Far, Far the Mountain Peak

by Arthur Clifford

  ‘There’s my lad!’ exclaimed a beaming Steadman. Point scored in the simmering war with Dobson.

  ‘What it is to be a privileged private school brat!’ grunted Dobson, as he prevented Tracy from getting into the same taxi as John and Michael.

  As they drove off, John began to seethe. The ‘good expeditioner’ act was becoming increasingly difficult to sustain. Couldn’t do a bloody thing right with Dobson, could he? Dobson was a shit. No, worse than that, a pool of liquid, stinking squitter! But… reality! Dobson’s lot were big and strong. He couldn’t possibly take them on. Indeed, they scared him. It was that Greenhill feeling again of helplessness before brute force. So keep a low profile. Keep close to Steadman. Survive!

  ‘Don’t fret, lads!’ said Steadman, sensing the mood. ‘Don’t let Dobson get you down. Think of the mountains and what you’re going to achieve.’

  John cooled down. His excitement returned as they sped towards the city. It was dry, sun-bleached fields at first and then flat-roofed modern buildings that reminded him of his childhood trips to Italy. Then came palm trees, ancient castellated walls, and men in skullcaps and flowing robes… and then a large open square surrounded by low, reddish buildings bathed in the dusty, yellow light of late afternoon.

  ‘This is the Jemaa el-Fnaa square. That’s the famous Koutoubia Mosque over there.’

  The cavalcade eventually pulled up in a narrow side-street, hemmed in by red-walled buildings. Everybody piled out of the taxis and retrieved their luggage. Steadman paid the bill.

  ‘That’s a bit much, isn’t it?’ growled Dobson. ‘Obviously your little sidekick thinks we’re all as rich as he is.’

  Another hiatus.

  ‘Well, what now, Brian?’

  ‘Yeah! Where’s the hotel you was tellin’ wor aboot?’

  ‘Hope it’s got a proppa telly like. It’s Coronation Street tonight.’

  ‘Fuck Coronation Street. I could dee wi’ a beer, me! There berra be a proppa bar!’

  ‘All right, people!’ declared Steadman, taking charge. ‘We’re going Arab now. It’s new experiences. That’s the mantra!’

  ‘Mantra? What the fuck’s that?’

  Steadman led them down a narrow lane – almost a mini canyon – between high, old-fashioned buildings, painted a dull red. At once they entered a cool, shadowy world of deep, twisting alleys, hidden corners and elaborately carved wooden doors. Far above, peeping spasmodically through the enclosing red walls, was a strip of yellow sky. There were no cars, only the odd donkey, and veiled women tripping quietly by. A pungent smell of wood smoke and spices wafted round them. Here – to John at any rate – was the old, untouched world of the explorers.

  ‘Cor, Bob!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is great! I never thought places like this still existed.’

  ‘Here we are,’ said Steadman, pushing open a big wooden door in the blank canyon wall.

  They filed in and found themselves in a neatly tiled courtyard in the middle of which was a low wooden table surrounded by richly embroidered cushions. A steep, wooden staircase led up to a balcony which ran round the entire four walls. It was a cool, hushed place, the only sound being the tinkling of a small fountain, trickling away under the spreading branches of a palm tree.

  A grave, bearded man in a white robe approached them, followed by a large, leathery woman wearing a head cloth and a long, colourful dress. Steadman began a vigorous conversation with them in Arabic, and then turned to his expectant entourage.

  ‘Sit down on the cushions here, people. They’re giving us tea as part of a traditional Islamic welcome.’

  John and Michael immediately squatted down on the inviting pile, but the others remained standing, sullen and suspicious. A small boy, white-robed and barefoot, arrived with a large tray-load of jangling little glasses filled with a steaming brown liquid.

  ‘Your first taste of Arab tea,’ declared a beaming Steadman.

  ‘Warraboot some beer? I’m reet thorsty me!’

  While John and Michael sipped the hot sweet liquid, the others eyed it dubiously. Eventually Tracy and another girl tasted it. Three of the boys tipped it contemptuously onto the ground.

  ‘Now, chaps,’ said Steadman, assuming what John called his ‘commanding officer’ voice, ‘accommodation. Mr Dobson’s and Mr Morris’s groups are upstairs in two large rooms. There’s a bog at the far end of the balcony and a shower next to it. John and Michael, you are with me down here.’

  The elite dispersed in silence while John and Mike followed Steadman into a long, high ceilinged room. Round the edges of the tiled walls were broad, cushioned benches.

  John was entranced. ‘Just like the Arabian nights, isn’t it, Bob?’

  They unpacked their rucksacks and busied themselves spreading their things over their assigned places. Suddenly Dobson appeared in the doorway and the temperature seemed to drop below freezing, almost as if Dracula had gate-crashed a Christmas party.

  ‘Mr Steadman, a word.’

  Steadman joined him outside while John and Michael listened to the ensuing dialogue.

  ‘Is this your idea of accommodation for British kids?’

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  ‘“Why not?” you say! Have you seen it? No air conditioning. No television. I don’t know what you call those bench things, but they’re certainly not beds. And have you seen the bog?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been here before.’

  ‘Maybe you have. But British kids need proper facilities. It’s a matter of safety.’

  ‘I thought this expedition was supposed to, I quote, “Give the young people who are to be our future leaders first-hand experience of a very different culture”.’

  ‘Quite so, but that doesn’t mean disregarding safety.’

  ‘Oh come on! They’re as safe as houses here!’

  ‘Obviously you and I have different standards of safety. And what about tonight’s supper? The kids need feeding you know.’

  ‘Well, I was going to get Madame to prepare a tagine.’

  ‘Tagine? What on earth’s that?’

  ‘A local dish. A big and nutritious stew full of meat, vegetables and dates. It’s delicious. But, if they would prefer it, we could take them round the town and try the local cafes. They’d like that.’

  ‘You mean eat the local muck? No way.’

  ‘Look, if you don’t like this place, go and find a better one for your group. It’ll be pricey, though.’

  ‘Right. Will you come along and talk the lingo? They don’t seem to understand anything here.’

  ‘No, you’d better go yourself. I’ll stay here and hold the fort.’

  ‘Huh!’

  Dobson stalked off, muttering furiously to himself. Steadman returned to the room.

  ‘Big ears flapping, eh?’ he exclaimed as he saw John hovering behind the door.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Just a little bit of culture shock.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Dobbie doesn’t like this place. He’s gone off to find a better one.’

  ‘But it’s great here. We’re not going to leave it, are we?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s all we can afford. The hotels are all ultra-expensive, and they’ll all be booked up, too. This is a popular tourist resort. But, anyway, about supper…’

  ‘Can me and Michael go exploring? I mean, it’s going to be boring, just sitting here.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But be careful and remember what I said about not photographing the locals. Please don’t get lost. Be back by ten.’

  ‘Wicked! Come on, Michael!’

  Young Explorers; A Tentative Alliance

  In the courtyard they ran into a sullen mob of Dobson’s people, milling round the exit. John sensed danger. It was back to Gloucester Road, and that meant a low profile and avoiding any eye contact. He tried
to slip past them unnoticed.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  Seen. Caught. What now? Debagging? Or something worse? But don’t panic. Steadman’s in the vicinity. Keep your cool.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Wharst thaa gannin’ son?’

  ‘Just exploring. We’re going to try the local cafes.’

  Tracy spoke up. ‘Can I come, too?’

  ‘And me an’ all, added a scrawny, pointy-nosed youth with a spotty face.

  ‘Yes, please do,’ replied John nervously. Let the whole mob come and they easily do you over in one of those back alleys, but with only two of them you might just have a chance. But it could possibly be an opportunity to drive a wedge into the closed phalanx of the enemy… so grasp it while you can!

  They went out into the dark and silent street where the by now black walls towered over them.

  ‘I’m Jim,’ the youth said. ‘Worra yous two called?’

  ‘John.’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘I think it’s fuckin’ rotten the way wor Brian gans on at yer twos!’ said Tracy vehemently. ‘Yers not snobs an’ that. Yers jus’ lads.’

  ‘Aye,’ put in Jim. ‘Yer berra than Kev an’ them lot. All they want is beer an’ fags. Aye, an’ a birra dope, an’ sex an’ all. But Ah wanna dee sommat me, climb moontins an’ that. Not jus’ fuck roond gerrin’ pissed an’ shaggin’ an’ that. Ah mean, me mam’s paid fuck knaas wot ter gerrus here like.’

  John put on a Geordie accent and shook his hand. ‘Good on yer! We’s mates then.’

  He felt a surge of relief: there was a gap in the enemy phalanx. To cement the new alliance, he took a photograph of the group. Then they set off down the twisting alley.

  Soon they emerged onto the big open square of the Jemaa el-Fnaa. The sun was setting and suffusing everything with a warm and almost kindly orange glow. The place had woken up. Previously, it had been a sun-blasted emptiness. Now it was a seething mass of activity: market stalls, bright lights, robed exotics strolling about, glowing braziers, clouds of smoke, the smell of wood fires, spices and barbecued meat, strange music. It was alive and richly pulsating.

  John was entranced. ‘Cor, just look at this!’

  Wriggling their way through a tightly packed crowd, they discovered a gaunt, turbaned figure sitting cross-legged on a mat, holding a long flute. Putting it to his lips, he began to play, and a strange, haunting melody seemed to float upwards. From a nearby basket a snake emerged and appeared to sway in time with the mysterious notes.

  A scene straight out of one of his childhood encyclopaedias! It was too much for an already hyped-up John. ‘Cor, a real live snake charmer! Hang on while I take a photograph!’

  A bright white flash was followed by an uproar. The music stopped. The turbaned man stood up and started shouting.

  ‘C’est interdit photographer!’ somebody yelled.

  ‘Dihrams! Dollars!’ somebody else bellowed.

  Flustered, John pulled a 10 dirham note out of his pocket and tried to give it to the turbaned man. An unknown hand snatched it from him.

  ‘Plus! Plus! More! More!’

  ‘Howay, John, let’s get oota here!’ said Michael, now firmly embedded in the Geordie patois he used for survival situations.

  Squeezing their way through the crowd, the four of them fled.

  A man grabbed John’s arm. ‘That’s the Koutoubia Mosque over there.’

  ‘Yes, it’s very beautiful!’

  ‘Fifty dihrams! Me tourist guide!’

  John gave him a 10 dihram note.

  ‘Not enough! More! More!’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, John!’ exclaimed Michael, ‘Divvent start given’ ‘em money! They’re just doin’ yers!’

  ‘Let’s go somewhere else!’ added Jim.

  They hurried through the jostling bodies and found themselves in another dark and silent alley. Once again, tall buildings reared up, gorge-like, on either side of them, framing a narrow strip of red sky far above them. They had escaped.

  ‘Phew, that was hairy!’ gasped John. ‘Sorry, team, I should have remembered what Bob said about photographing the locals.’

  ‘No sweat!’ said Jim. ‘We’re still alive! So, let’s see where this leads to.’

  ‘Gee, this is ever so exciting!’ chortled Tracy.

  They wandered off down the black, narrow canyon, finding themselves once more in a hushed world of darkened and twisting alleys. The odd robed figure slipped quietly by. From the occasional openings in the enclosing walls, dim lights flickered. Through beaded curtains they glimpsed shady little dens hung with thick carpets. Above them the sky slowly turned into a dark, velvety blue, spangled with glittering stars.

  ‘I’m starving!’ said Michael.

  ‘Me an’ all,’ added Jim.

  ‘An’ Ah didn’t eat nowt on the plane, me,’ declared Tracy. ‘What with Kev gerrin’ pissed and spewin’ like. Eeee, I’m dying o’ hunger, me!’

  The moon rose, a big silvery orb in the dark blue sky, poking delicate fingers of light into the slumbering world of black shapes. Eventually they came to what seemed to be a café: a big cave in the alley wall, hung with richly patterned carpets and dimly lit by hissing and flickering paraffin lamps. A clay oven and a glowing brazier occupied one wall. In the middle was a low table surrounded by cushions. With the big clay pots and beaded curtains, the place was a vision of an older and more colourful world to John; but not, perhaps, to the others.

  ‘Let’s try this.’

  A man in a white robe approached them. ‘Voulez-vous manger?’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘He’s asking us if we want to eat,’ replied John.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Oui, certainment!’

  They filed in and draped themselves on the cushions round the table.

  ‘Voulez-vous un tagine?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Dunno!’

  ‘Nor me neither.’

  ‘Well,’ said John, ‘let’s give it a try. We’re explorers, after all. Oui, monsieur. Nous desirons manger un tagine.’

  Stirrings began. Tea was brought. The man sat down beside them and started a conversation. John interpreted to the best of his limited ability. The man’s accent and pronunciation gave him dire comprehension problems, but he struggled on.

  What were their names?

  John, Tracy, Michael and Jim.

  Where were they from?

  Boldonbridge.

  Was that in London?

  No, it was a city in the north of England.

  How much did a schoolteacher earn in England?

  Eventually the meal came: a big, clay bowl containing a steaming and exotically smelling stew. Spoons were handed round. Hungrily they attacked it.

  ‘Not bad this.’

  ‘Better than I thought it would be.’

  ‘Berra than the crap me mam dishes up, anyway.’

  ‘C’est tres bon!’ said John to the man. ‘Vous êtes tres bon chef. Je l’aime, et mes amis aussi.’

  The bowl was scraped clean.

  ‘We’d better pay the bill,’ said John who was by now wallowing in his role as leader and interpreter, ‘L’addition, s’il vous plaît?’

  ‘Rien,’ said the man, bowing slightly.

  ‘Comment?’

  ‘Rien. Vous ne payerez rien.’

  ‘But… well… That’s very kind of you.’ This in a bemused, muddled English.

  ‘What’s all this?’ asked Michael.

  ‘He says he’s not charging us anything.’

  ‘Mais nous vous payerez. C’est comme il faut.’

  The man then gave a little speech. John failed to understand much of it, but managed to get the general gist of it.

  ‘He says were are young people and it’s t
he tradition of Islam to be hospitable to young people.’

  ‘Merci beaucoup. Merci beaucoup. Vous êtes tellement sympa…’

  Addresses were exchanged and they left amid profuse thanks.

  ‘Cor, he were nice, him!’

  ‘Yeah!’ said Tracy. ‘Not like what Brian said they would be.’

  ‘Dobson’s a cunt!’ snorted Michael.

  ‘No, he ain’t that!’ replied Tracy defensively. ‘He’s ever so nice to us.’

  ‘But why does he hate us? I mean what the fuck’s me and John done to ’im, like?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ sighed Tracy, shaking her head. ‘But I’ll tell yous one thing. He’s ower scared of Kev.’

  ‘Kev!’ snorted Jim. ‘You wanna watch oot for ’im, like! He’ll fuck the whole bleedin’ lorra us up, he will! Him and Sandra, an’ Jakie an’ all! All they wants is booze, drugs an’ fuckin’. Why the fuck Brian brought ’em along Ah divvent knaa.’

  He began a passionate speech. ‘Ter gerron this thing Ah had ter dee all sortsa tests: runnin’, hikin’ and the like. But Kev did nowt. Sat around smerkin’ fags an’ that. Yet Brian brings ’im along and treats ’im like a bloody lord! Divvent make no sense.’ He shook his head with a resigned fatalism. ‘Anyways, Ah’m stickin’ wi’ you twos, me. Kev’ll be landin’ in the shite ower soon.’

  ‘There’s Going to be a Big Bust-Up Soon’

  They eventually found their way back to the pension.

  Steadman greeted them warmly. ‘Great to see you back safe and sound!’

  Excitedly gabbled out the story of their adventures.

  ‘That man he was so nice!’ exclaimed John. ‘He refused to let us pay for the meal. I’ve got his address. I’ve taken lots of photos.’

  ‘Splendid! That’s just what I want to see. Now, you lot better get to bed.’

  ‘John,’ he added, ‘you’d better watch out. Dobbie’s after your blood!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well I did wind him up a bit, told him that you’d gone to sell Tracy in the souk. He got his knickers in a fair old twist!’

  Before he turned in, John slipped up to the toilet on the landing. The tagine and the brisk walk were having their effect. It was a squatty do… but, well, he was used to squatting now and, primed by Steadman, he’d brought his own supply of paper. Luckily the chain worked reasonably well.