Sixteenth

It was a real shock to wake up after a good night’s sleep in the tent and find that she was missing; at first the other Australian nurse thought her friend had simply wandered down to the ocean, or gone the other way to quietly undertake an essential bodily function.

But when she hadn’t returned for breakfast, the remaining girl was starting to become hysterical, and was not listening to our attempts at offering some rational explanation. The guides were fairly calm, and simply suggested she might have strolled back along the beach to Essaouira.

The English family were keen on calling the police, but those that had mobile phones couldn’t get a signal or were out of battery; our guides told us we should all return to the ranch and stables where we set-off, and telephone the local bobbies from there. The Australian girl just wouldn’t stop crying, and refused to leave the camp, so one of the guides and the mother from the family stayed with her, promising they would make a thorough search of the surrounding area.

There was a sombre mood in the camel train returning the last few miles to the ranch, though still the possibility she had been so fed-up with roughing it that a longish walk back to a cafe or her riad felt like the best option on a beautiful and cool morning.

‘What do you reckon, Jess ?’

‘I’m not sure, but it seems odd just to take-off without speaking to her friend.’

‘Yes.’

‘They both appeared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves last night.’

‘No sign of any problems at all.’

It was strange now we were almost back to feel that we’d finally mastered the art of being a camel jockey, or at least learned how to minimise the discomfort of having your legs spread so widely, accompanied by continuous jolting. What should have been an occasion to celebrate the small triumph of a successfully completed trek was completely overshadowed by the unexpected development, and the continued uncertainty about the seriousness of the situation.

‘I’ll be glad to get back to the bloody riad’ I said.

‘The police might want to question us.’

‘Well, they’ll know exactly where we are.’

‘If English coppers are anything to go by, they won’t do anything much for at least twenty-four hours.’

‘The stupid bitch is probably sat in some cafe enjoying a nice, big breakfast.’

Twelfth

It was magical to lie back after a lunch cooked for you in the open air, drifting off into a dreamlike state, with only the occasional grumble from a camel to disturb the peace. All basic human needs were satisfied, and there was no pressure to continue with the journey, which would only be a few more miles inland through the enormous dunes to the overnight camp.

I watched Jess for a while, who must have been sleeping because now and then she would snore quietly for a few seconds, before lapsing into a period of gentle breathing. I felt lucky to have established a good relationship with her in a fairly short time; life was much more fun with an attractive companion, and someone to have a laugh with.

I gazed into the dying embers of the fire, even hotter than the hot day we had been trekking through, wondering if there was any kind of real threat in the bustling markets of Essaouira. It was hard to believe bad things could happen, most locals were so friendly, despite the lack of English being spoken – they were much more inclined to use French after Arabic, because of the colonial history.

‘Are you awake Jess ?’

‘I am now; what do you want ?’

‘Nothing really.’

‘Well, thanks for disturbing me. I was having a lovely dream about Hugh Laurie.’

‘What ? The comedy actor.’

‘Apparently he’s quite a heartthrob in France.’

‘They’re a peculiar nation, despite being so close to our own geographically.’

‘I couldn’t imagine life without a hot croissant and strong coffee.’

‘We’ve had some lovely breakfasts at the riad – very much French influenced.’

‘I remember once staying in Paris; the so-called Continental breakfast was so insubstantial I nearly fainted in Pigalle.’

‘I trust you didn’t visit any of those sex shows ?’

Jess laughed, and turned away to resume her snooze.

The only problem about going on holiday is that while you can leave most things behind that are familiar and perhaps dull about your life, it’s not really possible to leave your entire self behind as well, which means you’re not just carrying the baggage for the aircraft cabin.

Perhaps though there is a much greater chance of breaking familiar patterns and rediscovering a sense of childlike joy in the world and people around you, and even some delight in your own jaded personality. This appeared to be happening, as each day in Morocco brought new experiences and a different perspective on daily existence.

In England it is only possible to sunbathe outside for a few days every year; our expectations have been raised far too high by cheap package deals to Spain or Greece, which inevitably brings a feeling of deep disappointment when we experience a chilly and damp Easter long weekend of too much chocolate and persistent drizzle.

Now, I could start to imagine myself as a ‘blue man’ – a member of the desert Tuareg people - so distinctive in their customary blue clothing that forms such a strong contrast against all the sandy colours of the endless dunes. One of these people took us down another back alley in Taroudannt to look at their wonderful hand-woven carpets, yet there was none of the hard sell or rip-off tactics used by some other cheating locals – only a quiet dignity and modesty that spoke of so many years battling the harsh elements of the vast desert, sometimes with only the strange and ugly humped beasts as their companions and means of survival.

After a long and shaded rest we left the lunchtime encampment, with both of us trying to ride side-saddle, which did offer a greater degree of comfort, but also the danger of falling more easily from a great height, and then experiencing the Moroccan health system. It’s easy enough to injure yourself riding a horse, but it feels so much higher on a camel, and the abundance of sand is no guarantee of avoiding serious injury.

‘It’s good to be back in the saddle !’ Jess shouted.

‘You sound like you’ve been with camels all your life.’

‘It’s waking-up and staring at your face every morning that reminds me so much of these delightful animals.’

‘I’ll remember that later, when you need a hand getting down.’

I was certainly glad to be wearing a hat as we snaked through the baking afternoon dunes towards our night under the stars, occasionally responding with a smile to a look of concern from our guides, as they observed our lack of skill in adopting the correct travelling position when riding one of their forever jerking camels.

Eighth

We found Essaouira beach a wonderful escape from the madness of the souk, the sands stretching endlessly by the side of the chill Atlantic. Occasionally we were bothered by young men selling a variety of cakes, but it was not the kind of hassle you get on the beaches of Goa, where they want to perform all kinds intimate services, from ear cleansing to vigorous massage. Maybe those kinds of things were available in the peak season; but now we were able to lie back on the splendid soft sand, mostly undisturbed.

It was probably the paranoia of a tourist, but I always felt like we were being watched in the market areas, sized-up as potential victims for some surprise scam. Jess kept telling me to relax, because she was incredibly laid-back during daylight hours – it was only after dark that her imagination got going.

She’d already bought several small wooden objects, including a couple of camels, a donkey, and a special box from which a snake miraculously appeared. I have never had any interest in shopping, spending most of the time pacing up and down outside such outlets, while Jess examines everything in minute detail for what seemed like hours in the cavern-like interiors. She was fairly hot with the bartering too, which I also couldn’t be bothered with after a lifetime of mostly fixed prices in England.

I would always prefer just sitting or lying on the beach, watching fishing boats, children playing football, camel rides in the distance, local women covered from head to toe while a few tourists pranced about virtually naked. The sea was not really suitable for bathing, but windsurfing or kitesurfing appeared to be quite popular amongst more affluent local men and the young chaps newly-arrived from Europe.

At times you could almost forget being in a Muslim country, until the call to prayer drowned the cries of seagulls or shouts of children as a goal was scored.

‘Do you fancy the museum later ?’ Jess asked.

‘I’m more interested in something to eat and drink. Do you know what the three strands of Moroccan cuisine are ?’

‘I expect you’re going to enlighten me.’

‘Tagine dishes, couscous, and the Laughing Cow cheese triangles.’

‘That’s nonsense.’

‘It’s more or less what we’ve had so far.’

‘Anyway, getting back to the museum – they’ve got jewellery, costumes, weapons, musical instruments and carpets.’

‘I bet it’s not so good as the Castle Museum in York.’

‘Try forgetting England for a few days.’

‘I will if you buy me some nice coffee and a sweet croissant.’

‘A chance to practice my French, I suppose.’