Thirteen in the Medina

by Flora McGowan

  Eventually Larry asked Karen if she was sure that she wanted to travel on with the rest of us to Marrakesh. She replaced her teacup in her saucer before she spoke. When she did it was quiet, but firm, brooking no argument.

  ‘Graham’s in the best place for him at the moment. There is nothing I can do.’

  ‘We’re so sorry,’ murmured Diane, extending a hand across the table as if to touch Karen’s in a gesture of sympathy. However, Karen snatched her hand back, muttered ‘Excuse me’ and quickly moving her chair back with a screech of metal legs on the polished floor, left the room, leaving Diane sitting there with her hand outstretched over the table and her mouth open, gaping like a fish.

  At that moment Phil and Ann were just entering and they turned to speak to Karen but she moved with such speed they were left facing empty air. A little dazed they made their way over to our table.

  ‘We’ve just heard…’

  ‘Is it true…?’

  They sat down both talking at once. Larry informed us that he understood Graham had been taken ill in the night; the doctor had been called who had organised an ambulance to take Graham to hospital. No-one knew the actual trouble. Ann asked if anyone had noticed what he had eaten last night at dinner but Phil poo-pooed any suggestion of food poisoning as we had all eaten much the same.

  ‘It could have been an allergy,’ his wife claimed, a little defensively. ‘Besides, when you had your little stomach trouble we had all eaten much the same and no-one else was affected.’

  ‘Hugh…’ began Phil.

  ‘Hugh didn’t want to go shopping, it was a ruse…’

  I could hear their voices gradually trailing off as they perused the breakfast tables, rising and falling occasionally, as they continued to bicker.

  ‘…prawns in the seafood…Diane also…’

  I glanced at Diane but she seemed unconcerned over the mention of her name. I strained to hear if another name was mentioned in connection. Destiny was working overtime; Keith came in as if on cue.

  ‘How’s your stomach this morning?’ I asked, knowing he would sometimes eat peculiar things. In fact, he had mentioned that was one of the aspects he liked best about holidaying abroad, the chance to try different cuisine as they should be cooked and eaten, and not some strange British version.

  ‘Empty!’ came the prompt reply as he patted it. I was not sure whether he meant he was hungry or had paid an extended visit to the bathroom before he came down. I decided not to enquire further as I did not want to know the answer.

  He spied Ann and Phil at the buffet and seemingly unaware that they were in the midst of one of their arguments blithely trotted over to them.

  There was just a moment of slight awkwardness when we gathered after breakfast in the foyer preparatory to leaving. We were a reduced group awaiting our leader and conversation was sporadic, as if we had talked ourselves hoarse at breakfast exchanging gossip intermingled with the sparse facts in our possession. Gordon had appeared quite agitated when informed we had ‘lost’ Graham fearing the worse and remained very concerned, asking every few moments as to whether the situation was serious.

  Keith, on the other hand, commented to me slyly and, rather insensitively, as to whether I remembered our conversation at the beginning of our trip when he suspected our follow travellers to be up to some sort of criminal behaviour and he wondered that if, as now, that whenever a person went missing he – or she – was in fact meeting up with their criminal mastermind bosses, in order to pass on information and receive their latest instructions. He grinned at me as if he had made some astute or witty remark, however I noted Karen shoot a pained expression his way and tersely told him to shut up, in case Gordon’s fears were nearer the mark than Keith’s aside.

  Other than the necessary comfort break we had one stop (sorry, “shopping opportunity”) on the way to Marrakesh, at an argan oil outlet. At that time I had never heard of argan oil; now it seems to be the “in” product added to shampoo’s, face creams and all sorts of other beauty products, although as we discovered you can also eat it, similarly to vegetable oil.

  Argan oil is produced from the nuts of the argan tree, the same tree we had seen covered in goats yesterday, although apparently the goats are not allowed up the trees until after the nuts have been harvested, or something.

  The majority of these outlets are run by women’s co-operatives and what astute business women they are. As we entered the first large hall we were each handed a shopping basket by a lady waiting to greet us. A second lady ushered us further into the bowels of the empire, handing us a hunk of bread as she did so. I was again reminded of Hansel and Gretel on the way to the witch’s lair. I slapped Keith’s wrist when I noticed he was immediately nibbling his portion. We have been given this for a reason, I thought, and not because it’s only forty-five minutes or so since we finished breakfast.

  Down one side of the room a handful of ladies sat on the floor, each one demonstrating an aspect of argan oil production, from the cracking open of the nuts, to the extraction of the oil between two stones in a method similar to that of corn or maize grinding. At this point it seemed that they would lose all potential customers and they should have done the sales pitch before the demonstration, as argan oil, as it is produced, is exactly the same colour and consistency as diarrhoea. We all had the same thought judging by the sniggers, as it slopped down into a brown earthenware collecting bowl.

  Next, we were shepherded to a part of the room where another lady prepared to demonstrate various types of argan oil. We were invited to try in turn various grades of cooking oil with our bread (those of us who had not already eaten theirs). As Keith stood a little sheepishly in the centre of our group one of the younger women took pity on him and bustled around in an effort to produce another piece of bread for him. She lowered her eyes demurely when he smiled his thanks.

  Finally, we were let loose in the sales section of the showroom. I doubt that they did as well out of us as the fossil outlet, despite Diane piling high the basket that Larry was carrying (her own basket discretely dumped behind the door; Diane does not carry). I deduced that she must need the cosmetic help more than the rest of us. I sampled several varieties of the fragrant oils up and down my arms; I have a fondness for lavender oil but declined the purchasing opportunity, despite the urging of the young lady who appeared by my side.

  As ever with these shopping opportunities, there were enough members of staff, who seemed to appear as if through the walls by osmosis, so that we could each have a personal shopper to aid us to spend as much money as possible. Keith, now on his third piece of bread, was still sampling cooking oils, happily chatting to the young lady who was keeping him supplied with food.

  I left my Lothario and wandered outside for some fresh air. I spied a low-lying wall and decided to sit and wait there. Karen joined me.

  ‘Mind if I sit?’ she asked. ‘Or do you want to be alone?’

  I smiled and gestured for her to take a seat.

  ‘You have your work cut out with him,’ she commented.

  ‘He’s the friendly sort.’

  ‘As long as you are aware that’s all it is,’ she advised. ‘I’m sure he’s very fond of you really.’

  I nodded. ‘Fond’ was not the word I had in mind.

  A weak sun was peering through the clouds as we boarded the bus. At least they were white fluffy clouds and we seemed to be leaving the grey ones behind.

  ‘I hope you’re stuffed now,’ I said a little sharply to Keith as he took his seat beside me.

  He looked at me intently, a frown marring his countenance.

  ‘I didn’t want to buy anything,’ he explained. ‘It was all rather expensive. I felt sorry for them; all that effort to show us things and only one person buys, so I just thought I would show some sort of interest.’

  ‘Oh, I think they are used to it,’ I replied, not being drawn to comment on what type of interest he might have been showing. ‘Otherwise, a little lowering of their prices might
work wonders for their sales figures.’

  As he settled back in his seat I heard him murmur, ‘I wonder what is for lunch..?’

  Our brief comfort stop for coffee late morning at a road side café almost turned into lunch, as there appeared to be only one worker who was more concerned with washing and then drying the glass cups used to serve Moroccan tea than in actually serving the stuff. Phil huffed and puffed as the man remained in the back of the café, slowly polishing the glassware despite the fact that there had developed a sizeable queue of customers. Karen and Nancy decided that perhaps they would purchase some water from a little neighbouring shop and Keith was beginning to dither, when Phil banged his fist on the counter and shouted, ‘Hello! Can we have some service, please?’

  Whilst silently agreeing that the waiter’s attitude to potential customers needed a jolt I was not sure that this was the way to achieve anything and indeed after a cursory glance over his shoulder the man continued a slow wiping of the cups.

  ‘Perhaps that is his job,’ I observed in a low voice to Ann. ‘Perhaps he is not supposed to serve people. Maybe that person has nipped out for a minute, not expecting a sudden coach load of people to descend on his premises.’

  ‘Hello!’ Phil shouted again, looking a little red in the face. He ran his fingers through his hair leaving visible trails through the sparse strands and leaned over the counter calling, ‘I say, you there!’

  Again, the man at the back nonchalantly half turned around, looked at us standing there expectantly and then returned to his cleaning. At this point, Abdul strode into the café in order to give his customary five-minute warning to finish our drinks, only to find that we had not even started our refreshments. He called something over to the man who replied with slightly more interest than when Phil had attempted to attract his attention.

  Suddenly, an older man appeared from a side room who, after noticing the waiting customers, turned angrily to the other man and seemed to press him into service. A short animated discussion ensued before the first man wiped his hands casually on a towel and came forward to take our orders. With the help of the second man pouring water into (extremely clean and sparkly, polished) cups we at last took our drinks over to the seating area where we consumed them as quickly as possible.

  We arrived back in Marrakesh in time for lunch. Abdul led us up a little back lane to a restaurant off Jemaa el-Fnaa, the main market square, where we were served the usual selection of mixed starters with the flat bread, followed by an omelette cooked inside a large tagine, with melon to finish. Despite his earlier snack Keith ate a healthy sized portion and I thought his earlier fears at the beginning of our holiday about food had proved to be unfounded.

  We had more free time after lunch. As it was Friday and exactly a week since I had almost seen the snake charmer, I mentioned to Keith that I wondered if we might see another one today. If so, I wanted a closer look, locals permitting. Ann and Karen also agreed that they would like to see a snake charmer and also Bob, although he qualified his response by adding a “proper” snake charmer and I again regretted not being able to get close enough to view the one last week. I felt sure that being surrounded by enthusiastic natives must have guaranteed his authenticity.

  Larry doubted that we would have any such luck.

  ‘I imagine in a tourist area you will get the quacks, those more charlatan than charmer, the ones who sew up the snakes’ mouths so that it is not dangerous, or who have removed the fangs, with which it bites or even the venom glands,’ he added.

  ‘Plus the fact,’ Hugh pointed out, ‘they sit well back, out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Well, I still want to see one,’ I declared. ‘Fake or not; any sort of charmer will do.’

  And as fate would have it, I got to see a snake charmer, who was definitely a charlatan, at very close quarters. As they say, be careful what you wish for.

  We did not have to walk far before I spied a man with a snake. He was not, however, using a pipe but banging a very large tambourine-type drum, as if the snake would respond to the vibration. Hugh had said they can indeed sense sound but have no outer ears to hear music. In fact snakes were revered – note the Snake Goddess - in ancient Crete, as when they all disappeared the locals used it as a warning of an imminent earthquake. As I moved in closer, my camera at the ready, the charmer’s mate was also getting ready to pounce on an unsuspecting tourist.

  Quick as a flash, he had scooped up the snake and draped it round my neck, moving my left arm into position out in front of me and bent at the elbow, so that the snake’s head draped over it and thus was held up and away from my body. He quickly snatched my camera while I stood transfixed and snapped rapidly once, twice. Then he peeled the snake away and put his hand out to demand money. I proffered the small coins that I had previously extracted from my purse in readiness should we see a snake charmer.

  ‘No! More money!’

  I did not have much small change available. Besides, I had not asked to hold a snake; he had thrust it on me. He would get what I had and lump it. Again, I offered the coins.

  ‘No! Paper money!’

  My mind was beginning to reel with what was obviously a tourist con. I attempted to move away, looking round. Where was everyone? Ann had been snapping pictures when I had the snake around my neck, now she was gone.

  The man put a hand on my shoulder, gripping it hard in an attempt to slow me down and pull me back. Irritably, I endeavoured to shake myself free.

  ‘Paper money!’ he hissed in my ear. ‘Those good pictures!’

  By now I was getting annoyed, both with the “charmer,” who could do with some manners, and with Keith, who was never around when I needed him. If the man did not want the coins I had offered, he could go without.

  Eventually I spotted Keith some feet away, his back to me in conversation with Larry, Bob and Hugh. I took a deep breath, then began to stride purposefully towards them as the man behind me made another grab at my arm, which I managed to avoid. He muttered something that I took to be a curse of some sort.

  As I reached Keith he turned to me with a grin and said, ‘Ah, Carrie, there you are. Let’s go and find your snake charmer.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ I snapped.

  We took a stroll around the square. There was a smattering of stalls around the periphery but nowhere near as many as would be erected this evening Bob said who had visited previously. Those of us who were experiencing this for the first time agreed we would have an early dinner and return to partake of Friday night life, Moroccan style. As ever, Carole and Gordon bowed out of the invitation to join us, citing an early night, which had Larry and Phil nudging and winking to each other.

  The hotel on our return to Marrakesh was the same one in which we had stayed at the start of our tour although we were allocated different rooms. I unpacked a few necessities for the final time then had a quick shower before changing into clothes suitable for a night down town.

  I had just left my room when I decided to take my camera to dinner with me in order to save time in coming back to my room to retrieve it later before going out to party.

  I turned back and ran the plastic card down the groove in order to open the door. Nothing. I tried again. Still no little green light or bleep giving me access to my room. I replaced the card in the wallet and removed the spare card, as many wallets contain two cards for double occupancy and swiped that. Still nothing.

  I took a deep breath and decided to walk across to reception to seek advice. I had to queue behind several businessmen booking in but eventually the girl turned to me and I explained that the plastic card did not work. She took the wallet from me and charged up two fresh cards, placed them in the wallet which she then handed to me.

  I trekked back through the courtyard to my room and tried the first card. Nothing. I inverted the card and swiped it. Nothing. I turned it backwards, nothing. I tried the second card. Nothing. I muttered under my breath. Nothing. I swore loudly at both cards. Nothing.

  I
went back to reception. The girl I had just spoken to was on the phone. A second receptionist asked if she could help. I explained I could not get into my room. She took my cards, recharged up more replacements and handed them to me.

  Back outside my door I tried the second replacements with no success. I was getting more than a little irritated when a passing room service waiter approached me.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ he said. Not much good about the evening as far as I could see but as he was only being polite I replied in kind.

  ‘Bonsoir.’

  ‘Madam is having trouble?’ he enquired.

  ‘I cannot get in.’

  ‘This is your room?’

  I nodded. He took the cards from me and swiped first one, then the other.

  ‘Ah, is broken,’ he gave me back the cards with a smile. ‘You need reception. Ask them to fix.’

  I thanked him for his help and trudged back to reception. I explained to the lady – who already knew as she had recharged me two cards just minutes earlier - that I had a problem getting into my room. She started to recharge more cards.

  ‘You’ve just done that,’ I pointed out through gritted teeth. The woman ignored that and passed the cards over, but not with a smile. ‘Can someone open the door for me?’ I asked deciding to stand my ground until I received proper assistance. She looked at me disdainfully then picked up the desk phone to summon a porter. After a few minutes a man in a green pyjama-like suit appeared and, with an equally scornful look at me, took the wallet with the plastic cards and strode off in the direction of my room. I followed as quickly as I could without breaking into an undignified run.

  At the door he swiped first one card, then the second before turning to me and saying abruptly, ‘Door broken.’ Then he turned on his heel and marched back to reception, with me again trotting behind.

  Being staff, he was able to jump the queue of businessmen booking in – Friday night must be pre-weekend registration for conferences- and muttered something to the girl on the desk.