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Bearnard O’Riain
Or perhaps call it retribution for the sharp young man on the train to Fez
BEARNARD O’RIAIN
Illustration: PIET GROBLER
” A traveller has no power, no influence, no known identity ”
IN the Algarve. “It’s still pouring,” said my wife Verne. “Where can we go where it is not raining?”
A map of Iberia and Morocco lay on the table. I put my finger on it. She stared.
“But that’s the Sahara,” she said.
“Exactly,” I said.
Five hours later, we sailed out of Algeciras. Tangiers loomed, and with it the smell of Africa, a dust-laden sandy sweetness. We bought train tickets to Fez, some 200km away and justly famous for it’s 14th-century biblical atmosphere.
We bought first-class tickets, making us prime targets. A young man bounced into our coach, sat down, smiling. “Mind if I sit here? Where you going?”
“Fez.”
“Oh, that’s such a long way. You arrive at,” he studied his watch, “after 10 o’clock. In the dark.” This had also concerned us. The trap was baited.
“Or you can get off at Asilah, my village. Take the early train in the morning, I meet other tourists then. My name is Luc,” he said. “You can have dinner and a bed at my auntie’s place.” It was the word “auntie” that closed it.
“Where you from?” he asked. “Oh, you must know U2. Tonight is the other Irishes?”
“The Pogues?”
“You are lucky.”
Visions rose of a platter of couscous between us, Irish music and a bottle of arak beneath waving palms.
“Shall we?” I asked. She nodded and we jumped down.
Luc hailed the only taxi, which sped into Asilah, saying that we should pay the driver a large amount. In the centre or medina, we met Josef and Auntie at the back of her carpet shop. She gave us mint tea and smiled.
Josef disappeared to get tickets for the Pogues. “Give me 500 for good seats,” he enthused. Steep, but they were a great band. Luc reappeared and asked us for more money as Auntie was a bit short.
Paul Theroux said: “A traveller has no power, no influence, no known identity. That is why a traveller needs optimism.”
True, travellers like us are often unaware, easy to deceive, at the mercy of our hosts. Our bags were in a corner of Auntie’s shop. Night was falling.
“Stay here,” I said to Verne. “I want to check this place out.”
“Don’t go far,” she warned. Spiral stone steps led up three stories to a trap door, which opened onto a flat roof. It led to other flat roofs. There was no lock on our trap door.
Downstairs, Auntie laid rugs and sheets on the floor. Josef came in, plonked down a dish of couscous and said The Pogues were only coming next week.
“But our money?” called Verne. But Josef was gone. He had presented an outrageous bill. We haggled, protested and paid 500 less and too much. There was a tension in the place. I stretched out at the bottom of the steps. An intruder from above would step on my face. It was not a good night. How to exact retribution?
Up with the sparrows, we watched the early train pull in. Luc alighted, a backpacker in tow. Without greeting, he demanded: “How much you pay that Josef?”
With a straight face, I added 4000 to what we had paid.
“You paid him what?” he shouted. “You crazy!”
As our train gathered speed, Verne started laughing. “I can hear Luc now, yelling at Josef. ‘Where’s the 4000 dirhams that stupid foreigner gave you?'”
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