The Olive Tree (The Olive Series Book 2) by Drinkwater Carol

Author:Drinkwater, Carol [Drinkwater, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780753826126
Publisher: CB Creative Books
Published: 2013-04-16T04:00:00+00:00

ALGERIA

After my Meknès soaking and the stresses of the Moroccan transport strike, my plane took off on its short trajectory east, high above the Roman olive belt, flying safely over the closed frontier between Morocco and its Maghrebian neighbour, and landed into the Algerian capital, all without incident. Until I reached passport control where I was refused entry.

‘Why?!’

My papers were not in order.

The immigration officer was barely a girl, lacking scarf and veil, slight of build, short-cropped chestnut hair, in a mid-blue, trouser-suit uniform. She grinned, hand over mouth, stifling a giggle. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she reassured, while repeating that my paperwork was not in order and I could not continue to baggage claim. After my numerous attempts to gain a visa I was exasperated, which seemed to amuse her all the more. I was fascinated by her appearance. There were others like her, young women in neighbouring cubicles also without the hijab. I had expected the strict face of Islam to greet me.

‘Where’s the confirmation docket for your hotel?’

‘I cancelled the booking. I’m staying with an acquaintance.’

After Christmas, during a lunch party at the farm to celebrate our new season’s oil, our French beekeeper’s wife, Algerian-born Marie-Gabrielle, offered to contact friends, also apiarists, who lived outside Algiers. I was already travelling when Hocine, her beekeeping colleague, caught up with me on my mobile in Spain. It was he who suggested I stay with him and his family during my few days in the capital.

‘But you have declared a hotel.’

Attempting to placate the insistent young officer, I handed over the few details I possessed: Hocine’s mobile number and full name. I was ushered into an empty corner. She disappeared with my passport, returning a short while later with a burly, moustachioed senior in putty-coloured uniform and sturdy boots. He rang Hocine but the line was dead. I also tried to telephone, but I was not picking up an Algerian signal.

‘I am sorry we cannot let you in’ was the decision. ‘You must collect your luggage and return to Casablanca.’

‘Wait, please!’ I pleaded, playing for time, repeatedly punching out Hocine’s number, but the network refused all connection. Eventually, after consultations with other staff members, other burly men with black moustaches, and various internal calls, because, inexplicably, no one had a phone signal, the immigration clerk stamped my passport and welcomed me to her country with a broad smile. What made the difference, I could not say. I did not stop to enquire. I scooted to the carousel where one piece of luggage was still turning: mine.

Outside the terminal, pressing, shoving crowds. Impossible to scan all faces, but no one awaiting me. How would this beekeeper find me? If he had remembered my arrival at all – it was over a month since we had been in touch. My mobile remained signalless. My immediate future loomed formlessly. But I was here, in Algiers, in Arabic El-Jazair, ‘the islands’, a tribute to four islets that had lain beyond the bay and are today integrated into the city’s port.

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