Thirteen in the Medina

by Flora McGowan

  We were desperately running out of thread, and I still had no idea where we were. I became aware I was in danger of being left behind, as Keith was moving faster than I was able to, with my long skirt flapping around my ankles. The thread was slipping through my sweaty fingers and my heart dropped down into my stomach, and I lost sight of Keith when he sped around a corner; then the coach went over a pot hole in the road, and sluggishly I opened my eyes to see our next hotel looming up in front of us.

  On arrival at the hotel we were greeted by locals offering small glasses of mint tea, and an accompanying ensemble of singers, dancers and musicians in native costumes. We politely sipped our drinks and nodded our heads in time to the drums while the ladies warbled with a range of enthusiasm. Likewise, our appreciation varied from Diane’s slightly upturned nose to Graham’s loud enthusiastic applause.

  Abdul signed us in the register and handed out large keys. Yes, we actually had room keys, not little plastic cards. Our suitcases were loaded onto a handcart by an extremely tall, thin, dark porter who then proceeded to push it along to the rooms, while his smaller colleague scurried close by his side, although I am not exactly sure as to his function.

  Abdul ushered us through the entrance hall and out the other side to the pool area, where he pointed out the restaurant to the right, and the bar to the left. We followed the men with the handcart to find our rooms.

  The guest bedrooms were situated in a pair of small, two storey blocks. We entered another courtyard area through an archway, and ambled down what appeared almost to be a street between the two blocks. We all seemed to have rooms on the ground floor; Keith being one side of me, Bob the other, with Graham and Karen opposite; Phil and Ann to their left, Carole and Gordon to their right, and Diane and Larry a little further along.

  When I reached my door, my case was waiting for me outside. I could just hear the squeaky wheels disappearing back to reception, sounding a bit like the laundry basket in Thoroughly Modern Millie. I turned the huge metal key (I bet they don’t lose many of these, much too large to steal) and stepped inside. Into total darkness.

  There was a window next to the door with a very effective blackout screen. I fiddled with the lights, some sort of toggle arrangement that needed to be turned clockwise, and the room was revealed as the lights lifted in a dimmer-switch fashion. Under the window was a large settee with a coffee table onto which I dumped my rucksack.

  On the opposite side of the room were twin beds, with another extremely well blacked out window between them; to the left was a curtained alcove with a sink; to the right of the sink was a tiny separate toilet and opposite that, to the left around a corner, a very basic shower, with knobs labelled “C” and “F”, which confused me until I realised it was written in French: chaud and froid – hot and cold. Scattered around the sink were giant fossils, ammonites in perfusion. The décor was very ethnic.

  To the left of the bed stood an open work wardrobe affair with two cubed storage areas and a hanging space containing three hangers. One of the storage areas contained wooden slats and instructions on how to use the slats to turn the twin beds into a double; something about sliding the slats under the mattresses and then pushing the mattresses together. I had a momentary unwelcome mental image of Carole standing over Gordon, while he pushed and pulled the beds together. The bed covers and hangings were dark and ethnic in style. The bed was hard. All in all, it was a comfortable, generous sized room, part bedroom, part sitting room.

  I refreshed quickly, checked my camera, counted out my money and headed back to reception where I managed to change some more sterling into MAD, in order to pay Abdul for the camel excursion. I also passed across a postcard addressed to the girls in the office back home, and watched as the receptionist smilingly shut it away in a drawer. I wondered if it would ever see the light of day again.

  Abdul was sitting in a lounger by the pool chatting with Graham, who was also coming on the camel ride. As I counted out my money Keith appeared happily chatting with Diane; Larry sauntering along a few steps behind, hands in pockets, whistling tunelessly through his teeth. Somehow Diane had found the time to completely change her outfit into something that just seemed to be a billowing mass of pale, floaty scarves that wrapped around her neck and trailed behind her.

  ‘Look who I bumped into,’ Keith said, with one of his bright smiles. ‘I managed to persuade them to join us.’ I exchanged a glance with Graham. Somehow, I doubted that Diane needed much persuading; she had obviously come prepared, her outfit screamed desert Arab sheik harem from some 1920’s film (although I considered Larry a poor substitute for Rudolph Valentino). I glanced at Abdul to see if perhaps he thought she was taking the micky, but he seemed not to notice her attire but merely quickly pocketed the cash that Larry proffered.

  Then Abdul led us outside to the car park where a truck waited. He counted out some money, which he passed to the driver, muttering some sort of instructions as he did so, before turning to us.

  ‘Okay people, this is it,’ and so saying he unlatched the back flap of the truck and dropped it down. Keith climbed in first so that he could lend a hand to the rest of us. I decided to try sitting on the back and swinging my legs round without toppling over. Diane tried the same, with the aid of Keith steadying her from behind and Larry gently prodding and lifting her ankles. The back of the truck was rather dusty and I caught a glimpse of the grubby rear state of Diane’s new costume before, with Keith and I in the back of the truck pulling an arm each and Larry pushing from behind, we got Graham in, huffing and puffing, and offering apologies for putting us out. Lastly Larry proved he was still quite young at heart by vaulting in, and Abdul lifted the flap and secured it in place.

  Somehow, I got stuck in the corner behind the passenger side of the cab, as Diane manoeuvred herself into the middle between me and Keith. Graham sat behind the driver’s cab, with Larry next to him. I gripped the seat with one hand and gave a little wave to Abdul, as we set off towards the Merzouga dunes.

  Before long we were driving through what appeared to be a native town. It seemed strange to pass down the main high street and see nothing but black people, mostly men but I did spy a few women, heavily robed and covered up, as they completed their daily shopping. I could not have felt more conspicuous if I had been holding up a sign that said “tourist.”

  As Larry fumbled in his pocket Graham leant forward and urged, ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea to get a camera out.’

  ‘Oh no, no,’ Larry agreed quickly. The locals looked peaceable enough but in the back of the truck we were somewhat exposed. I tried to look around without obviously staring at anyone in particular.

  At the end of the main street, we turned right down another reasonably looking road however, soon the shops became more sparse and the road surface more rutted. At each bump in the road Diane seemed to edge a little towards Keith with a little girlish giggle.

  Soon we were out into the countryside, although not the English sort of countryside; it was barren and dusty. My hair was flying every which way and I screwed my eyes up behind my glasses at the airborne grit. Diane’s white outfit soon became tinged a pinky beige. The road was long and straight and, as the driver gathered speed, I gripped the edge of the seat harder with my left hand whilst groping for a hand hold with my right behind the cab. Larry and Graham were grinning manically; a case of boys and their toys and any sort of fast car.

  The road petered out and we were driving over a flat dusty plain. The driver must have had an unerring sense of direction. I spied a few tyre tracks but they all seemed to lead off in various directions. I say flat, dusty plain only because as far as I could see was nothing but parched land, but it was not really flat. There were numerous bumps and one quite large mound that we jolted over. By now Diane had grabbed hold of Keith with both hands; I was not sure what he was holding onto.

  ‘Are you okay, Carrie?’ asked Graham, as he peered at me through eyes narrowed to avoid the grit.

  I nodded
as I did not particularly want to breathe any of it in. I could taste the dust on my dry lips anyway.

  We passed a little huddle of nomad tents; one larger with two smaller ones, and a youth leading a scrawny goat. Nearby, a woman carried a small child that stared at us out of huge dark eyes as we passed. The isolated grass tussocks did not seem plentiful enough to keep a goat alive. I wandered what the family themselves lived on. It was a desolate area.

  Pinkish sand dunes suddenly reared up on either side of us and I felt a strange sensation in my chest. This was it. This was the Sahara Desert. Still the driver drove on, hardly changing course or slackening speed to allow for the rough surface.

  Then he drove up to a mound and stopped. When the dust settled I could see in front of me a vista that seemed to jump straight out of Hollywood. Rolling sand dunes, banks of them in front, to the left, to the right and dotted in between clusters of buildings. Maybe I still had dust in my eyes but it seemed a magical misty setting, rosy pink in the evening light. So quiet and peaceful.

  The driver climbed out his cab and intimated that we should take a few camera shots. Keith was already snapping away, having disentangled himself from Diane. I leant on the roof of the cab to steady myself to capture the scene. It was like being at sea; I still felt I was moving.

  The driver reseated himself and we settled ourselves for the final stage of our journey. We drove around the mound, towards a clump of buildings, which as we grew nearer identified themselves as a café with toilets and a small shop.

  Our driver stopped and came around to undo the back flap to let us out. As we stood shaking the dust from our clothes he walked up to a man in the midst of a flock of camels. Presumably each tourist section has their own contact within these camel herders as he ignored some other men that had been closer to him. I watched them chat for a few seconds and money changed hands, then the driver beckoned us over.

  I hitched my rucksack over both shoulders, wondering why on earth I had brought it and not left it in my room, and trod warily over the sand, lifting my feet high and noticing all around that the surface of the ground was littered with little dark pellets of camel dung that you could not avoid as you walked.

  The taxi driver pointed to me as I approached and said a few more words to the youth in charge of the camels. Dressed in his traditional Arab robes, over a pair of Western jeans, he appeared to be in his early twenties. He had black curly hair poking out from under his head dress and dark twinkling eyes. He had very white teeth and a smile that was brighter than Keith’s. He selected a camel for me and I tried to appear confident as he helped me climb on.

  I may have mentioned that I have ridden a camel before, a few years ago in Egypt. It should have been a memorable experience, in a uniquely picturesque setting, riding past the pyramids. It was unforgettable, but only in the way that I was so terrified I could not gaze at the view, but desperately clung on to what little there was to hold on to – one tiny pommel that grew slippery from my sweaty hands – and tried not to slip sideways with the constant movement.

  In Egypt the camels had been led by horrible little boys who kept taunting that they were going to let go of the guide ropes, which they did once or twice, pinning them underfoot while they casually examined pieces of rock they collected from the sand; rocks I felt that I could so easily have slipped from the saddle and fallen onto. I had been petrified and now I wanted to exorcise that memory and overlay it with something more pleasant. I wanted to prove I could do it. Ride a camel.

  First, however, you have to get on and it is not easy. Nor particularly dignified. Aware that several pairs of eyes were watching me I approached, grabbed the T bar on the front of the “saddle” (so glad to see something more substantial to grab hold of than a solitary pommel) and swung my right leg up and over the back of the camel. The youth kept the camel in its kneeling position whilst I tried to adjust myself but all too soon the camel rose, back legs straightening first and I was pitched forward. From experience, I knew this would happen and tried to lean back, but the suddenness of the movement, and the force still takes you by surprise. Then it rose on its front legs and I lurched in the opposite direction before suddenly finding I was perched aloft looking down on all the smiling faces.

  I sat there, my legs dangling either side, aware that between the toes of my left foot was a pellet of camel poo and tried to wiggle my toes to dislodge it. Keith, grinning as ever, had his camera out and was taking pictures. I clutched the bar tightly and tried my best smile in reply. I was feeling a little nervous, but not too bad. It was uncomfortable, your legs seem to dangle out at an odd angle, it’s not straight down and there are no stirrups to put your feet in; they just hang.

  The saddle appeared to be a folded-up blanket, laid over another rolled up blanket, arranged around the camel’s hump. To sit on the bulk of the blanket and avoid the bump in the camel’s back meant I had to slightly stretch forward to grasp the bar.

  Graham was next and he was surprisingly agile for a man of his bulk. He was soon astride a camel, his knees stuck out either side and my camel was then attached to his in a complicated arrangement. Keith was soon atop his beast and tethered up directly behind me. Then the Arab, with his best smile, turned to Diane.

  The Arab had selected a camel and stood with one hand on the T bar the other outstretched to guide her into position. In her white outfit, she glided across to him, scarves billowing out behind her. She tossed her hair and attempted to gracefully raise her leg.

  The camel, presumably a little put out at being kept waiting in its kneeling position, let out a snort that took Diane by surprise. She half fell into position, the camel took that as a signal to rise and with the Arab trying to hold her up without actually touching her, the creature stood, rear end first; Diane pitched alarmingly forward with a shriek; then front end up and Diane slithered backwards with a squeal.

  In front of me Graham’s shoulders were twitching and I could hear a snigger from behind me. I tried hard to stifle the smile that sprang to my lips. Only the Arab – who obviously did not want to lose a customer – injuries are bad for business – and Larry were concerned.

  Larry had leapt forward, muttering encouragement; the hardest part was over, she was seated. The Arab was trying to calm the camel, which was snorting and hissing. Diane continued to moan and wail. Eventually the Arab, camel calmed, succumbed to her pleas: ‘Get me down! Get me down!’

  And the process happened in reverse, with the Arab one side of her and Larry the other, the camel was persuaded to lower itself to the ground and Diane flung herself sobbing into Larry’s arms.

  Larry declined to climb onto a camel when the Arab approached him, even a completely different camel. He explained that Diane and he would just take a walk around, and they disappeared in the direction of the café.

  Still smiling, the Arab commandeered Keith’s camera and snapped away at the remaining three of us in our mini camel train. Then he removed his shoes, tied the strings together, slung them around his neck, and we were off.

  At first it was not so bad. We went up little sand dunes and down little sand dunes, sometimes traversing obliquely, the Arab trudging on foot leading Graham’s camel and Keith bringing up the rear. Uphill was fine, downhill we were pitched forward again and it was a struggle against gravity not to be flung over the camel’s head. As the sand dunes became bigger the drops became steeper, the ride bouncier, and it became harder and harder to hold on.

  I gripped the T bar with both hands and clenched my thighs (and buttocks) tight as I felt myself slipping and sliding ever so slightly over to the right. I soon got an ache in my hip region and my shoulders felt stiff. My camera swung on its strap around my neck and my rucksack bounced up and down on my back. I wanted to pin a wisp of hair back behind my ear that was in danger of tickling my nose, but I daren’t let go of the bar.

  There were tracks of other footprints in the sand and various clumps of camel droppings. In fact, as we moved Graham’s camel directly in front of
me added a few itself, mainly when we went downhill.

  I thought I could hear Keith whistling behind me. It might have been, ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside,’ but the wind whipped the sound away.

  After about twenty minutes we stopped in front of a huge sand dune. Our guide helped us dismount, which was just as well as I could not get my leg over the T bar in front; it got stuck. It seemed easier to remove our shoes before we trudged up to the summit but once there, what a view!

  Surrounded by sand, a deep orangey pink, it left Bournemouth beach – or Studland or anywhere else you could mention - in the shade. There was an intense silence, no traffic, no birds and yet the sands really did sing. There was quite a breeze whipping around us. In the distance we could see other camel trains of various sizes headed back to civilisation, five camel lengths, ten camels; the tracks crisscrossed the dunes.

  We stood on the summit Graham, Keith and I grinning inanely at one another as if we were drunk, and in a way, I suppose we were, some sort of natural euphoria created by the peaceful surroundings. Keith briefly hugged me and casually left his arm around my shoulder as he gazed around. I thought of the song from yesterday evening – it certainly was a “blue heaven” and I hoped that some of the romance of the location would attach itself to me. It was such a contrast to downtown Poole.

  Down in the dip of the dunes our guide was trying to turn the camels ready for the homeward journey. One of the camels - I hoped it was not mine - was not happy, and spat and hissed. From a safe distance I watch the Arab turn the camels, rearrange the blanket saddles before he climbed the sand dunes, beaming at us. He happily posed for photos and took shots of the three of us with the camel trains in the distance behind us.

  While Graham chatted with our guide about the other camel caravans - where had they come from? Did they ever camp overnight in the desert? - I sneakily took a small plastic bottle from my rucksack and collected a sample of Saharan sand.