Chapter 7.
Jema el Fna
“I say, Balderthump, this seems rather a long way to walk is it not?”
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“Marrakech is rather a large city, m’lord. And our lodgings are some way from the centre.”
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“Some way, Balderthump!? Some way? This is like walking from Wrinklebottom Hall to London!”
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“M'lord exaggerates perhaps a little,” replied Balderthump, “but I agree it is an invigorating stroll.”
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“Hardly invigorating in this heat,” grumbled Lord Wrinklebottom, “and I've not seen a thing that remotely resembles a camel either.”
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“Indeed, m’lord, they do seem in short supply in this particular part of town.”
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“Short supply?! Non-existent!”
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“Indeed, m’lord.”
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They continued walking in silence, though the street around them was anything but.
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“Care, m’lord!” exclaimed Balderthump suddenly, grabbing Lord Wrinklebottom firmly by the shoulder and steering him away from a heavily laden camel which pushed out onto the street from a side alley, almost knocking them over.
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“Dashed camels!” snorted Lord Wrinklebottom. “Never there when you need them and always causing trouble when they do show up!”
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“Indeed. One of the less predictable ungulates,” agreed Balderthump.
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“Oh, I say, Balderthump! What next!?” he cried in disgust as the camel lifted its short tail and deposited yesterday's breakfast in a steaming pile at Lord Wrinklebottom's feet.
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“This way, m’lord.” Balderthump led Lord Wrinklebottom around the steaming pile.
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The street they walked down was a jostling mayhem of robed men, heavily laden slaves, veiled women, squealing children and donkeys loaded high. All pressed towards their destination in both directions on both sides of the street, making progress slow and difficult.
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“Not far to Jema el Fna now, m’lord,” observed Balderthump as they again made their way down the street. “I'm certain we will be there in a short while.”
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“And about time,” complained Lord Wrinklebottom. “What is this Jumar Elephant anyway, Balderthump? Do I want to get there?”
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“Well, there may be other camels there, m'lord, though perhaps not a blue one of the kind we are seeking.”
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“Then what's the point, my good man?” Lord Wrinklebottom was getting a little testy. It had been almost an hour since he had finished his last cup of tea in the early morning shade of the riad courtyard, and he was feeling in need of another.
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“Jema el Fna is the main square of the city, m’lord,” advised Balderthump, ignoring the testiness of his master. “All manner of things are bought and sold there. We may find a clue to what we are after.”
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“Hmmph. All right, well let's get there quickly and find a cup of tea. This strenuous exertion is taking a toll on me.”
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“Indeed, m'lord,” replied Balderthump sympathetically.
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“Teapot master?”
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A scruffy looking old man with a straggling, dirty beard appeared from nowhere and thrust a heavy brass teapot into Lord Wrinklebottom's face. Lord Wrinklebottom instinctively drew back from the man.
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“I say, my good fellow, do you mind!”
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“Fine teapot master, very fine,” cackled the old man. His face broke into a crooked smile showing that what teeth he had left were yellowed with age and nicotine. “Nothing like good mint tea, master.”
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“No, indeed, my good man.” Lord Wrinklebottom took a further step back. The old man stepped closer.
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“Very cheap, master, very, very cheap.”
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“No thank you,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom in a firm voice and made to follow Balderthump up the crowded street.
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The old man grabbed his arm. “This is a magic teapot,” he hissed. “It will help you in your time of greatest need.”
“Nonsense!” insisted Lord Wrinklebottom firmly, shaking his arm loose from the old man's bony grip. “I do not want, or need a teapot. I need a pot of tea!” He pushed through the milling throng, keeping a close eye on Balderthump's black bowler hat up ahead. It would not do to lose him at this point.
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“Very, very good teapot, master. Special price for you. There is magic in the pot!” the old man cackled.
Lord Wrinklebottom caught up to Balderthump. The old man tugged again at his arm. “Very fine teapot, master.”
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Lord Wrinklebottom turned on the old man. “No! I do not require a teapot. Thank you very much. Please leave me alone.” He shook the man's hand from his arm again and continued up the street.
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The old man stopped but continued to stare after Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump as they disappeared into the crowd. “Very fine teapot,” he called and waved it above his head.
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“Rather persistent chap, eh, Balderthump?” observed Lord Wrinklebottom, panting to regain his breath after the exertion of catching up to Balderthump.
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“Indeed, m’lord. And a very fine teapot too, if I'm any judge.”
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“Now don't you start, Balderthump. I don't want a teapot, I want tea! Where is this dashed elephant place, Balderthump? I've had enough.”
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“I believe it is right here, m’lord,” replied Balderthump as they rounded a corner.
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Before them was a heaving mass of people and animals, pushing and shoving their way between huge piles of merchandise and market stalls. It made their previous walk up the street seem like one of Lord Wrinklebottom's morning strolls through the gardens of Wrinklebottom Hall.
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Fruit sellers displayed colourful and sometimes smelly wares. A snake charmer played haunting melodies on his flute. Mobile tea sellers shouted the praises of their brew and ladled out dark portions into dirty brass cups for eager customers.
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“Tea, m'lord?” asked Balderthump gesturing towards the tea seller.
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“I'm not that desperate!” snapped Lord Wrinklebottom, but his tone indicated he was close. “A proper place, with clean silverware and white tablecloths.”
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“Hmm, that may be difficult here in Marrakech, m’lord, but let me see what I can find.” He pushed through the heaving mass, and made for a rather elegant looking building on the far side of the square. Lord Wrinklebottom followed in his wake. It was hard going. Everyone else seemed to be going in the opposite direction and had the advantage of leading donkeys, sheep or the occasional gaunt and bony cow.
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As a result, their route across the square was somewhat circuitous, which perhaps explains why they unexpectedly found themselves in a quieter section near the middle of the square. In front of them was a heavy tent of hides surrounded by a rough fence of palm trunks and fronds. Inside the fence was an area of filthy dirt. The mayhem seemed to swirl around the edges of the fences but at a respectable distance.
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“The eye of the storm perhaps?” mused Lord Wrinklebottom as he looked around.
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“Perhaps, m’lord,” replied Balderthump, “but maybe something else.”
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“It looks like an animal sale yard,” observed Lord Wrinklebottom. “Come on, let's find that cup of tea. We have no need of animals right now, Balderthump.”
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“Of course, m’lord,” agreed Balderthump and made to push back out into the current of humanity surrounding the sale yard. But as he did so, from the opposite side of the enclosed area came the sound of a ruckus which could be clearly heard above the general melee of the rest of the square.
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“Snaffling anacondas, Balderthump, what on earth is going on over there!?”
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“I'm not sure, m’lord,” replied Balderthump in a curious tone. He turned towards the noise. Three unhappy looking black men and one woman burst from the crowd surrounding the sale yard, pushed roughly from behind by two tall, thick set men wielding heavy sticks. The woman screamed and fell against the palm trunk fence. One of the stick-wielding men dragged her to her feet again and thrust her through a small gap in the fence onto the filthy ground inside. The ropes tying their hands together and the leather thongs hobbling their feet told the story.
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“Slaves,” whispered Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“Indeed, m'lord, it certainly looks that way.” Balderthump drew Lord Wrinklebottom back a little from the crush of men that had pushed forward and begun to spread around the perimeter of the sale yard. The men jeered and threw things at the captives inside the fence.
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Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump were unable to understand what was being said, but the tone was clear enough. The two stick-wielding slave traders dragged the slaves to their feet and began addressing the crowd.
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“I do believe they are going to sell them, Balderthump!” exclaimed Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“It looks that way, m’lord.”
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“But that's preposterous! Barbaric!”
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“Indeed, m’lord.”
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One slave was pushed to the fore and the slave trader began soliciting bids for him. There was hooting and jeering from the sidelines, but no other discernible action from the onlookers. However, after the slave trader took a last look around the crowd, the slave was pushed to a tall man on the edge of the circle and money changed hands.
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“I say, Balderthump, they have sold the poor fellow!”
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“Indeed,” replied Balderthump quietly.
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“But I saw nothing. Nobody bid!”
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“Well perhaps nobody we saw, m’lord. You know what it's like at an auction. When we sold those sheep from Wrinklebottom Hall last year, it was equally difficult to know who was bidding. The auctioneer knows his buyers.”
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“So a nod and a wink, eh?”
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“Perhaps, or maybe some other local custom. Whatever way, what they are doing is reprehensible.”
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“Reprehensible indeed! Despicable! Deplorable! But what can we do, Balderthump? I can't just sit here and watch this.”
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“It is indeed difficult, m’lord,” agreed Balderthump, “but I suggest getting involved at this stage would be unwise. What we are seeing here has gone on for centuries. We have the opportunity of doing something that will have a much bigger impact. We cannot allow that opportunity to be lost because we acted rashly too early. Come, let us make an exit while we can.”
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Balderthump guided Lord Wrinklebottom gently away from the circle of raucous men who were now shouting and spitting at the second slave as he was put up for sale. They melted into the river of people and animals that swirled around the great square.
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A few more minutes of sweaty pushing through the crowds, brought them to the outer edge of the square. A little of Balderthump's magic saw them soon seated at a table under the shady arcades of a dusty pink mud-brick building looking out over the chaotic square.
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“I have been given to understand that the Café Badis provides some of the best tea in Marrakech, m’lord.”
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“Thank goodness, Balderthump, I was at the end my endurance,” sighed Lord Wrinklebottom as he made himself comfortable on the cushions on the seat. Within a few minutes an ornate silver teapot with matching cups was set down on their table and Balderthump was pouring out a refreshing brew for Lord Wrinklebottom (and of course, himself).
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“Ahhh!” sighed Lord Wrinklebottom again, this time as he sipped the first of his tea. “Not quite Snorting Dragon Guangxi, Balderthump, but very welcome, nonetheless.”
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“Indeed, m’lord,” agreed Balderthump taking his first sip as well.
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“Dashed awful business that, eh what, Balderthump?”
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“Indeed, m'lord, a very dirty business.”
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“I don't understand what drives a man to indulge in that sort of inhumanity and barbarism. Is it just greed? Survival maybe? Or is there something else deeper at work?”
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“I couldn't say, m’lord,” replied Balderthump carefully. “But whatever it is seems to be equally at work in our own supposedly civilised society.”
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“But we don't have slaves in London, Balderthump!” protested Lord Wrinklebottom.
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“True, m’lord, but it is not very long since we rode on the backs of slaves in our own colonies. Some would say we still are. Others would say that the lower classes of our own society are little more than slaves. There is little joy for many in the world.”
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“Hmmph,” was the reply. Lord Wrinklebottom took another sip of tea. “So, what are we to do, Balderthump? We've toiled our way through the stench and dust of this city and not a sign have we seen of what we came to look for except three poor specimens being auctioned. Surely this blue camel whatsit must be around somewhere.”
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“No, m'lord, you are right, we have not.” Balderthump looked thoughtfully out across Jema el Fna and its chaotic goings on. “But it would be imprudent to rush things. I believe we should keep a low profile and see what we can find in the next few days.”
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“Nonsense, Balderthump!” replied Lord Wrinklebottom impatiently. “What possible reason could there be for that? Let's get on it with I say! You are too timid. Action is what is required! I shall get to the bottom of this in no time.”
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“I say,” Lord Wrinklebottom went on, turning to the waiter standing beside the next table. “I'm looking to make contact with the Society of the Blue Camel, can you help me?”
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The colour drained from the waiter's face. He stared as if uncomprehending. He hesitated, unsure what he should do. Then he put the silver tray he was carrying down on the neighbouring table with a bang and ran into the kitchen. The conversations at the nearby tables stopped. All eyes were on Lord Wrinklebottom. Lord Wrinklebottom looked unblinkingly back at the hostile faces. A murmur rose from a few of the tables to their left. “Er, as you were,” he said in a slightly offended tone and turned back to Balderthump.
“I shall settle our account, m’lord, and then I suspect we should take our leave. Perhaps it would be wise for you to follow me.”
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Balderthump stood up and guided Lord Wrinklebottom to the back of the cafe where he gestured for their account. The young waiter re-appeared and looked at Balderthump very uncertainly. He waved some fingers at Balderthump and money exchanged hands.
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“Thank you,” replied Balderthump and looking very knowingly at the young waiter, slipped him another two coins.
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“Tittarte tazaguagte takdimte” whispered the young waiter and fled back into the kitchen.
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Balderthump nodded and turned. “This way, m’lord.” He led Lord Wrinklebottom through the kitchen and out onto the narrow alley behind the café.
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