Nightmare in Morocco by Vickie Britton, Loretta Jackson Page B
Authors: Vickie Britton, Loretta Jackson
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upon . Occasionally they had to stop and press themselves against walls or squeeze into doorways to allow a donkey, usually laden with slimy skins for the tannery, to pass on the narrow path . The trail rose and descended, following contours of the hillside . In places wide, shallow steps lead downward . At night different sections of the town would be closed off by heavy, wooden gates . Noa recalled leaning against one of the gates, trying to catch her breath, thinking that if it were only open, she would be safe.
As they continued to walk, Noa, growing more and more nervous, hastened her steps . The high doorways and walls, designed to block out summer sunlight and winter's chill, choked out all but a bare glimpse of the sky . Noa's skin beneath the cool cotton shirt felt damp and moist.
"This must be called a run through the medina," Greg said, catching up with her .
Noa met his boyish grin and tried to slow her pace . Ahead of them a minaret towered, thin and high above the squat, often makeshift shops that interlocked along dark, endless passageways.
They soon reached a square where the sun beat mercilessly . Because of the intense heat, Noa sought out the shade, in front of a prosperous shop where the name Ali was inscribed on a great brass plate . Once again Noa raised her hand for the group to stop.
Their persistent followers, offering copper plates and teapots, waited with them . Noa, Greg close by her, stood facing a great, battered wall which housed a fountain under a heavy canopy of carved cedar wood topped with curved, green tile . Water from a crude pipe splashed upon blue and green faience tile . The columns set back against the wall were in very bad repair . In places great sections were loose; a large stone that made up the base of one of the columns resting on the fountain had been set back in place in a haphazard way .
"We are in the heart of Morocco's largest medina," she told them . "One can walk for four hours straight and see only a fraction of the old town . Its maze of lanes and alleys remain virtually unchanged since the Middle Ages."
"Haven't we gone far enough?" Cathy challenged . "This could get boring."
Noa ignored her . The "Arabian Nights" was filmed here in the old medina."
"Incredible!" Greg, at least, was impressed.
"There are 65,000 artisans working here in this little city behind the walls."
They moved on again . The constant confusion became bewildering, as if all 65,000 were following behind them, anxious to sell their wares . The hassle of callers, the rude thrusts of goods, was wearing on Noa's already frayed nerves.
They stopped in another wide intersection . This time Taber stepped forward to address the group . She listened to him talk about the Moslem religion . Noa peered into the entrance of the mosque before them, past archways to the vast, rectangular courtyard supported by very thin colonnades . It was almost empty except for a man walking barefoot across the center expanse, and three men kneeling in a humble fashion upon the thick, Moorish rug, lips moving in recitation.
Cathy walked up to the doorway boldly . A man in a shabby, stripped dj ellaba stood beside the entrance removing his shoes and placing them beside the others there . She eyed his movements before she turned to interrupt Taber's speech . "I want to go in!"
Moulay stiffened at her words . Marie's mouth tightened at the corners.
"Only Moslems are allowed to enter the mosque," Taber said, the corrected himself, "only Moslem men."
"Only men!" Cathy bristled . "Just what kind of sense does that make? Do they think..."
"Cathy, just be quiet . Taber is trying to talk."
"I've got as much right to talk as he has! What he's saying is pure nonsense!" Cathy's eyes, glazed in rebellion, sought out the seven girls who shrank behind Marie Landos . "Let's show them, girls!" she dared them. "Let's show them we're as good as they are!"
"That's not the reason," Taber started.
The girls made no move to join
As they continued to walk, Noa, growing more and more nervous, hastened her steps . The high doorways and walls, designed to block out summer sunlight and winter's chill, choked out all but a bare glimpse of the sky . Noa's skin beneath the cool cotton shirt felt damp and moist.
"This must be called a run through the medina," Greg said, catching up with her .
Noa met his boyish grin and tried to slow her pace . Ahead of them a minaret towered, thin and high above the squat, often makeshift shops that interlocked along dark, endless passageways.
They soon reached a square where the sun beat mercilessly . Because of the intense heat, Noa sought out the shade, in front of a prosperous shop where the name Ali was inscribed on a great brass plate . Once again Noa raised her hand for the group to stop.
Their persistent followers, offering copper plates and teapots, waited with them . Noa, Greg close by her, stood facing a great, battered wall which housed a fountain under a heavy canopy of carved cedar wood topped with curved, green tile . Water from a crude pipe splashed upon blue and green faience tile . The columns set back against the wall were in very bad repair . In places great sections were loose; a large stone that made up the base of one of the columns resting on the fountain had been set back in place in a haphazard way .
"We are in the heart of Morocco's largest medina," she told them . "One can walk for four hours straight and see only a fraction of the old town . Its maze of lanes and alleys remain virtually unchanged since the Middle Ages."
"Haven't we gone far enough?" Cathy challenged . "This could get boring."
Noa ignored her . The "Arabian Nights" was filmed here in the old medina."
"Incredible!" Greg, at least, was impressed.
"There are 65,000 artisans working here in this little city behind the walls."
They moved on again . The constant confusion became bewildering, as if all 65,000 were following behind them, anxious to sell their wares . The hassle of callers, the rude thrusts of goods, was wearing on Noa's already frayed nerves.
They stopped in another wide intersection . This time Taber stepped forward to address the group . She listened to him talk about the Moslem religion . Noa peered into the entrance of the mosque before them, past archways to the vast, rectangular courtyard supported by very thin colonnades . It was almost empty except for a man walking barefoot across the center expanse, and three men kneeling in a humble fashion upon the thick, Moorish rug, lips moving in recitation.
Cathy walked up to the doorway boldly . A man in a shabby, stripped dj ellaba stood beside the entrance removing his shoes and placing them beside the others there . She eyed his movements before she turned to interrupt Taber's speech . "I want to go in!"
Moulay stiffened at her words . Marie's mouth tightened at the corners.
"Only Moslems are allowed to enter the mosque," Taber said, the corrected himself, "only Moslem men."
"Only men!" Cathy bristled . "Just what kind of sense does that make? Do they think..."
"Cathy, just be quiet . Taber is trying to talk."
"I've got as much right to talk as he has! What he's saying is pure nonsense!" Cathy's eyes, glazed in rebellion, sought out the seven girls who shrank behind Marie Landos . "Let's show them, girls!" she dared them. "Let's show them we're as good as they are!"
"That's not the reason," Taber started.
The girls made no move to join
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