Thirteen in the Medina

by Flora McGowan

  Courtesy of Carole, our group was the first to gain admittance to the small “Oasis” dining room. I smoothly steered Keith towards a table at the rear of the room with Nancy, Hugh, Karen and Graham, leaving Diane to shoot him glances from the accompanying table where she was wedged between Gordon and Larry. Bob was finishing his drinks in the bar, whilst Phil and Ann entered a little unsteadily, and joined Carole on the second table.

  Keith’s swim seemed to have given him an appetite, as he had no sooner taken a seat, admired the napkins and the candles, then he had disappeared in search of food. I watched him across the room peering at various platters with one eye, the other on Diane who appeared trapped between two men, the intimacy of the smaller room meaning she could not easily leave her seat without the other two also vacating theirs, and Gordon was deep in conversation with Larry. She squirmed and wriggled but neither man took the hint, however it crossed my mind that Larry had purposefully manoeuvred her into the middle chair.

  ‘Would you care to order, madam?’

  I looked up trying not to let my amazement show, but pretend that I had been offered a wine menu every evening of my stay in Morocco. Smiling my thanks, I took the menu the waitress offered (another first, a waitress) and quickly scanned the page to locate a recognisable, reasonably priced (i.e. the cheapest) bottle of red wine. With another smile I made my selection and handed back the list acknowledging that out of the roomful of men she had selected me to serve first. We girls needed to stick to together.

  In the blink of an eye, she returned with the bottle, deftly opened it and poured a dribble into my wine glass. I sipped and nodded my approval, allowing her to fill my glass and leave the bottle. As soon as her back was turned, I filled Keith’s glass, just as he was returning with his food.

  The food matched the upmarket décor. The salads of the starters were crisper, the sauces of the main courses richer, the fresh fruit of the desserts juicier.

  I try and make it a rule whilst on holiday to pack evening clothes which are loose and if they do have waists, to ensure that these are expandable to allow ease of eating huge meals. After all, if I have paid for it I want to enjoy it as much as possible. I wondered if Keith’s black trousers (he only seemed to have the one pair, after all those pairs of shorts) were getting a little tight?

  After a leisurely dinner, Karen suggested we withdraw with our drinks. The staff seemed keen to clear away and I was struck again by the sparsity of other guests; no second sitting here. Were all those hordes of people last night here for a conference?

  I picked up the remains of our wine bottle, and ushered Keith to follow Karen. As we vacated the room Karen noticed that there were tables and chairs by the pool, and other guests were sat outside in the warm evening air. No man in black here keeping diners away from the pool I noticed.

  Our group, minus Carole and Gordon, settled ourselves around two poolside tables. I scanned the hotel building wondering if my room was within distance; would I be disturbed by the drunken voices of late night revellers mingled in with the sounds of cars?

  As if Keith had been able to read my thoughts, he leaned across and said quietly so that no-one else could hear, ‘Diane has suggested we go across to the nightclub later.’ He nodded in the direction of a building across the car park. Well, that explained the cars coming and going at all hours of the night. ‘I am not sure who else she has invited,’ he added. I stared at him in some disbelief. Was he trying to convince himself or me that this was not an invitation for him alone? Otherwise, why was he whispering?

  ‘So, are you going?’ I enquired, holding my breath for his reply.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I haven’t been invited,’ I pointed out. I glanced across to where Larry and Diane were seated in conversation with Phil and Ann, then back to Keith whose expression led me to believe he was waiting for me to arrive at a decision. ‘I feel rather tired. It’s been a long day; I think I might just have this quick drink and turn in for the night.’ After my shock poolside that afternoon I was not feeling particularly adventurous for a night on the town. ‘But you go, if you want to,’ I added, magnanimously.

  ‘So, are you young people heading over to the nightclub, then?’ Graham asked, pulling his chair up a little closer to the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Diane’s head jerk up in attention.

  I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘At least, I’m not.’ We both looked towards Keith expectantly, who evaded the question with another, ‘Where are we going tomorrow? Have we an early start?’

  ‘Another medina,’ supplied Hugh. ‘So, stock up on breadcrumbs, twine, thread, string, we might just need it!’ he joked.

  ‘Are all medinas narrow little alleyways?’ Keith enquired.

  The older man nodded. ‘Most originate from mediaeval times, when people travelled around on foot, or perhaps on a donkey. You may find in other North African countries similar style, narrow, maze-like areas, that allow access to a bicycle, or possibly a moped or motorbike but no vehicular traffic are permitted.’

  ‘So, what’s the difference between a maze and a labyrinth?’ Karen queried.

  ‘Good question,’ commented Hugh. He drank from his beer glass in order to give himself time to think through his answer. ‘Well as I see it, a labyrinth, such as the one that Theseus had to navigate, has just one path to the centre, with lots of twists and turns along the way, whereas a maze is a passageway, which a person has to pass through, from one end to another, with side branches and dead ends, although it may have many entrances and exits.’

  ‘Therefore, a medina is just a maze, comprised of buildings, as opposed to hedges or trees,’ Karen said. Hugh nodded. ‘I expect Abdul will keep his beady eyes on us and we won’t be allowed to stop and browse, but it will be a quick march through, so that no-one gets lost.’

  Nancy laughed, but agreed that it would be nice if at some point during our tour we given time to shop, ‘But not at those expensive outlets, that obviously pay a commission to the guides, to ensure that they bring their groups, often with the excuse that it is a convenient toilet stop.’

  I relaxed in my chair and drained my glass, listening to Karen and Nancy discussing types of purchases they hoped to get the opportunity to buy, including gifts for their children and grandchildren. This brought Colin to mind, and I wondered what sort of present Keith would buy for his nephew.

  I turned to ask his thoughts on the matter, only to find that he was no longer sitting in the chair near to me, but had gravitated to join the group around the other table, and appeared deep in conversation with Larry and Phil. I watched as his head turned towards first one man, as he spoke, and then the other, nodding in agreement, but offering no comment himself. Larry took something from his shirt breast pocket to show to his two companions, which Phil seemed rather interested in, and I idly wondered whether or not he was still sober enough to focus on it.

  ‘Men! Huh!’ Nancy exclaimed, nodding her head in their direction. ‘Always talking business; even on holiday.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Is that what it is?’

  ‘Probably. If it is not cars, it’s football. And if it is not football, it’s business.’

  Keith was now examining whatever it was that Larry had passed around.

  ‘Just make sure your friend is not dragged into any so-called “miracle” money-making schemes,’ she warned. ‘You would be surprised how often it happens on holiday. Keith would be the perfect bait. Away from home and any older relative who could talk some sense into him. Out relaxing under a warm sun, more alcohol than he is used to. Meets an apparently knowledgeable, charming mature man, who flashes his wallet around, and says he can put you onto “a good thing.”’

  I looked once more across towards the three men, as loud guffaws echoed in the night air, then regarded Nancy’s serious expression.

  ‘It’s the male trap,’ she said. ‘Of course, the female version would be the young male; you know a local waiter or barman, who seduces
the gullible divorcee; he persuades her that he has fallen passionately in love with her, but needs X amount of money, before he can accompany her back to England. Although,’ she considered, her head on one side, ‘it could be a slant on that scam, with Diane the seductress. Keith just works in a shop does he – he does not own it?’

  I laughed loudly at this suggestion. I could not help it. Partly it was the ridiculous notion of Keith as a wealthy property owner, and partly it was the alcohol and the sudden releasing of tension, like a balloon being deflated; I had not realised how anxious I was about Keith.

  It was not just jealously, because another woman found him attractive; and he was flattered by this attention, but I felt a degree of responsibility for him as he had accompanied me on my trip.

  Also, I was suspicious that there might just be another, deeper motive for the older couple to be cultivating his friendship. Tonight, it had been as a couple; it had not been Diane acting alone.

  Had she previously been friendly to Keith as a means for Larry now to approach him for some nefarious reason?

  Not for the first time I wondered if it had been Larry’s hand that had pushed me in front of the horses, however I now reconsidered a possible reason for such an action. Whereas previously I had thought he may have been trying to deflect attention away from his wife, as by causing injury to me Keith might have been concerned enough to desist in his attentions to Diane, now I had a different idea. What if Larry had tried to injure me so as to eliminate any competition for Keith’s affections?

  Chapter Nine – Saturday - Fes

  Fes is the second largest city in Morocco, so it perhaps seemed fitting that it was on our schedule for Saturday. With a lot to see and several places to visit, we made an early start and I was settled in my seat on the bus just before nine o’clock, keen and eager as we were due to tour the medina, and had been promised shopping opportunities, although possibly I considered these two statements might not be taken together - I wondered cynically if these “opportunities” might turn out to be the sort where we get taken to various commercial concerns and our tour guide might well get paid a commission for doing so.

  In fact, it turns out, that Fes has two old medina quarters, and Fes el Bali or Old Fes, the larger of the two, is a World Heritage Site. I was amazed to see, as we straggled through the maze of narrow passageways, the number of small children making their way through the thoroughfares, alone or in twos and threes, presumably on their way to school. For several seconds I watched a girl, aged about eight, dragging a wheeled case behind her. When the street became crowded she would politely pick it up, to prevent knocking it against people’s ankles or tripping them up.

  I caught Abdul’s attention. Was it safe for small children to walk these streets alone? I enquired. Yes, he replied, explaining that they were quite safe and knew their way well. Thinking of the safety of young children on the streets back home I expressed surprise until he added, eyes on the young girl as she stood to one side to allow an elderly lady to pass, that no, he himself would not let his daughter out alone.

  As with other medinas there are all sorts of souks, as well as the usual markets selling spices, fruit and vegetables and household goods; Abdul promised to take us to a stall that sold quality tagines, if we cared to take one home with us. For some reason best known to himself Keith posed for a photo by a butcher’s stall next to a large camel head, which reminded me of my holiday in Sicily and a little old lady called Millie whom I had met up with, who had insisted I take a picture of her standing next to a huge swordfish in the fish market in Catania.

  But there were also areas devoted to various crafts such as silversmiths, coppersmiths and woodworkers. We passed through an alley where all the clothes shops featured exotic bridal wear; materials shot through with gold and silver thread that glinted in the gloom of the enclosed spaces.

  There were arcades filled with rows of multi-coloured shoes. We could shop later, Abdul cried as Diane started to browse; first we had to see the leather being processed. Having seen the tanneries featured in television documentary programmes, I was keen to see them in the flesh, so to speak, and standing on the viewing platform gazing down at all the tubs they did not disappoint. Each individual leather shop has one of these platforms to enable tourists to observe dye production that has not changed since mediaeval times.

  As we trooped single file up a tiny narrow staircase, we were met at the top by a young girl who handed each person a sprig of mint.

  ‘I wonder what that is for?’ Keith turned to me as I followed close behind him.

  ‘Perhaps you get to brew your own cup of mint tea at break time,’ I teased him.

  After she had handed a sprig to Bob the girl smiled shyly up at Keith and proffered him the herb, which he promptly declined with a negating hand gesture and a smile of his own. I could see confusion and a little sadness in her eyes that her offering had been rejected by him, and so I smiled and thanked her loudly as I took my sample. Diane, I had noted just ahead of Bob in the queue (to the fore of course) had wordlessly received hers, without even a glance towards its giver.

  Once outside on the platform, however the function of the herb was obvious. Despite being out in the open ‘fresh’ air the stench of the urine used in the dying process below was unavoidable, hence everyone – except Keith – held the little scented sprig to their nose, much as in earlier times landed gentry in Britain used a scented pomander to veil the smells of the streets (and also of the common people).

  Beneath, almost as far as the eye could see, were huge stone vats containing a myriad of dyes in various shades and hues, many of them complete with men working waist deep, tending the hides. And not just urine is used, we were informed by a smiling young man, whose function was to give a little explanatory talk, but pigeon droppings, which contain ammonia, are also used to help soften the leather to make it more malleable, so that it more easily absorbs the dye.

  As we watched some of the men trod the hides with their bare feet, like treading grapes, immune to the stares from the many watchers on the numerous balconies dotted around at intervals above the area.

  It was fascinating, but also very smelly, so despite the lure of the view and appeal of watching men work, we were slightly relieved to give way on our viewing platform to the next arrivals. Keith, for some reason, was the first down the stairs, which he took at a run, and at the bottom, even though he had emerged back into the shop, he took in huge lungfuls of air tinged with the aroma of new leather, but sweeter smelling than the fragrance he had left behind.

  This was one of our “shopping opportunities,” and we were given several minutes to wander around the store. Most of the walls were covered floor to ceiling in racks containing shoes. Not just any shoes, but the peculiar pointed toe footwear, which seems to come in a variety of colours and sizes. Sensing a modicum of interest, and possibly because he might be on commission, Abdul glided over to stand beside me.

  ‘Very soft leather,’ he confided, leaning in close. ‘These shoes are called “babouches.” You can tell the quality by the number of stitches used to make them,’ he added, picking a red pair off the shelf and turning then around in front of my eyes, before holding them out to me.

  Unfortunately for him, I am not a red person, but just to please him – he was our tour manager after all, and able to wield some authority and so it was best to keep on his good side - I selected a bright sunflower yellow pair and, after unfastening my British clumpy, flat but serviceable sandal, slipped the left shoe on my foot, but although the upper part was comprised of softish leather the sole was thin and hard, so I quickly took it off and replaced them on the rack, just as a smiling young man approached to offer his services.

  What size did I need? He enquired solicitously. If I cared to walk into the next room he could show me a bag to match. I was sure he could, a bag and doubtless a purse as well. I fended off his advances with both my hands raised, palms outwards for emphasis. Unperturbed, he turned instantly to Keit
h. Would the young sir like a pair of soft leather slippers? What size did he take? How about a nice wallet? Very nice, very soft, very strong, good leather…

  I noticed Diane had two young salesmen helpfully offering her shoes in various hues and she smilingly accepted each pair and tried them on, turning her feet this way and that, and contemplating herself in the tiny mirror supplied. I decided I did not need any shoes or bags but I did need fresh air, and so headed towards the doorway and the narrow street outside.

  The air, however was not as fresh as I would have liked, as the streets were teeming with bodies, heavily sweating tourists, some just plain unwashed bodies, animals, cigarette smoke, and the pungent smell of spices emanating from somewhere, but at least there was no stench of urine, nor the smell of new leather, which was also just beginning to cloy.

  Outside in the alley, Abdul gathered us together and informed us, while we waited for Diane to decide which, if any, of the multiple shoes she had tried on (a rather pointless exercise, I thought, when the style was much the same for every pair) to buy, that we had another leather related shopping experience in store for us, and this time we could perhaps participate a little. He laughed at his own joke but left us looking at each other in some confusion, trying to decide what he meant.

  After several more minutes of Diane selecting and then discarding shoes offered to her by the ever helpful, ever smiling young male shop assistants (she had gathered four around her now, each eager to serve) Larry whispered something in her ear and walked out of the shop. As he had taken his wallet with him, Diane followed.

  Taking this as his cue Abdul set off up the narrow street with us following, and Larry did not have to adjust his stride to join our group; Diane, on the other hand, almost had to break into a trot as she struggled to keep up. I thought with our ability to get lost in the rabbit warren of streets this was a bit rash of Abdul, however it appeared our destination was only around the corner, in a neighbouring leather shop.