Banana & Salted Caramel by Holly Jackson

Author:Holly Jackson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
Published: 2022-02-28T00:00:00+00:00

Wanderlust

I smiled at the waiter as I sat fanning myself with the menu and waiting for my orange and lemon juice non-alcoholic cocktail. I had read about this place in a travel magazine back home, one of the few establishments in Marrakech ran by an English ex-pat, so I reasoned that if I was going to find work anywhere, here was my best option.

I sat and listened to the sounds of the marketplace coming to life all around me, as if the very stones were just waking up and beginning their morning routine. The ringing of bicycle bells as commuters wound their way through busy souks, the melodic whistle of snake charmers’ pungis, the low din of interwoven voices from every corner of the square. Berber orange juice sellers and henna artists in niqabs calling to every passerby in the hopes of finding a potential customer.

Of all the places I’d travelled to so far, there was something about this place, Jemaa El-fna, I could sit and watch for hours, the melodrama of reality so far removed from my own sheltered understanding of life.

“Here you are, madame.” The waiter, placing my drink in front of me, pulled me out of my reverie. “Shukraan,” I replied, Arabic for thank you, though probably pitifully mispronounced. “Excuse me,” I called as he turned to walk away. He turned back and I asked: “Is the owner in today?”

He looked at me with irritable confusion. “You want owner?”

“Yes please.”

“Something wrong?”

“Oh no! Not at all, I just wanted to ask about… something.”

The waiter, saying nothing more, turned and walked away and I was left wondering whether I had made myself understood. I felt a little ill at ease, so rather than ask again I turned back to the square and continued to watch the scene unfold, periodically taking sips from my drink. Which, incidentally, was delicious.

After a few minutes I was approached by a short, white, grey-haired gentleman with dark, thick-rimmed spectacles, who introduced himself to me as the owner of the restaurant. I politely explained that I was travelling in Morocco and looking for some short-term work before I continued on to my next destination. The owner, who had by now pulled up a seat and joined me at my table, looked at me quizzically for a few moments. “How old are you?” he eventually asked.

“Twenty-six,” I replied.

“It’s not a good idea for a young woman to travel around alone in a country like this…” he murmured slowly.

“Well there’s not much I can do about that now!” I smiled, he continued to look at me with a furrowed brow, obviously not appreciating my subtle attempt at humour. “I’m very capable, I assure you; I’ve made it this far, anyway!”

“Where have you travelled from?”

So I described in general terms my journey so far, setting off from England, hitchhiking around Ireland then flying to mainland Europe. Into Germany, busing down through France and Spain, then a ferry crossing from Gibraltar to Tangier, a train to Casablanca and finally arriving here in Marrakech.

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