Thirteen in the Medina

by Flora McGowan

  We reached the riad where we were due to eat lunch without further incident. A riad, Abdul had told us in his pre-walk talk in reception earlier, is a house. Some riads are turned into hotels, others are converted into restaurants. A riad is a town house; in the country it is called a casbar.

  Abdul was waiting for us in the doorway. Just for a second I pondered what he had been doing all morning that necessitated leaving his group with a local guide that ended with us getting lost. I had not previously been on an organised tour where our tour manager had abandoned us in such a fashion. Having successfully handed us back to our designated leader Hicham silently glided away, his ankle length garment gently sweeping across the floor as he moved.

  Some of the doorways we had passed opened into gloomy interiors. However, the doorway of this riad opened into a spacious room that was open to the sky in its centre. In the corner of the room stairs led up to the gents’ toilets off an internal balcony, which ran the circumference of the room. The gents (we all went up and had a look after Graham reported how grand they were) were light and airy, with greenery and coloured tiles and pleasant-smelling perfume coming from somewhere. By comparison, the ladies, on the ground floor, down a dingy corridor that led almost outside, were less luxurious, being dark and cramped, with no soap and a torn, grimy towel on which to dry our hands. I fished my alcohol gel out of my bag to finish the job.

  Lunch set the routine of many of the lunches to follow. We split into two groups; one a party of six and one of seven, with each group seated around a circular table. The tables in this riad were low to the ground, with matching chairs that would not have been out of place in a primary school. There were collective grunts and groans as we lowered our much more mature bodies down onto the seats. However, once we were seated they were comfortable enough.

  A man came and took our drinks order; I elected to have a sparkling mineral water and Keith did the same. I like to keep my alcohol rations until the evening (and I don’t normally drink alcohol every night back home); besides it is sensible and healthier to keep hydrated during the day, especially in a hot country.

  Once the drinks had been served the starters were brought out; large serving platters of vegetables set out like the spokes of a wheel, so that one spoke was comprised of mini cauliflower florets, another chopped carrots, others beetroot, cucumber and spicy potato. Large plates of flat bread were supplied along with little dishes of spicy sauces. I took a little of the vegetables, which were served cold, and a chunk of bread.

  The main course was served in a pottery tagine, with a large conical lid, which when removed revealed portions of lamb on a bed of couscous, which had been cooked inside the vessel in its juices, so Karen explained. Also inside were more carrots and cauliflower, but these, like the meat and couscous, were steaming hot. Using a tagine promotes a slow cooking of meat, sometimes for hours, in its own juices as condensation returns to the bottom of the container, a boon in countries with limited water supplies, Karen further informed us.

  On our table Carole immediately grabbed the serving spoons and helped herself to a large portion of the meat; there seemed to be six hunks in the dish, and proceeded to spoon vegetables and couscous onto her plate before handing the spoons to Gordon. There was no mention of “ladies first” in serving, and the spoons went clockwise around the table. Gordon followed his companion’s example of helping himself to a large portion of everything.

  Karen, unsurprisingly with her small frame, claimed not to be much of a meat eater and helped herself to a small piece, and while she still held the spoons, served her husband as well. Keith, well brought up chap that he is, passed the serving spoons to me before serving himself. There were just two small portions of meat left, among the desecrated mound of vegetables and juice.

  It was worth waiting for the meal. It was hot, well cooked and surprisingly tasty. After the cold vegetables as starters it was pleasant to have hot vegetables. Keith was shovelling it in like he had missed breakfast, which I knew he had not.

  Dessert was slices of melon. This proved to be the template of many of the lunches over the succeeding days – cold vegetable starters of beetroot, carrot, cauliflower, cucumber etc with a hot main meal, followed by slices of melon, which we were often expected to eat with our fingers.

  Whilst we ate the conversation drifted back to our ability to lose group members on the first day of our tour in the palace and then the failure to follow the person in front through the medina.

  ‘Going through that medina reminded me of that time we lost your mother in Hampton Court,’ Graham said, selecting a large piece of melon.

  His wife surveyed him critically. ‘Yes, and I am sure that was deliberate.’

  He grinned and turned to me, ‘Have you seen the maze there, Carrie?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. We did visit one stately home with a maze, my family and I that is, but it was not Hampton Court. I’m not sure which house it was, I was only young at the time, but it had recently featured in a film and my father was keen to see it.’ I replied wiping my sticky fingers on my napkin.

  ‘Oh, was that Sleuth?’ asked Hugh, turning around from the table alongside, but I was unable to confirm or deny this.

  ‘What we should do is take some of this left-over bread and turn it into crumbs,’ joked Graham. ‘Then, in the next medina we visit, we can scatter them along the path and thus follow the trail like Hansel and Gretel.’

  ‘Hush,’ scolded Karen, as the rest of us laughed. ‘They might take offence and think you did not like their bread, if they hear you talk about tearing it into little pieces like that.’ She slapped his arm playfully. ‘And dropping it onto the path!’

  ‘That only works if you are wanting to leave the medina via the same gate you entered,’ Gordon pointed out. ‘It doesn’t help you not to get lost if you are merely trying to get from A to B.’

  We considered this for a moment. ‘Or we could try ropes,’ I suggested. ‘Like mountain climbers use. We could all be tied together.’

  ‘And all get lost together,’ added Graham, as we all laughed. ‘Just like today!’ At least I kept my mouth shut over the other idea that had crept unbidden into my mind: being made to hold hands like schoolchildren.

  ‘Who was it that used a thread to find his way out of the labyrinth in ancient Greece?’ Karen asked, and I felt that my suggestion had not been that imprudent after all.

  ‘Theseus,’ supplied Nancy, turning around from the table beside us, the many bangles on her arm jangling with the movement. ‘Ariadne gave it to him so that he could find his way out after he had slain the Minotaur.’

  ‘Did you know that another term for a ball of thread or yarn is “clew”?’ Hugh asked spelling the word out to us. ‘“Clew” is also a nautical term to do with sails and rigging and also for the cords that suspend a hammock, which were of course used for the sleeping arrangements of sailing ships. However,’ he continued, adjusting his position in his low chair so that he could turn more easily towards us from the adjacent table, ‘“clew” meaning “thread” became the word “clue” as in a puzzle or mystery, the evidence in a crime, leading to the denouement, the final act of a play or film where all the strands of the plot are brought together and the mystery is solved, or you could say a knotty problem has been unravelled.’

  In the moment of silence whilst we digested this fact I was reminded of Keith’s comment in my hotel room regarding finding ourselves in the middle of a whodunit and despite the comfortable warmth of the restaurant I shivered a little.

  ‘So, going back to Hansel and Gretel fleeing the witch in the wood -’ started Graham.

  ‘But first they tried to use the breadcrumbs to get back home,’ interrupted his wife, eager to get the sequence of events correct. ‘Originally, they laid a trail of white pebbles after their father had abandoned them in the woods, then they dropped the breadcrumbs, which the birds ate, after which they made their way into the woods and ended up at the old woman’s – stroke witch’s –
house from which they later escaped.’

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Graham with a deep sigh, leaning back in his chair, replete. ‘As I was saying, if Hansel and Gretel were fleeing from the witch and Theseus was trying to get away from the Minotaur who are we trying to evade?’

  ‘Abdul.’

  Keith had uttered the name as an indication that our tour leader had come in search of us, our mealtime over, and was taken aback by the laughter it provoked.

  After lunch our first stop was to view the Koutoubia minaret. The sun was beating down, and being unaccustomed to the heat I tried to stand in the shade of a tree whilst attempting to take a photo of the tower, but people kept blocking my view therefore in the end I had to brave the hot sun and stand for a few seconds out in the open, before heading back to the shade.

  I could not really hear what Abdul was wittering on about but I was not really interested. As towers go it was tall and built straight up. As far as I could see there was nothing special about it.

  We got in a coach for our next visit, the formal Majorelle gardens and after our walk in the morning I slumped in my seat and adjusted the curtain at the window so that it gave a little shade whilst still allowing me to see outside. When we descended from the coach Abdul handed out maps, which gave the impression that the gardens were quite extensive, and told us we were free to wonder around on our own; he was not giving a group tour.

  At the entrance I grabbed Keith’s arm, shoved the map under his nose and muttered, ‘Which way?’

  Larry was chatting with Robert (“Bob”) and I could see Diane bearing down on Keith, so I steered him to the left and quickly into a grove of trees. Behind us I could hear her calling, ‘Keith? Oh Keith, Coo-ey!’

  The paths were narrow, being at times only a couple of feet wide and sometimes we had to pass single file. Either side of us rose huge ornamental trees. At sections along the path little alcoves featured pools and exotic flowering plants and huge cacti. Paths led off in various directions and meandered round. In the centre stood a sort of bandstand-like pavilion next to a coffee and gift shop. I dragged Keith inside the store, made a quick circuit, decided it was too expensive for gifts and dragged him out again.

  We took another little path, which meandered around and led back to the bandstand, where we bumped into Phil and Ann. We retraced our steps, took another path and found our way back to the entrance, where Larry still stood, arms crossed, head nodding vigorously as he continued to chat to Bob.

  I cast a wary eye around. Diane was no-where to be seen. This time we took the path to the right, but again ended up at the bandstand where Graham and Karen waved at us. Karen said she was just going to look in the shop – had we been in? I nodded but added that I had not been tempted to buy anything.

  Keith snatched the map from my hand. By now it was a bit crumpled.

  ‘Don’t know why he gave us a map,’ he grumbled. ‘Blinking small place.’ He muttered under his breath as he turned the page over on the slimmest chance that the map continued overleaf. It did not. ‘Well,’ he announced, checking his watch. ‘We have somehow got thirty minutes more to fill before we meet back at the coach. What do you want to do? Wonder round in circles some more? Or what?’

  I could tell he was not impressed. To tell the truth, neither was I. The gardens were, to put it bluntly, small. But I suppose in North Africa gardens are rare; presumably as it does not rain as much as it does in England (does it rain anywhere as much as it does in England?) therefore these small, but well-tended gardens are a great attraction – for the locals. As days go, this was not a great start to the holiday – a ruined palace, another palace where we lost half the group, a walk through the medina where we then succeeded in losing the other half, a tower that was just there and some small ornamental gardens. The sites could only get better.

  ‘Let’s just sit on a bench for a minute,’ I suggested, forgetting that we had spent some time sitting on the coach. So we sat in the shade of a large tree watching other people wandering around in circles until it was time to get back on the bus.

  Our final stop of the day was a visit to the Dar Si Said museum, which as well as fine examples of ornate woodwork contained wonderful traditional costumes, ornate weapons and beautiful Berber jewellery, and I could easily have spent an extra half an hour there gazing at all the delightful objects than the time previously spent sat on the bench at the Majorelle gardens. Oh, and there were some gardens at the museum as well.

  Back at the hotel, as we made our way across to the block containing our rooms, I noted that there was no man in a dark suit guarding the pool entrance at that time. Maybe he just does night duty to stop people taking a wrong turning and falling in the pool. Anyway, that gave me the idea that I fancied a swim before dinner. Keith agreed and appeared sporting a pair of brightly coloured trunks remarkably similar to his shorts. He swam well, displaying a fine physique. His legs don’t look quite so chunky when his whole body is on display. He seemed in his element, effortlessly swimming several lengths of the pool, while I splashed around in the shallow end, trying not to get my face wet. I only usually swim once a year whilst on holiday and it takes me a while to get back into the habit.

  Afterwards we grabbed some loungers and lay in the warm late afternoon air to dry off. I noted the sun glistening on the smattering of hairs across Keith’s chest (and sprouting just below his navel).

  Diane had appeared at some point and lay elegantly on a lounger in a pristine white bikini that looked like it had never been within touching distance of a swimming pool or the sea. Sporting an oversized pair of, what I took to be, designer sunglasses, she relaxed and read, her chair placed conveniently close to Keith’s, and I heard her lean towards him and compliment him on his athletic prowess. His chest swelled with manly pride and he grinned, revealing his sparkling white teeth. I gritted mine and continued to read the same page in my book two, possibly three times; I was finding it hard to concentrate on the plot. I lost my page when I dropped the book, as I overheard Keith agree to meet for a pre-dinner drink in the bar.

  Satisfied with her conquest Diane stretched out on her beach lounger and casually laid her right arm above her head. Keith still had a self-satisfied grin on his face as he relaxed, eyes closed. I decided it was time to head back to my room for a shower and wash the chlorine (and possibly, that man) right out of my hair.

  After I had washed and dressed for dinner I sat in the chair on the balcony and attempted to read my book again whilst I waited to see if Keith would appear to escort me down. The party had agreed to eat at 7pm and I had heard Diane suggest to Keith drinks in the bar at 6.30pm.

  At just before 7pm I laid down my book and decided I might as well make my own way down to the restaurant. As I passed the pool entrance I spied a man in the shadows. It was hard to tell if he was the same one who had been there on the previous evening. I had a sneaking suspicion that he gave me the slightest nod in greeting as I passed him by.

  I avoided the bar and went directly to the restaurant. It was another warm night and again we were seated at a table outside on the patio. Graham and Karen were already seated, as were Nancy and Hugh. At the far end of the table Gordon and Carole were in animated conversation. Well Carole was animated, Gordon appeared to be listening and I wondered what he had done to irritate her this time. I took my seat next to Nancy and tried to no avail to catch the eye of the wine waiter.

  I was still fairly hopeful of being served when a voice behind me said, ‘What are you doing? Swatting flies?’

  Keith pulled out the chair next to mine and sat down, a large grin on his face.

  ‘No,’ I replied somewhat indignantly. ‘Trying to catch the wine waiter.’ I stopped waving my hand about as it was obviously no use. Annoyingly, Keith only had to raise his arm, not even move it around, for the waiter to appear. With some new-found confidence dredged up from somewhere he proceeded to order a bottle of red wine without conferring with me. I decided not to sit and sulk but go and select my starters.
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  I returned to my seat to find red wine in my glass but Keith had disappeared. I made a mental resolution not to think about him. After all, I had booked my holiday for myself long before he had decided to accompany me. I had originally intended to travel solo, and if I was now destined to spend huge chunks of time alone, so be it.

  Keith, it turned out, had only gone to get his food and I had missed him in the gloom of the dining room.

  Meanwhile, Hugh was asking me how I enjoyed the day. I replied that I liked the first palace best. It might have been ruined but the view across the city had been amazing. Then on consideration, I added that I liked the clothes and the jewellery in the final stop, but had not really had the time to appreciate them. Nancy agreed and said that it had been a long tiring day and perhaps it might have been better for the afternoon visits to have been viewed in the reverse order.

  The main courses were similar to the previous night’s with one notable exception. Graham came back to the table with his plate piled high with pasta and perched on top, like the storks in the nests we had seen earlier in the day, were three oyster shells.

  ‘I just love oysters,’ he cried, as he tipped his head back to allow it to slide down his throat.

  I have never eaten oysters and I had missed them on the table when I had filled my dinner plate with chicken strips and fish (battered tonight), rice and sliced green beans. Of course, I have heard about them, and their reputation. I decided to try one. Keith, in gentlemanly mode (and for a moment I considered whether he was trying to make up for not having included me in the pre-dinner drinks get together) offered to get one for me to try while he collected one for himself.

  The shell was impressive. Thick and wavy, it made a nice centrepiece on the plate. The contents I eyed suspiciously. A thick, colourless, gelatinous gob of fluid wobbled in the shell as I lifted it up. Somehow, I could not bring myself to swallow it like Graham had done.