta, some beef (or goat or camel) with some white fish and sliced green beans.
My mother once complained during a foreign holiday that she did not like the food, she wished it was more “English”… I had found it hard to explain to her the differences between her concept of dinner, comprising of meat and two veg, and a continental European diet.
Keith kindly refilled my glass before nipping off for his main course. His plate was much the same as mine, although he also had more carrots, beetroot and cauliflower (before the end of the fortnight I did get a little weary of carrots, cauliflower and beetroot, for starter (cold) and with the main meal (hot), especially when it was served at lunchtime as well as for dinner.
I tend not to talk too much while I eat, but I listened with one ear to Keith converse with Graham about cameras. Diane had listened eagerly at first but her interest soon waned and I overheard her chatting to Graham’s wife Karen about living in Norfolk and the wind over the flat plains and how she preferred living in Berkshire, with more woodlands and countryside. Karen and Graham, it appeared had travelled from Oxford, Inspector Morse country.
With a third and final glass of wine I was ready for the sweet table. Keith, I noticed had two pieces of chocolate cake on his plate, alongside a slice of melon.
‘I’m stocking up,’ he said, ‘just in case the food in the next hotel is not so good.’
Just for a second my optimism in the holiday wavered; I have been with companies who when touring booked excellent first and last hotels with ropey ones (normally the main ones for a longer stay) in between, which gave a good impression to start with and with the aim of leaving a good impression at the end, but in my experience the one that gave the lasting impression was the dire middle hotel on a noisy main street, with thin echoing walls, inedible food and slovenly staff.
‘And how about you?’ enquired Diane abruptly, placing her hand on Keith’s arm for a few seconds to gain his attention. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Oh, we live in Poole,’ he replied, popping his last piece of cake into his mouth, and carefully wiping any crumbs from his moustache. ‘Dorset.’
I suppressed a smile as Diane’s brows narrowed in consternation at the implied notion that we lived together. Well, we do in a way, we both live in Poole, just in different parts of it. I was not about to correct her misunderstanding. She tapped her dessert fork against her teeth.
‘Poole…’ she mused, fixing her smile back in place. ‘On the coast…yes… friends of ours keep a boat at Lymington.’ Then abruptly she turned back to Karen. ‘And what do you do in Oxford, Karen?’
I tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. Part of me wanted to be nosey and listen to their conversation and I heard Karen say something about working in a hospital but it had been a long day and I was starting to feel rather tired. I sat back, content and replete with the good food, the (three) glasses of wine, the warm night air, and dare I say it, the company. The evening was still warm, a pleasant reminder that we were far from home. At the far end of the table Hugh, the tall thin man with the goatee, had lit a cigarette and was puffing away. The smoke mingled with the smell of the food and women’s perfume. I did indeed feel happy and relaxed. Graham smiled.
‘I’m not normally a night owl,’ he volunteered. ‘Karen is, but I like to turn in early with a good book.’ Which started Keith and Graham on a discussion regarding their favourite authors. Larry, Diane’s husband joined in and I closed my ears to various name dropping.
Another yawn. Keith took that as a cue it was time to turn in for the night.
‘What are we doing tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘Do we get a wake-up call? What time’s breakfast?’
I ignored the question about breakfast for a second on the basis that having just finished eating he could not be hungry again already. Then again, I have met some men (and let’s be honest and not sexist, some women) who just never stop eating.
Diane, keen to gain his attention again, chipped in. ‘We’re due a leisurely start tomorrow. Meet at ten in the foyer for a brief tour around Marrakesh. I think we see a tower and some gardens.’ She briefly touched his arm again. ‘Larry and I are going to the bar for a night cap. Come and join us.’ Her glance briefly included Graham and Karen but did not extend as far down the table to where I was seated.
Keith raised an enquiring eyebrow at me. I shook my head.
‘I’m turning in,’ I said, declining the offer. ‘I’ve still got a few bits to unpack.’ I did not want to appear clingy, possessive or anything, so I added, ‘You go if you want to, but I think I’ve already had enough to drink for the first night.’ Another yawn. ‘I don’t want to shock the system too much, with tons of booze and foreign food.’
Keith contemplated his companions. Diane, Larry, Graham and Karen were for the bar, as were Phil and Ann, the tall grey-haired man with the short wife, while Hugh and Nancy, his wife, plus Robert were for going to their rooms. The other couple who I had sat next to on the plane, Carole and Gordon, had retired earlier; so much earlier in fact, most of us had missed them leaving, assuming that they had nipped back inside to the buffet for more food but had never returned.
‘No,’ he decided, ‘I think I’ll turn in too. I don’t normally drink half a bottle of wine.’
The first night and everyone is being ultra-polite and keen to get along. Before too long the back biting and bitching sets in; after several days of the enforced proximity of close confinement with unfamiliar people who begin to get on each other’s nerves, to which there is no escape, as although being on the move whilst touring the country, everyone moves on together.
In a larger tour group there are more opportunities to mingle and you can avoid - or try to – anyone whom you may find annoying. But for now, we were companionably seated at one long table, al fresco, in the warm Moroccan night air, which we would not be doing in cold, damp old England.
But I was wrong about there being no escape; people found ways to disappear during this tour even if it was just for a moment.
As we headed back to our rooms I was glad that the night time gloom hid my smile of glee that Keith was accompanying me, as he had decided against joining the blonde woman
in the bar, despite her parting pout of disappointment, when I thought I saw a movement in the shadows by the pool.
Chapter Four – Monday – Marrakesh
Keith unfortunately arrived to breakfast in his shorts. I had forgotten about them. It was bad enough seeing his legs, that were inclined to a little chubbiness, in the privacy of my back garden but on full display in a foreign country I was not too sure; perhaps there is a regulation about that? If not, maybe there should be. Like ladies having to keep their shoulders covered; men with dodgy legs should also be required to keep them under wraps.
It might not have been so bad if Keith’s shorts were the same as other men’s – a discrete beige or khaki, casual but stylish; but Keith’s shorts were baggy and shapeless, ending just below the knee. And maroon; covered in some sort of pattern of spots and zigzags in black. Was he wearing a bizarre pair of Bermuda shorts because he thought that Morocco was located in the Caribbean? I think they were cotton but I did not stand close enough to find out.
Had I eaten something dodgy at breakfast, as I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach? Did I still have time to pretend I did not know him? That it was all a mistake? I think the others in the group were aware that we were not together as such; we had separate rooms, and although last night we had arrived at the restaurant together, that could have been a coincidence. Could I persuade them that we had actually just met for the first time at the airport?
I could see people giving him looks. Sly, sideways glances. They nudged each other and raised eyebrows. Keith just stood there with his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly. Then he turned around and saw me sitting at a secluded table partly obscured by a pillar.
Sometimes I am not at my best first thing in the morning; I need to ease gently into the day. Especially after half a bottle of wine the night before. He grinned. My heart fluttered. Perhaps I should admit to knowing him after all. As he started to walk towards me the bottle blonde put out her arm and stopped him as he passed by her table.
‘Oh, hi,’ she cooed. ‘You look very relaxed this morning.’ As Diane fluttered her eyelashes at him he flashed me a despairing glance. She did not seem to notice his discomfort in her attention, as she openly looked him up and down. She patted the chair beside her. ‘Come and join Larry and me for breakfast.’ She urged. Was it my imagination or had there been an emphasis, as she uttered the word ‘me’?
I had instilled in Keith the notion of getting along with people, joining in, not appearing aloof and remaining separate, especially in a small tour group. ‘That’s the way to get along,’ I had said. ‘Mingle.’
Keith dutifully mingled and I breakfasted alone.
It can be interesting to note that on holiday men take an extra special care in their grooming. From my partially hidden breakfast table I could spy on my companions. Phil’s hair was damp from the shower and clung in three soggy clumps across his skull. Keith also appeared freshly washed, though not shaved. His beard was damp and the edges of it curled around his ears slightly as it dried. I wondered how people viewed us – as a couple? Or just good friends? (Or come to that, how did Keith himself view us? Just good friends…or…?)
Hugh and Nancy had apparently been early birds down to breakfast and had disappeared back to their room in order to get ready for our tour of the town. I thought that Robert was the last to appear until Carole and Gordon turned up, bickering, already in normal spousal mode. I could not quite make out what the disagreement was about, but Gordon’s head was lowered in servitude as he dutifully followed her around the breakfast buffet, as she seemed to be giving orders on what to select. That completed she strode past my table, and several minutes later Gordon followed, laden with juice glasses and bowls of cereal or fresh fruit. Later he went back to the buffet and returned to their table carrying plates of scrambled egg and mushrooms. He made another trip for cups of tea and then a final meander for toast. Carole remained seated the whole time. I gathered who wore the trousers (cream linen, neatly pressed with a centre crease) in that household.
Which set me thinking about Keith’s shorts again. I wondered just how many pairs in total he possessed? And were any of the others as brightly patterned?
Our first visit of the day was to a small local shop for bottled water, though “shop” is possibly a too grand a term for what seemed little more than a hole in the wall with a central counter. The previous evening Keith and I had managed to change some of our English currency into Moroccan dirhams at reception and by some miracle had some coins small enough to buy a large bottle each.
I much prefer to have a local tour manager whilst on holiday as I usually find they are keen to show off their country, more so than an English tour manager supplied by the company, who views the trip as merely just another job, however for some reason Abdul deserted us here and handed our care over to a local tour guide named Hicham, a wizened little man who could have been aged anywhere from thirty to seventy, dressed in a traditional ankle length dark brown djellaba. His face was lined and wrinkled and he looked extremely worried, but his nut-brown eyes were clear and shone with intelligence and humour, and his hands were as smooth as a young girl’s.
With everyone suitably loaded with supplies we set off, a long snake like procession of pale faced travellers, along the dusty streets, for our first real tourist stop of the day, the ruins of the Palais El Badi.
While Hicham chatted with the ticket vendor I quickly groped in my bag for my sun tan lotion and slapped some down my arms and shoulders and smeared it across my cheeks. It might only have been mid-morning but the sun was beating down and, being British, I was unaccustomed to it. I always tie my hair back into a pony tail when on holiday in an effort to keep as cool as possible and often, but not always, wear a garish, green sun hat.
Hicham led us up a narrow flight of stairs, and from this vantage point we could see not only the layout of the grounds of the ruined palace, with its abandoned pools and gardens, but views out over the city; the washing lines on the neighbouring houses, many with stork nests in their chimney pots. Hicham unfolded his hands that he had clasped up his sleeves and in heavily accented English started to talk in a monotone that was difficult to follow. I soon gave up and just wandered around taking photos. After about five minutes he led us back downstairs and through a door into the courtyard below where he began another indecipherable speech about something to do with the ponds and pavilions.
A few minutes later he rounded us up and off we went for our next visit, the Bahia Palace, which had been built by the same family as the ruins we had just left. This was comprised of a rabbit warren of a building, with small rooms and corridors leading off all over the place, and at the end of the visit we discovered that we had lost Carole and Gordon.
Larry went back inside to find them and that was the last we saw of him for a while. Phil wanted to go and search for Larry but Hicham told those of us remaining in the group to stay where we were just by the exit, while he disappeared back into the building’s gloomy interior. Almost as soon as he had gone Carole and Gordon somehow reappeared out the entrance and had to be restrained from going back inside to inform Larry and Hicham that they were safe. With all these comings and goings, Hugh commented with a wry smile, he half expected to see the Keystone Cops emerge.
Keith was slouched against a low wall slurping water from his bottle, a sardonic grin on his face. He cocked an eyebrow in my direction.
‘Are your holidays normally like this?’ he asked.
Hicham, slighted embarrassed but much relieved after having rounded up Larry, quickly did a head count to make sure no-one else had wandered off while his back was turned. We were now, he explained, going for a walk through the medina to find our restaurant for lunch. Everyone stick together please. At least I thought that was what he was saying but no-one seemed to be taking any notice. Diane had wandered off to admire a cat with her kittens playing in the dust and Phil was snapping away with his camera at the coloured tiles atop the wall, while Carole and Go
rdon were having words about whose fault it was that they had become separated from the rest of the group.
Keith wondered over and confessed he was quite hungry, which surprised me as from behind my vantage point this morning he seemed to have eaten more than sufficient to last several hours.
We followed Hicham in single file until it became clear that actually we, or at least I, in the narrow, twisty- turny passages, was following the person in front. I was following Ann (she was not hard to miss, being round and at times her bulk filled the narrow space, and I could not have passed her even if I had wanted to). It soon became clear, however, that Ann was following a total stranger. Luckily, or not as the case may be, the rest of the group, being behind me, had obviously just trailed along and so we all ended up lost together. Ann felt a bit embarrassed at leading everyone else astray, but it could just as well have been any one of us. It’s easy. At a junction or crossroads you follow the person in front; if you are not concentrating and the person in front is not who you think they are, you take a wrong turning and get lost. Simple.
Once we realised our mistake we stood there frantically peering up and down the alleyway, trying to decide whether to backtrack or go further along the passageway or simply stand still, when Hicham appeared, like a messiah in the sunlight, to lead us to safety. I vowed to concentrate more in future and not rely on the judgement of someone else.
We continued on our way until Hicham stopped suddenly in a doorway of a large building in order to show us a map of the country illustrating the various regions. He pointed out the High Atlas Mountains and the Middle Atlas Mountains, before giving a little giggle and tapped an area up in the north of the country, which he commented was the “Rif Mountains.”
I did not understand why Hugh and Graham were exchanging grins and smiles until the latter explained, ‘It’s where they grow “Kif” – the so-called “Moroccan Red” marijuana that the rock stars of the sixties and seventies smoked. I think we drive through the area in a couple of days’ time.’ Carole rolled her eyes heavenwards while her husband shook his head and tutted.
Thirteen in the Medina Page 4
