Something fishy

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Looking down into the riad courtyard

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Shady courtyard

It's essential to have somewhere to escape the heat.

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Don't touch my country

This sign implies that no interference is required in Morocco......if you have a more accurate explanation please leave a comment - I have since discovered that it refers to avoiding terrorism.

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Essaouira

It always appears there are far more gulls flying round a Moroccan harbour town than in England.


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We all need to find an Oasis

This picture shows the oasis not far from Taroudannt, Morocco. Water is a rare and precious resource in a country of little rain, which makes such a location all the more miraculous.


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Dog with henna eyebrows

This is a friendly little dog roaming the castle ramparts of Essaouira, Morocco, with some make-up applied by the animal's owner !

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Number 2

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Essaouira

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Thirty-fourth

By late morning the following day, or perhaps it was the same day, we had arrived on an empty beach somewhere east of Tangier. The weather was rather overcast, but at least the sea looked reasonably calm. Omar’s eyes betrayed his utter exhaustion, and we didn’t feel much better after very little sleep.


‘My brother will come later, we must wait again till dark.’

‘Thank you, Omar’ Jess said warmly.

‘You are extremely kind’ I added.

‘Not kind. I am always seeing my first born’s face drained of all colour, and that fat pig laughing.’

He left us alone again to fetch some food and water for the crossing to Spain.

‘I hope this brother knows what he’s doing.’

‘We don’t have much choice’ I replied.

‘It’s not too late to get a ferry from Tangier.’

‘We can’t risk it, they could be on to us by now.’

‘We’ve done nothing wrong !’

‘I don’t fancy trying to explain what’s happened.’

Jess lapsed into silence, and I could see that all confidence in our ‘escape’, which sounded like an overly dramatic description, had been lost due to overwhelming tiredness and anxiety. I gazed into the murky distance, attempting to gain some solace from the gentle movement and sound of the waves.

After about an hour Omar returned with some fresh bread, cheese and olives, along with some fruit juice and water. He looked remarkably cheerful and calm, as if we were just a couple of tourists on a day trip from Tangier.

‘Please, don’t worry, my brother knows a quiet place near Algeciras; no patrol there, you can land with no trouble.’

We were both cheered by Omar’s positive attitude, and the food that tasted so wonderful after a long and uncomfortable night. It was not far across to Spain, and I didn’t know whether you could see the other side on a clear day, but it felt as though the gap was wider than the Atlantic.

‘Put your faith in God and the Prophet’ Omar said, with a big smile that showed his crooked and stained teeth.

It was still just about light when Jess woke me hours later from a deep sleep, and I immediately saw the blue fishing boat, which was quite large and not unlike the open fishing cobles at Filey.

‘We’re off soon’ she said, with a faint smile.

I watched Omar talking to his brother, and they were even laughing and joking, which seemed extraordinary in the circumstances. I realised just how large the gulf was between their simple faith and the complicated neurosis of my own troubled mind; despite the murder of his son, Omar had somehow retained so much joy.

‘Come now’ he said.

We walked forward down the gently sloping, warm sand, and his brother just smiled and nodded as we clambered aboard.

‘Thank you so much’ said Jess, but we were already leaving Morocco behind as the powerful engine gained speed.

‘Put your faith in God and the Prophet’ Omar shouted after us.


THE END.

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Thirty-third

The most obvious route north from Marrakech might have taken us via Casablanca and Rabat, but Omar was keen to utilise his knowledge of the back roads, and to complete most of our four hundred mile journey in the dark. He made us extra nervous by saying that it was legal for vehicles to drive in Morocco with no headlights after nightfall, so long as they maintained a low speed !
I have a very clear image of the spectacular red sunset slowly colouring the tall tower of the mosque adjacent to the main square as we said goodbye to Marrakech. Despite the long journey ahead we were hopeful that we would soon be bidding farewell to Morocco and Africa as well.

‘Try to get some sleep’ our driver suggested.

‘Which way are we going ?’ I asked.

‘Towards Fez or Meknes, but don’t worry, I know these roads very well.’

Jess had her eyes closed, but I wasn’t sure if she was really getting any rest, and I found it very difficult not to succumb to my neurotic nature. Omar just appeared quietly determined, driving fast where he was able to make uninterrupted progress, and more slowly on the very minor routes. As it became properly dark the outer world became no more than a blur; occasionally we passed through a small town with a shop or cafe open late, but as we got well beyond Marrakech there was not much visible, though still an awareness of the vast Atlas mountains to the east.

I was most fearful about the sea crossing to Spain, and prayed for a calm and clear passage, despite the fact I had no sympathy for most forms of religious worship. Omar had tried to reassure us further by saying that his brother would raise both a Spanish and European Union flag as we approached the other side, but surely there would be many patrols waiting for all those fleeing Africa and hoping for a better life in Europe – so tantalisingly close across the Strait of Gibraltar.

‘What was that ?’ said Jess suddenly.

‘Nothing, just a hole in the road, go back to sleep.’

‘I can’t seem to relax.’

‘I will stop in another hour or so, I must rest for a while’ Omar said.

I did not envy him the many hours of driving; but the bitterness he felt for the man who had killed his first son was literally driving him on through the black Moroccan night. We had unintentionally provided some kind of brutal justice, and the emptiness Omar still felt in his life encouraged him to risk being arrested by helping foreigners to leave the country without the usual forms being filled-in.

He pulled off the road somewhere near Azrou, south east of Meknes, and offered a flask of coffee and some biscuits.

‘You are very kind’ said Jess wearily.

‘That policeman was very bad; I will get you home safely.’

It was almost as if he was planning to drive us all the way to York, which might have impressed friends and family – taking a Mercedes taxi the entire route from Morocco to England. He went off for a cigarette, leaving the two of us alone, with hardly a clue as to our location in the featureless landscape of darkness.

‘I love you Jess.’

‘Love you.’

Thirty-second

We sat close to the giant cacti in the Jardin Majorelle, though not too close, because a blue fountain was spraying water high into the air of another very hot day in Marrakech. The delightful garden of abundant greenery and water features offered a similar escape to the oasis near Taroudannt, yet this place was designed and created by a French painter.

I thought about the modest garden at the Treasurer’s House in York, where the fountain wasn’t always working, though England didn’t normally have such high temperatures to contend with. If only we had been back there already, it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been pissing down with rain, because we would have felt safe behind those walls.

The main square of Marrakech was a few miles distant, but in the daytime it was not the lively pantomime of every bustling evening, where a shy English person might feel intimidated by all the unfamiliar and thrilling activity.

‘Will we make it back ?’ Jess asked.

‘I trust Omar; but I’m most worried about crossing to Spain in a fishing boat. I just hope the sea is calm, and we’re not arrested along with all the other refugees trying to escape Africa.’

‘I wonder what happened to his son ?’

‘Sounds like he was just another unfortunate victim of that bloody policeman.’

Jess went for a look round the Museum of Islamic Art, which formed part of the garden, but I preferred to remain outside in the shade. There were quite a few tourists, but it was by no means busy, which allowed one to be mostly undisturbed in contemplation, forgetting about the harsh realities that lay beyond the small oasis.

It was only midday, and it felt like a long time until Omar would collect us from the riad, as though time had come to a standstill, and we would always be trapped in a strange country of both beauty and pain. I laughed to myself, thinking about all the newspaper adverts saying that Morocco was a country that ‘nurtured the soul’, which you couldn’t argue with if all one’s time was spent in surroundings like the Jardin Majorelle.

‘There’s some wonderful jewellery in there.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘I know such things are not your cup of tea.’

‘It’s not that, I’m just so happy sitting in this tranquil garden.’

‘I think we will get back.’

‘What’s the worst that can happen ?’

Thirty-first

Omar arrived unexpectedly after breakfast the following morning, and I wondered if he’d come to ask for a bigger tip, though he didn’t seem the type.

‘They have found the policeman’ he said, without messing about.

‘I’m sorry ?’

‘In Taroudannt.’

I felt an overwhelming sense of panic, and was glad Jess was back in our room.

‘He killed my eldest son. I can help you.’

‘It wasn’t deliberate when I hit him, he was attacking....’

‘I know, that man was not good.’

‘We need to get back to England.’

‘I have a brother near Tangier, a fisherman, he can help.’

‘But isn’t it nearly four-hundred miles, how will we get there ?’

‘We will go in the car, I will come for you tonight.’

‘Can he really take us to Spain ?’

‘I will come at eight, be ready.’

Omar sounded completely at ease about the whole enterprise, but it seemed highly likely we would be stopped on the road north, trying to leave Morocco, or by a patrol boat in the Strait of Gibraltar.

Jess was surprisingly upbeat when I told her, as if this plan to hoodwink the authorities and escape the country was some kind of elaborate party game. She was also reassured in a strange way by hearing of the death of Omar’s son, which proved that this policeman deserved to meet a violent end himself.

‘He’s coming at eight, that means we have some more time to explore.’

‘We need to keep a low profile.’

‘Did Omar say if the police had linked his death to us ?’

‘Not yet, but they’re bound to consider all the people who stayed at our hotel in Taroudannt.’

‘I’ve always wanted to visit the Jardin Majorelle’ Jess said with enthusiasm.

‘I suppose that is out of the way, if we’re careful.’

‘Can we go in a calēche ? I prefer horses to cars.’

It was good to see some brightness back in her eyes; Omar had at least given us some hope, despite the serious challenges ahead.

Thirtieth

It was a struggle to reach our riad in Marrakech because the passages and alleyways were so cluttered with rubbish, and people coming and going from the market. The area did not look promising at all, and some kids even threw stones as we finally arrived at the solid wooden doors of our accommodation.

The transformation from the outer world to an inner space of serenity and luxury was extraordinary, and we were quickly made welcome with some chilled fruit juice. The layout was very similar to the riad in Essaouira, with a central courtyard open to the sky and several floors with balconies overlooking a modest fountain.

We had been given more or less the whole first floor of the beautifully renovated building, and there was no sign of other guests, though they were perhaps out exploring the city.

‘Let’s try and get a little rest Jess, we can go out later.’

‘We need to think about getting out of this bloody country.’

‘I know, it’s just that I’m not keen on the airport option, the security was so tight there.’

Jess lay on the vast bed and turned to face the wall, while I just sat looking at the vines and creepers spilling like a green waterfall over the marble balcony. I wasn’t really sure what to do, it seemed likely that the police would catch-up with us sooner or later, and I didn’t fancy explaining how bottling the policeman had been the only way of saving my lady.

I stripped-off and went into the large shower that was more like a substantial room in itself, and it felt good to wash away all the sweat and muck of our journey through the mountains. Omar had been a very friendly and helpful chap and seemed happy with his modest profession, driving tourists in that old, immaculately presented Mercedes.

After a couple of peaceful hours we set off for the Djemaa el-Fna, the huge main square, all the time trying to steer clear of any men in uniform. It felt quite easy to lose yourself in the crowds, and also to get seriously lost, as all we had was a very basic hand-drawn map from the riad owner.
It was around seven in the evening and the souk was still very busy; my eyes were drawn to a stall of multi-coloured handmade sweets, which were almost totally covered in black flies. I thought about the mostly orderly and hygienic market at home, but this kind of thing didn’t seem to concern any of the locals here.

Jess would normally have been enthusiastically exploring the endless variety of stalls and shops, but was unsurprisingly unable to shake-off the terrifying experience of the night before. We came to a small square where there were many caged lizards, rodents and birds, which I started to look at more closely, but then noticed that Jess was already walking ahead and out of reach.

I caught up with her not far from the entrance to the Djemaa el-Fna, which was buzzing with all kinds of activity and music. There were many tables with temporary seating serving-up food for locals and tourists, and the mixture of smells, smoke and noise was intoxicating and almost frightening. It was the lack of order and reserve, as we would understand it in England, which was so disturbing and also alluring.

Jess was standing near a snake charmer, and she didn’t even flinch when one of his assistant’s put a large cobra round her neck, though it made my heart skip a beat just watching. I gave the man a few dirhams and we continued our stroll, trying not to bump into people or be flattened by others.

‘Can we just get some food ? I’m starving.’

‘Of course, let’s go into one of these places high above the square’ I replied.

‘I don’t care where, I’m going to collapse soon.’

We chose somewhere more or less at random, which was serving both local and international food; we could have done with an alcoholic drink, but as with Taroudannt such options appeared to be extremely limited, except at the hotels. Our table had a fantastic view of all the human theatre being enacted in the noisy arena below, though Jess was still very quiet.

‘We will get home, won’t we ?’ she said eventually.

‘Of course.’

Twenty-ninth

Despite the fact we were more than worried about how we were going to get back safely to England, it was impossible not to be swept along by the enthusiasm of our driver Omar, the cheerful chap responsible for our safe passage over the High Atlas on the Tizi n’Test road that reaches over two thousand metres into the immense sky.

Everything had seemed so normal at breakfast, except for the fact there was a dead policeman concealed in the building; we ate a little and said our goodbyes to the owner, who wished us a lovely trip through the mountains to Marrakech. I couldn’t lose the image of the bottle crashing down on the copper’s skull, but surely anybody else would have done the same if their beloved was being attacked ? It was also highly likely that this man had murdered the Aussie girl, which meant we had actually saved the Moroccan justice system some time and money.

At first it was hard to appreciate the increasingly dramatic scenery and the extraordinary views back over the Souss plain towards Taroudannt. Omar told us that the French colonialists had constructed the road through the mountains, an amazing feat of engineering in itself.

‘I’m starting to feel sick’ said Jess.

‘It’s not surprising with all these twists and turns; I’ll ask him to stop.’

Omar was happy to pull over and light a cigarette, while we gazed back to the indistinct shape of Taroudannt, which brought a small sense of encouragement as it disappeared more and more in the distance. All being well his body would not be found until we’d been home for at least a few days; yet there was always the worry somebody might look into the shaft out of curiosity, or perhaps the annual maintenance inspection was due ? No, Morocco wasn’t the kind of country where they had regular inspections, except for the police road blocks of course.

‘Shall we get going ?’

‘I’m fine now’ said Jess weakly.

‘It’ll be exciting to see Marrakech’ I said, without really believing the optimistic sound of my voice.

There was very little other traffic about as most people wanting to travel between Taroudannt and Marrakech would use the main road, not a never-ending coil of pot-holed tarmac with terrifying drops at the side. Omar kept pointing out features of interest, and told us about growing-up in the foothills of the High Atlas.

We stopped again at La Belle Vue Hotel for some coffee, situated at two thousand one hundred metres above sea level; it seemed a very long time since we had been by the sea in Essaouira, and it felt like our travels had all been some kind of bizarre dream, fast turning into a nightmare. Jess wandered into the decaying red van abandoned at the roadside, covered in many stickers and signs associated with Moroccan car rallies. She appeared completely out of it, in another world, as if she would have been happy for the van to suddenly break free and crash over the cliff edge.

‘We’d better get on’ I said.

She didn’t reply, but eventually started walking back to the white Mercedes taxi.

As our journey continued beyond the highest point we heard thunder in the distance and Omar confirmed there might be a storm coming up the valley. The landscape became more reminiscent of the Himalayan foothills I’d seen on TV, and occasionally we passed small villages that were comprised of a few ramshackle ‘bungalows’ clinging to the green mountainside. After all the dryness of the plains I hadn’t expected this sudden change to the heavy rain that was now battering our vehicle, and wondered just how severe the weather must be in winter.

Though I was keen to reach Marrakech as soon as possible, Omar insisted on a small diversion to the spectacular mosque at Tin Mal, which is quite rare in being open to non-Muslims. There was a remarkable tranquillity in the empty, roofless interior, and Omar pointed-out some owls hiding in the crumbling stonework high above us. Many of the archways were in very good repair for a building constructed in the twelfth century, and some still beautifully decorated, despite being open to the elements.

‘Are you OK, Jess ?’

‘I feel very tired.’

‘It won’t be too long till we get to our hotel; Omar has recommended a riad not far from the main square, which should be more private than the Ibis we’d booked. I think it’s a good idea to stay somewhere not on our planned itinerary.’

We were soon back on the road to Marrakech, with Omar happily humming a tune to himself as we drove through the splendid scenery.

‘My wife is Fati’ he told us suddenly.

‘You still love her though ?!’

I felt Jess’s elbow in my ribs, which was usually an indication I’d said the wrong thing.

‘How many children have you got ?’ I asked, trying to move the conversation on.

‘Two, a girl and boy.’

After a few more miles we came to an unexpected traffic jam, which we soon realised had been caused by the storm and subsequent landslide, leaving the narrow road completely blocked.

‘This is the last thing we need’ muttered Jess.

‘Only thirty minutes to wait, this always happen’ Omar said cheerfully.

I got out and walked along the wet and muddy road in the direction of the collapse, where a snow plough was already working to restore a flat and safe surface. All the excitement made me forget about any worries as I marvelled at the power of nature unleashed, which was particularly striking as the only fresh water we’d seen before in Morocco had been at the oasis.

The thirty minutes promised by Omar was actually two hours before we got beyond the obstruction and resumed our drive to Marrakech; we were soon passing a large reservoir, then heading past enormous snow peaks.

‘Richard Branson Virgin have hotel up there’ Omar informed us.

‘He seems to have property everywhere’ I replied.

‘Very nice hotel’ added Omar.

The road from the mountains into Marrakech was far pleasanter than the one we’d taken to Essaouira on our arrival, which had been almost like driving through a rubbish dump. This approach to the city was a much more orderly one of wide tree-lined avenues, though it was not without a number of construction projects, mostly featuring some kind of golf resort.

‘I take you right into medina, very near hotel.’

‘Thank you Omar, we’re exhausted.’

‘Mountains are beautiful, yes ?’

‘Very beautiful.’

Twenty-eighth

I returned to our uninspiring accommodation carrying a bottle of cheap red from the Hotel Taroudannt, having left Jess reading some trashy paperback she’d bought at the airport. I’d had trouble finding my way back in the dark, but was determined not to call upon the services of a horse-drawn carriage.

As I climbed the stairs there was some unexpected noise coming from our room, and I quickly inserted the key and pushed open the door. I immediately recognised a policeman we’d seen in Essaouira, who was attempting to force Jess down onto the bed. Without thinking I rushed at him with the bottle and brought it down on the back of his skull; Jess flopped down on the bed, struggling for breath, while her attacker landed on the highly-polished tile floor. The heavy glass bottle was somehow unbroken despite the powerful impact.

‘Shit ! I think he’s dead !’ I shouted.

‘Feel for a pulse’ Jess replied, struggling to her feet.

‘Nothing.’

‘Let me try.’

The man’s sweaty and smelly body showed no signs of life.

‘What the fuck do we do now ?’ Jess wondered.

‘It’s no good going to the police, we can’t trust them.’

‘I’ll get a blanket, at least we can cover him up.’

I noticed that a window to the central ventilation shaft was open, presenting us with an immediate solution to our dilemma.

‘We’ll have to dump him in there, and head for Marrakech as soon as possible.’

‘Won’t he be missed ?’ asked Jess anxiously.

‘The Essaouira police won’t think of searching in Taroudannt.’

Somehow we manhandled his fat, hairy frame onto the sill and forced the blanketed body through the narrow opening. Fortunately, there was no blood to clean up; it had been like one massive lucky punch in a heavyweight boxing bout, except there would be no doctor rushing into the ring.

‘Are you OK ?’ I asked.

‘Do you think he killed the Australian ?’

‘I’m not sure, I don’t know what to think any more.’

‘We’ve got to get away, NOW !’

‘They’re not going to find his body for a while, let’s try to behave calmly and leave in the morning as planned.’

‘I can’t stay in this room.’

‘We’ve got no choice; we’ll get the taxi to Marrakech straight after breakfast.’

‘I thought he was going to kill me.’

I stroked her hair and held her tightly as she sobbed.

‘We’ll need to get out of the country as soon as possible; I’m not sure if the airport is a good idea.’

Jess didn’t hear me, she was still caught-up in the horrific events that had just unfolded, like something from a low-budget Hollywood thriller.

Twenty-seventh

Because we had seen so little fresh water on our journey I was keen to visit the Tioute oasis only twenty or so miles from Taroudannt. Without water a country can only struggle for existence, though the local population have adapted over many thousands of years to a life without abundant rain. The Atlas Mountains of course see wet weather and snow, but it is not enough to sustain an entire population, particularly during drought periods.

As we drove along in the Mercedes taxi, Jess kept crying out every time she saw some goats at the roadside or climbing the many argan trees. She became very excited when the little ones appeared, and the driver was happy to stop so she could cuddle a small beast while I got out the camera again.

It was extremely hot by the roadside, and the driver suggested we could shelter from the sun and get a drink at the next village, with its argan cooperative. A lively market was taking place near the modest argan production facility, where women were the only ones doing the hard work, crushing an endless supply of nuts with large, smooth pebbles to release the precious oil.

‘It makes our lives seem very easy’ I commented.

‘What do you mean ? You don’t do anything !’ Jess laughed.

All the ladies appeared to have a cheerful acceptance of their lot, and could clearly understand their relationship with nature, work and elusive prosperity; something that is not always so apparent if you’re working nights in a toilet seat factory in Preston.

The driver informed us it was not much further to the oasis, though I feared the flow of water might be much reduced after several dry years. He told us proudly that the citadel above the abundant palm trees had been used for the film Ali Baba; such facts are always related with enthusiasm, as if a place can only be validated by its use in a movie, or by some other similarly notable occurrence.

A cheerful man with donkeys offered us the chance to ride around the oasis, but I didn’t think it would be fair to inflict my large, unfit body on one of the poor animals; I was also keen to have a little paddle, which would not be possible from the saddle.

A large reservoir seemed to be collecting most of the water, but we followed a small, clear stream through the shady plantation, where individual fields were marked out for growing crops. We were told that each farmer was required to pay to have land irrigated, by lifting a small ‘portcullis’ to allow an area to flood and bring the gift of pure mountain water.

‘This is so much better than the dust and heat of town.’

‘It’s a shame we can’t stay here overnight’ Jess replied.

‘I think there is a hotel, but it’s too late to arrange anything now.’

It was enough just to sit under the tall palms, with hot feet dangling in the clear, cold water, looking up towards the substantial ruins of the ancient citadel. For a short while we could forget the harsher realities of Morocco, including the probable murder of the Aussie girl, and being fleeced in the bazaar.

Twenty-fifth

After our little adventure to the souk that had gone slightly awry we started to spend a lot of time at one of the best hotels in Taroudannt, the Palais Salam, where it was possible to use one of the two swimming pools free if you purchased a meal or a few drinks. Though it was now early June the heat could still be quite a challenge for pale folk from England, which meant the cool water in the pleasant surroundings of a luxury hotel was a welcome escape from the more difficult environment outside.

The hotel is set in the beautiful gardens of a 19th-century pasha’s residence in the kasbah, and surrounded by the substantial walls that would have once provided good protection for citizens of the town, but now pigeons are the main occupants of many small holes in the crumbling battlements.

There was no way we could afford to stay at this particular establishment, but for a few hours every day could pretend that we were part of some privileged elite, while the local population worked very hard to scrape a living beyond the historic walls.

‘This is the life.’

‘It makes our accommodation look rather shabby’ Jess replied.

‘I don’t feel so bad about yesterday’s little episode.’

‘Well, nothing really awful happened.’

‘Apart from ‘losing’ about one hundred quid.’

A smartly-dressed waiter brought the tray of coffee and Moroccan patisserie to our table by the main pool; I don’t know what they thought about tourists, but they always remained very polite and attentive, even though they must have realised we were not really the big spenders they were trying to encourage.

‘I didn’t see the Australian girl this morning’ Jess said.

‘Do you think she’s gone home already ?’

‘Either that, or the she’s still here with the charity worker.’

‘How are you expected to just go home and get on with your life after a tragedy like that ?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘All you can do is keep getting up every morning and try to follow a familiar routine.’

I watched a large stork flying quite low over the hotel, returning with some nest material to the trees not far away; even though there were many positive aspects to life in Morocco, I couldn’t help feeling that everything was tainted by human grime and the struggle for existence in a harsh, dry land, except for these majestic birds able to rise above everything on currents of hot air, like feathered pterodactyls surviving into a world of petrol fumes and the stench of dead flesh drifting from the nearby tannery.

Twenty-fourth

It was such a blur of human activity in Taroudannt, and Jess was so distracted by the death of the Australian girl that I can’t exactly remember if we were guided to the Arab or Berber souk by our new ‘friend.’ Of course we had a map, just like the one that had not been much use in Essaouira, but were easy pickings for a well-dressed confidence trickster.

The young local man was dressed in Western-style clothes, and kept cheerfully asking trivial questions as he rushed us down so many back alleys with the promise of bargains. It’s not as if I even like shopping, but it was me that gave this stranger our trust despite some dirty looks from Jess.

We found most Moroccans so welcoming to their fascinating country, forgetting that there must always be petty crooks (and worse) in every society. How could I have lived for more than forty years in this imperfect world of ours and still remain so gullible when it comes to a friendly smile ?

It would have been fairly easy to break free from this man, but for some reason we continued to chase after him down so many grubby streets. Eventually, he took us in to the darkness of the market, and to what he claimed was his father’s shop selling herbs and spices. Because he had actually brought us to one of the labyrinthine souks I felt some obligation towards him, which was exactly what he then played upon.

With the help of his ‘father’ a variety of items were shown to us, including a large lump of perfumed sandalwood and a mixture of spices for tagine cooking; any sensible person would have just walked away, but I still felt we owed this person something for safely guiding us to the market. He then quoted some ridiculously high figure in dirhams, which they supposed any tourist would easily be able to pay without even noticing. It is to be expected that you will always be charged more than any local, but not so much more.

Even though we didn’t want any of their products, at least it was possible to negotiate a small reduction in price, and they even threw in some roughly made pottery scrubbers for removing dead skin from feet. I handed over my wad of notes with a strong feeling of being cheated, but there was always at the back of my mind the awareness that things might turn nasty if we didn’t go along with the charade.

This event was certainly trivial in comparison to what had happened to the Australian, but it was more the fear of things getting out of control in such an unfamiliar environment that was disturbing my mind. For some reason I’d expected the old man to pull a knife and hold it under Jess’s chin until we relinquished all our money and valuables; as it turned out my own vivid imagination had exaggerated the seriousness of the situation.

Fortunately, we were not far from the main square and the Hotel Taroudannt – the only place in town you could buy alcohol. We went through the dark entrance and corridors to a jungle courtyard of faded splendour, sitting near a soothing fountain and eventually drinking some basic red wine.

‘That was an expensive waste of time’ said Jess.

‘I’m sorry, I thought he was helping us at first. At least there was no violence.’

‘Will you ever learn ?’

‘Learn what ?’

‘About human nature.’

In that particular subject could you ever successfully pass a final exam ? Surely, there was always room for more learning and a few surprises where people are concerned.

Twenty-second

It was a surprise at breakfast the following morning to see the other Australian girl at one of the few tables; Jess immediately went over to speak to her, which was typically brave and bold, and not the kind of thing I’m able to do with any sense of ease. I had only expected they’d exchange a few polite words, because the young woman was naturally in quite a state of grief and distress. After about twenty minutes of intense conversation Jess finally returned to the seat next to me.

‘What was all that about ?’

‘She hasn’t been able to leave yet because she’s run out of money and is waiting for funds from her parents.’

‘And that took all those minutes to explain ?’

‘No, the more disturbing news was that she had been followed by a man in Essaouira, and her description is very similar to the person I saw in the medina.’

‘The one you thought you saw.’

‘She’s also convinced that her friend didn’t drown.’

‘Does she think this man is involved ?’

‘The poor lass is not really thinking logically at all; but like ourselves she didn’t want to remain in Essaouira.’

‘I’m amazed she’s still in the country.’

‘Apparently she has a friend working in Taroudannt for some UK charity, something to do with agricultural development.’

‘So why isn’t she staying with the friend ?’

‘The chap is out in one of the Berber villages at the moment, but he’s expected back tonight or tomorrow.’

‘The poor lass looks in a right state.’

‘I asked if she wanted any help, but she said this bloke would be back soon.’

Jess didn’t touch any of her breakfast, but it would have taken something really momentous to prevent me from tucking-in, though I wasn’t too sure about the local ‘pancakes’ that looked more like the inside of a cow’s stomach. I decided to opt for the safety of croissants and coffee, and also daubed some Laughing Cow cheese on a couple of bread slices.

‘I bet you eat all the buffet at funerals’ Jess said sarcastically.

‘I’ve got a larger frame to sustain than you.’

‘I won’t argue with that.’