0330hrs, December 31st, 2008
Our cab arrives to take Tim, Kate, Anna (Tim's younger sister), Jacqui (Kate's younger sister), M-A and I to the airport. The sun is still asleep. The temperature is below zero. The moon didn't show-up to work. Who can blame it? The fog is thick. We can barely see 20 meters ahead of the car. Our driver obviously possesses some form of bat-like sonar system - he sits on 60mph most of the way. I would be nervous if he was relying on vision like the rest of us.
Our cab arrives to take Tim, Kate, Anna (Tim's younger sister), Jacqui (Kate's younger sister), M-A and I to the airport. The sun is still asleep. The temperature is below zero. The moon didn't show-up to work. Who can blame it? The fog is thick. We can barely see 20 meters ahead of the car. Our driver obviously possesses some form of bat-like sonar system - he sits on 60mph most of the way. I would be nervous if he was relying on vision like the rest of us.
Perhaps its the amount of traveling we've done lately, or maybe the size of our group, but we realize during the flight that we're suffering from an acute case of traveler's-complacency. Armed with the combined knowledge of the six of us - we would be lucky to spell 'Morocco'. In our defense, we are carrying a Lonely Planet. Shame it is a Europe Lonely Planet, and not for the continent we are actually traveling to.
The few preconceptions we do possess are gone soon after landing in Marrakesh. The airport is, umm, ... nice. And modern. And organized. I thought this was Africa? As six ridiculously uninformed tourists exiting the airport with pockets full of large-denomination dirhams, we expect to be overwhelmed with offers of transportation. In fact, we have to walk a hundred meters to where the taxi-drivers are lounging on their vehicles. One of the drivers approaches us, and Kate does the talking. He very actively not listens. At least not to Kate. He makes it clear that to be heard, our words are going to have to come from someone in possession of a Y-chromosome. So the girls pull the strings and the boys mouths move. We agree on a price. We walk towards a nearby mini-bus. He approaches a regular taxi.
Us: "Ummm"
Driver: "What? It is a six-seater?"
Us: "Ahh, even if it was a six-seater, six of us plus one of you equals seven. And that is a five-seater."
Driver grumbles something along the lines of, 'I have already put your bags in the back. I'm driving off now.'
We cram in. M-A and I in the front, the other four in the back. Now this is more like Africa!
So, we arrive at a bus station. A local gentleman appoints himself as what I would describe as our travel agent. Here's how it works: We agree on a price and mode of transportation with him; He runs off and arranges it for presumably substantially less; He keeps the difference. Fair enough.Us: "Ummm"
Driver: "What? It is a six-seater?"
Us: "Ahh, even if it was a six-seater, six of us plus one of you equals seven. And that is a five-seater."
Driver grumbles something along the lines of, 'I have already put your bags in the back. I'm driving off now.'
We cram in. M-A and I in the front, the other four in the back. Now this is more like Africa!
Improbably, we manage to meet up with Harrow (Tim Harrison). Eventually, after our helpful travel agent had run every play he knew on us ([in Maxwell Smart voice]: ahh, the old agree-on-a-price-for-a mini-bus-that-conveniently-disappears-leaving-only-one-in-all-of-Marrakesh-which- of-course-wants-a much-higher-price trick hey?), we agree to hire two taxis for the journey to Agadir. I'm pretty confident we bargained him down from roll-around-on-the-ground-laughing-overpriced to only cynical-under-breath-chuckle-overpriced.
The drive to Agadir:
Crawling through congestion to escape Marrakesh. Necks craning, trying to keep an eye on the other car. Not wanting to get separated. View impaired by shade-cover completely obscuring rear-window. Driver obviously doesn't care to see what he's left behind. We dodge through pedestrians, bicycles and donkeys. Our cars are banged-up Mercedes from the 80's. No seat-belts. Civilization becomes less dense until we aren't seeing buildings for many kilometers at a time. We stop at a rest-stop. Squat-style toilets. Again I'm grateful for that Y-chromosome. The only food we're confident to order is a round of naan breads. Our drivers order complete meals. We sit and wait. Once back on the road, we quickly enter the Atlas Mountains. [Without hyperbole:] We traverse the mountains as fast as is humanly possible in these vehicles. The car containing Anna, Harro, M-A and myself leads. While our cab driver in London earlier in the morning may have possessed bat-like sonar, this one should have his own Marvel comic. His super-power is overtaking on blind-corners with a cliff one on side and only one hand on the wheel while listening to strangely hypnotic Arabic music and appearing half-asleep. I dub him - Suicidal Cab Man. But, we do arrive at the Residence InTouriste (our hotel) in Agadir. And pants can always be cleaned. Our cab drivers appear to be arrested by the police shortly after we pay and exit the vehicles. Presumably for attempted murder.
The drive to Agadir:
Crawling through congestion to escape Marrakesh. Necks craning, trying to keep an eye on the other car. Not wanting to get separated. View impaired by shade-cover completely obscuring rear-window. Driver obviously doesn't care to see what he's left behind. We dodge through pedestrians, bicycles and donkeys. Our cars are banged-up Mercedes from the 80's. No seat-belts. Civilization becomes less dense until we aren't seeing buildings for many kilometers at a time. We stop at a rest-stop. Squat-style toilets. Again I'm grateful for that Y-chromosome. The only food we're confident to order is a round of naan breads. Our drivers order complete meals. We sit and wait. Once back on the road, we quickly enter the Atlas Mountains. [Without hyperbole:] We traverse the mountains as fast as is humanly possible in these vehicles. The car containing Anna, Harro, M-A and myself leads. While our cab driver in London earlier in the morning may have possessed bat-like sonar, this one should have his own Marvel comic. His super-power is overtaking on blind-corners with a cliff one on side and only one hand on the wheel while listening to strangely hypnotic Arabic music and appearing half-asleep. I dub him - Suicidal Cab Man. But, we do arrive at the Residence InTouriste (our hotel) in Agadir. And pants can always be cleaned. Our cab drivers appear to be arrested by the police shortly after we pay and exit the vehicles. Presumably for attempted murder.
We're alerted to the fact we've arrived at the correct hotel by a slightly intoxicated man wearing Moroccan robes, yelling at us from a third floor balcony. We reply "Good-day to you too, Chris".
Approx 03:30am, January 1st, 2009: The incident
The tick of the clock from 2008 to 2009 also marked 42 consecutive waking hours for me (Excluding some brief plane-sleep - commonly acknowledged to be a distant relative of actual sleep). Soon after the fireworks launched from Agadir beach have faded from the sky, sleep arrives with a vengeance, claiming my fellow early risers and I.
Chris, Sean and Krystal (works with Chris) had arrived in Agadir the previous day. One day in Morocco was apparently enough to overwhelm them with home-sickness. The three of them, joined also by Harro, having flown over a thousand kilometers from the English pub in which they live, welcomed '09 in a venue named: 'The English Pub'.
BANG BANG BANG.
"Richie. Open the door." Sean's voice.
BANG BANG BANG.
Anna is sharing the room with M-A and I. She comes into our room. Apparently M-A is awake too, both having been woken some minutes ago by the pounding at the door. Both lighter sleepers than I (an exclusive group which can also claim the long-term comatose as members). They advise me not to open the door. A neat summation of the next 24 hours would be: I should have listened. But even with my judgement clouded by sleep, I'm not stupid; I'm only going to open the door wide-enough to proffer some words of wisdom, before closing it firmly.
[Michael slightly opens door]
Hmm. Chris is holding a fire-extinguisher canister; This cannot be good.
[Michael slams door closed]
SLAM.
Hmmm. I have just closed door on the nozzle, which is pointing into our room.
Hmmmmm. That is definitely not what I expected to come out of it. What is that?
[A thick, blue cloud fills the room]
[Michael, blinded and choking, runs blindly in various directions]
Okay. So we all learn an interesting lesson; It turns out not all fire-extinguishers contain water. I believe this particular species contains a dry-chemical sodium-bicarbonate agent. Which in a few seconds, completely coats our entire room. Even the main bedroom, in which M-A and Anna have barricaded themselves, is not spared. The pale-blue powder goes under the door, and attaches itself to items on the opposite side of the room. Anna's backpack was in the lounge, and regrettably, open. It now contains equals parts fire-retardant and clothes. Chris and Sean, having run away giggling, are unaware of the disaster-zone on the other side of the door. Anna, M-A and I are... angry. The only positive is that the chances of a fire in our hotel room tonight have been dramatically reduced.
1000hrs, January 1st, 2009: The aftermath
Unfortunately it wasn't a dream. It also wasn't exaggerated by our alcohol-affected brains. If anything, the results are more confronting by the light of day. And I'm still angry.
BANG BANG BANG.
This time its my turn.
"Wake up Crichton!"
I sense Chris feels I'm being dramatic when I describe our room as uninhabitable. After taking him on a guided tour of his handiwork, I'm confident he agrees with my assessment.
I demand that he deal with it. Cue the performance:
"There was an...incident last night, and a fire-extinguisher was used" Chris explains to reception, looking as innocent as one can when just-woken, still-drunk, and dusted with blue fire-retardant.
"Would it be possible for us to have a new room?" He requests.
Amazingly, and with no further questions, we are shifted to a new room. I have an uneasy feeling this won't be the last we hear of 'the incident'.
So, Chris goes back to bed. Tim, Kate, Anna, Jacqui, M-A and I head into Agadir for some lunch. We have our first of what will many tagines.
After lunch, as the others are going shopping, I head back to the hotel to meet Sean and head for the beach, and hopefully some surf.
However, when I attempt to get into my (new) room, my card won't unlock the door. These readers are always flaky. A cleaner walking past comes to my assistance with her master key. I put on board-shorts for the first time in many months and meet Sean in his room. We tuck the boards under our arms and go downstairs. The last thing I have to do is to leave my card at reception for when the girls return.
"Hi. Is it okay if I leave this key with you for my friends to pick up?" I ask reception.
"Of course. What is your room number?"
"415." I reply.
"Did you just go into that room?" She asks with a puzzled expression.
"Yeah."
"This key opened the door?" Now appearing more puzzled.
I realize that it was no accident my card couldn't unlock the door.
"No. Actually a cleaner let me in."
"I see. Your room has been locked. You need to read this and call the number at the bottom. It is from your travel agent." Handing me a piece of paper.
Travel agent? I didn't even know we had a travel agent? I read the note. It is from someone named Sayid, who is apparently a representative for a company I have never heard of. It seems Sayid had been called to the hotel while we were out, and was accompanied by the police. The note also says the damage will have to be paid for.
None of this is surprising to me. What would have been surprising was if the hotel wasn't angry and demanding compensation. Chris has already said he is willing to pay damages. I just want to go to the beach.
I call Sayid. He seems like a nice guy, but says nothing that wasn't in the note. I still can't work out exactly what his role in this drama is.
The receptionist, seeing I have finished on the call, returns to me. I explain that I have spoken to Sayid, we're happy to pay for damages, and I'll see her later.
"No. You must speak to the hotel manager first."
I don't see why? Just append the damage to our bill and be done with it. But what can I do? I wait for the manager. When he eventually appears, we walk a conversational path that is beginning to feel well-worn. Yes, a fire-extinguisher was used in our room. I'm very sorry. Well, actually it wasn't me. Yes, we are happy to pay for the damages. By the way, how much are the damages?
The more I repeat that last question without receiving an answer, the more nervous I become. But how much could it possibly be? £100 for refilling the extinguisher. £200 for cleaning. Surely worst-case scenario, £500?
"Nineteen thousand dirhams."
I do the 10:1 conversion we have been using. I do it again to be sure: 19000/10 = 1900. Oh shit.
"Wow. That's a little higher than I was expecting." As if my face hadn't already said it.
"You will pay or I will call the police." The manager is definitely not friendly. And I'm beginning to suspect I'm not going to the beach today.
I think of Chris sleeping upstairs. I suspect he doesn't have £1900 on him. I'm still calm though. It's a lot of money, but I know I can cover it. It could be worse. Plus, all prices seem to be up for negotiation in this country. Maybe I can barter?
"Can I see a breakdown of the costs?" I ask.
The manager disappears, then returns with a printed invoice.
[Camera 2. Close-up on Michael.]
[Fade out all sound. Silence.]
[Out-of-focus background spins.]
[Overhead camera. Zoom to paper in Michael's hand.]
Total: Nine-zero-zero-zero-zero.
English is at least second, if not third or fourth in the manager's repertoire of languages. And his pronunciation of the word 'nineteen' is virtually indistinguishable from his 'ninety'. That, or my brain rejected 90 as not valid for the context, and jumped to the next plausible value.
90000. 90000 /10 = 9000. 9000 pounds. 9000 pounds!
The invoice is in French, but I can comprehend some of the items. They range from completely expected, to take-the-stupid-scared-tourists-for-all-they've-got:
The manager is reluctant to let me leave the foyer. But I really need to talk to Chris. After much convincing, he accepts that I probably couldn't escape with only board-shorts and a surfboard. My passport and wallet are both locked in the room. What am I going to do? Paddle back to the UK?
BANG BANG BANG.
I wake Chris for the second time today. I hand him the invoice.
[Camera 3. Close-up on Chris.]
[Fade out all sound. Silence.]
[Out-of-focus background spins.]
1700hrs, January 1st, 2009: The conference.
Chris, Sean, Harrow, Krystal and I are seated around a table in the foyer. Sayid has been to see us. As best I can now figure: We book the hotel through LastMinute.com, who then make the reservation via another company, which is who Sayid is representing. He is proving to be useful, not least because he speaks all three languages involved (French, Arabic, and English). With his help, the hotel have dropped their asking price to 72000 dirhams. I have told Chris that I will loan him the money, if he chooses to pay it. Ultimately, the decision is his. We have spent hours talking amongst ourselves, with Sayid, and also via mobile phone to the chef from The Hurlingham (Chris's pub), who happens to be Moroccan. At some point, not paying, and letting the police handle it, became a valid option. The hotel's unwillingness to drop the bill to anything resembling a realistic value of the damages now makes it the preferred one.
"The police have arrived." We are told. Our nervousness is not helped by the absence of any uniforms or marked vehicles. They read my name from a sheet, and order me to go and get my passport. I am accompanied upstairs by a very un-police looking dude. He appears far more like a night-club bouncer. We stand uncomfortably close in the elevator. Judging by his nose, he has been in at least one fight - which is one more than me. He waits at the door of my room while I locate my passport. Again we ride silently in the elevator back down. Back in the foyer Sean whispers a suggestion to not hand over the passport without seeing police ID. I had come to the same decision during the elevator ride.
"Your passport." One of the so-called-police demands in heavily-accented English. We play a brief game of i'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours, which results in no identification being produced by them, and my passport remaining in my pocket.
The police take statements from hotel staff, and again we wait. From our observations, we conclude that two of the men are likely police. The others (including my friend from the elevator) are probably hotel security of some description. The mood at our table is sober and anxious. The police and the hotel manager approach. They say that our statement must be taken at the police station. Again it is me they request - the room being in my name. Perhaps I am simply a coward, but I couldn't help but feel that some injustice would be done if it were I that was taken. After all, I had been on the other side of the door. Fortunately for me, the boys agree. We lie-on-the-fly and explain that we switched rooms after check-in. And Chris confesses to being the lone shooter.
And so it is that Chris, Sean, Harro, the hotel manager, Sayid, a couple of Moroccan police, and a few renta-thugz exit the Residence InTouriste.
I watch the tail-lights disappear. I'm concerned, relieved, guilty, frustrated, and ... tired. But our room is still locked. I return upstairs and debrief Tim, Kate, Jacqui, Anna and M-A on the day's events.
Hours pass, now late into the night. They return. But not for long. Chris must return to face court the next morning. I realize I don't even know what I had expected the result to be. On a positive note, Sean hands me key-cards for our room - reactivated. Finally this day is finished.
0830hrs, January 2nd, 2009: The trial.
I wish Chris a happy birthday, although I suspect it is in vain, as he departs for court. Sean, Harro, and Krystal go along. I consider joining the entourage. But, having already accompanied Chris to court many years prior, and seeing he is well represented, I opt for the beach and pool.
My skin absorbs the first real sun it has seen since Croatia. Tim, Kate, Jacqui and Anna ride Camels and watch Flamingos. Chris sits in a holding cell at the Agadir courthouse.
Second-hand information warning: Because I am beside the pool, I am not a primary source for the events that take place at the court.
Although we don't fully understand where Sayid came from, right now, Chris sure is grateful he showed up. He acts as translator and legal-council, even swearing the oath on Chris's behalf. Chris stands in front of the panel of judges as the facts are stated, before being returned to the cell. Over the following hours, the hotel progressively lowers the compensation being requested. These offers are made to Sayid, who translates and relays to the entourage, who relay to the incarcerated Chris. They are rejected. As the afternoon passes, and the deliverance of the judges' verdict surely approaches, the hotel returns with an offer of the same amount we had offered the day before: 15000 dirhams.
Chris accepts and is released. The verdict goes unheard. All return to the Residence InTouriste. I swipe my Barclays card. A number in a database in England decreases. A number in a database in Morocco increases. We go to the beach. And the incident is consigned to history.
Approx 03:30am, January 1st, 2009: The incident
The tick of the clock from 2008 to 2009 also marked 42 consecutive waking hours for me (Excluding some brief plane-sleep - commonly acknowledged to be a distant relative of actual sleep). Soon after the fireworks launched from Agadir beach have faded from the sky, sleep arrives with a vengeance, claiming my fellow early risers and I.
Chris, Sean and Krystal (works with Chris) had arrived in Agadir the previous day. One day in Morocco was apparently enough to overwhelm them with home-sickness. The three of them, joined also by Harro, having flown over a thousand kilometers from the English pub in which they live, welcomed '09 in a venue named: 'The English Pub'.
BANG BANG BANG.
"Richie. Open the door." Sean's voice.
BANG BANG BANG.
Anna is sharing the room with M-A and I. She comes into our room. Apparently M-A is awake too, both having been woken some minutes ago by the pounding at the door. Both lighter sleepers than I (an exclusive group which can also claim the long-term comatose as members). They advise me not to open the door. A neat summation of the next 24 hours would be: I should have listened. But even with my judgement clouded by sleep, I'm not stupid; I'm only going to open the door wide-enough to proffer some words of wisdom, before closing it firmly.
[Michael slightly opens door]
Hmm. Chris is holding a fire-extinguisher canister; This cannot be good.
[Michael slams door closed]
SLAM.
Hmmm. I have just closed door on the nozzle, which is pointing into our room.
Hmmmmm. That is definitely not what I expected to come out of it. What is that?
[A thick, blue cloud fills the room]
[Michael, blinded and choking, runs blindly in various directions]
Okay. So we all learn an interesting lesson; It turns out not all fire-extinguishers contain water. I believe this particular species contains a dry-chemical sodium-bicarbonate agent. Which in a few seconds, completely coats our entire room. Even the main bedroom, in which M-A and Anna have barricaded themselves, is not spared. The pale-blue powder goes under the door, and attaches itself to items on the opposite side of the room. Anna's backpack was in the lounge, and regrettably, open. It now contains equals parts fire-retardant and clothes. Chris and Sean, having run away giggling, are unaware of the disaster-zone on the other side of the door. Anna, M-A and I are... angry. The only positive is that the chances of a fire in our hotel room tonight have been dramatically reduced.
1000hrs, January 1st, 2009: The aftermath
Unfortunately it wasn't a dream. It also wasn't exaggerated by our alcohol-affected brains. If anything, the results are more confronting by the light of day. And I'm still angry.
BANG BANG BANG.
This time its my turn.
"Wake up Crichton!"
I sense Chris feels I'm being dramatic when I describe our room as uninhabitable. After taking him on a guided tour of his handiwork, I'm confident he agrees with my assessment.
I demand that he deal with it. Cue the performance:
"There was an...incident last night, and a fire-extinguisher was used" Chris explains to reception, looking as innocent as one can when just-woken, still-drunk, and dusted with blue fire-retardant.
"Would it be possible for us to have a new room?" He requests.
Amazingly, and with no further questions, we are shifted to a new room. I have an uneasy feeling this won't be the last we hear of 'the incident'.
So, Chris goes back to bed. Tim, Kate, Anna, Jacqui, M-A and I head into Agadir for some lunch. We have our first of what will many tagines.
After lunch, as the others are going shopping, I head back to the hotel to meet Sean and head for the beach, and hopefully some surf.
However, when I attempt to get into my (new) room, my card won't unlock the door. These readers are always flaky. A cleaner walking past comes to my assistance with her master key. I put on board-shorts for the first time in many months and meet Sean in his room. We tuck the boards under our arms and go downstairs. The last thing I have to do is to leave my card at reception for when the girls return.
"Hi. Is it okay if I leave this key with you for my friends to pick up?" I ask reception.
"Of course. What is your room number?"
"415." I reply.
"Did you just go into that room?" She asks with a puzzled expression.
"Yeah."
"This key opened the door?" Now appearing more puzzled.
I realize that it was no accident my card couldn't unlock the door.
"No. Actually a cleaner let me in."
"I see. Your room has been locked. You need to read this and call the number at the bottom. It is from your travel agent." Handing me a piece of paper.
Travel agent? I didn't even know we had a travel agent? I read the note. It is from someone named Sayid, who is apparently a representative for a company I have never heard of. It seems Sayid had been called to the hotel while we were out, and was accompanied by the police. The note also says the damage will have to be paid for.
None of this is surprising to me. What would have been surprising was if the hotel wasn't angry and demanding compensation. Chris has already said he is willing to pay damages. I just want to go to the beach.
I call Sayid. He seems like a nice guy, but says nothing that wasn't in the note. I still can't work out exactly what his role in this drama is.
The receptionist, seeing I have finished on the call, returns to me. I explain that I have spoken to Sayid, we're happy to pay for damages, and I'll see her later.
"No. You must speak to the hotel manager first."
I don't see why? Just append the damage to our bill and be done with it. But what can I do? I wait for the manager. When he eventually appears, we walk a conversational path that is beginning to feel well-worn. Yes, a fire-extinguisher was used in our room. I'm very sorry. Well, actually it wasn't me. Yes, we are happy to pay for the damages. By the way, how much are the damages?
The more I repeat that last question without receiving an answer, the more nervous I become. But how much could it possibly be? £100 for refilling the extinguisher. £200 for cleaning. Surely worst-case scenario, £500?
"Nineteen thousand dirhams."
I do the 10:1 conversion we have been using. I do it again to be sure: 19000/10 = 1900. Oh shit.
"Wow. That's a little higher than I was expecting." As if my face hadn't already said it.
"You will pay or I will call the police." The manager is definitely not friendly. And I'm beginning to suspect I'm not going to the beach today.
I think of Chris sleeping upstairs. I suspect he doesn't have £1900 on him. I'm still calm though. It's a lot of money, but I know I can cover it. It could be worse. Plus, all prices seem to be up for negotiation in this country. Maybe I can barter?
"Can I see a breakdown of the costs?" I ask.
The manager disappears, then returns with a printed invoice.
[Camera 2. Close-up on Michael.]
[Fade out all sound. Silence.]
[Out-of-focus background spins.]
[Overhead camera. Zoom to paper in Michael's hand.]
Total: Nine-zero-zero-zero-zero.
English is at least second, if not third or fourth in the manager's repertoire of languages. And his pronunciation of the word 'nineteen' is virtually indistinguishable from his 'ninety'. That, or my brain rejected 90 as not valid for the context, and jumped to the next plausible value.
90000. 90000 /10 = 9000. 9000 pounds. 9000 pounds!
The invoice is in French, but I can comprehend some of the items. They range from completely expected, to take-the-stupid-scared-tourists-for-all-they've-got:
- Cleaning (obvious)
- Refilling extinguisher (fair enough)
- Room unavailable for 18 days
- Replacing air-conditioning
- Refurnishing the room. Inc, new lounges, beds, etc
- Replacing all appliances. TV, refrigerator, cooker (outrageous)
- Painting the room (Ok, this is one of those hidden-camera shows right?)
The manager is reluctant to let me leave the foyer. But I really need to talk to Chris. After much convincing, he accepts that I probably couldn't escape with only board-shorts and a surfboard. My passport and wallet are both locked in the room. What am I going to do? Paddle back to the UK?
BANG BANG BANG.
I wake Chris for the second time today. I hand him the invoice.
[Camera 3. Close-up on Chris.]
[Fade out all sound. Silence.]
[Out-of-focus background spins.]
1700hrs, January 1st, 2009: The conference.
Chris, Sean, Harrow, Krystal and I are seated around a table in the foyer. Sayid has been to see us. As best I can now figure: We book the hotel through LastMinute.com, who then make the reservation via another company, which is who Sayid is representing. He is proving to be useful, not least because he speaks all three languages involved (French, Arabic, and English). With his help, the hotel have dropped their asking price to 72000 dirhams. I have told Chris that I will loan him the money, if he chooses to pay it. Ultimately, the decision is his. We have spent hours talking amongst ourselves, with Sayid, and also via mobile phone to the chef from The Hurlingham (Chris's pub), who happens to be Moroccan. At some point, not paying, and letting the police handle it, became a valid option. The hotel's unwillingness to drop the bill to anything resembling a realistic value of the damages now makes it the preferred one.
"The police have arrived." We are told. Our nervousness is not helped by the absence of any uniforms or marked vehicles. They read my name from a sheet, and order me to go and get my passport. I am accompanied upstairs by a very un-police looking dude. He appears far more like a night-club bouncer. We stand uncomfortably close in the elevator. Judging by his nose, he has been in at least one fight - which is one more than me. He waits at the door of my room while I locate my passport. Again we ride silently in the elevator back down. Back in the foyer Sean whispers a suggestion to not hand over the passport without seeing police ID. I had come to the same decision during the elevator ride.
"Your passport." One of the so-called-police demands in heavily-accented English. We play a brief game of i'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours, which results in no identification being produced by them, and my passport remaining in my pocket.
The police take statements from hotel staff, and again we wait. From our observations, we conclude that two of the men are likely police. The others (including my friend from the elevator) are probably hotel security of some description. The mood at our table is sober and anxious. The police and the hotel manager approach. They say that our statement must be taken at the police station. Again it is me they request - the room being in my name. Perhaps I am simply a coward, but I couldn't help but feel that some injustice would be done if it were I that was taken. After all, I had been on the other side of the door. Fortunately for me, the boys agree. We lie-on-the-fly and explain that we switched rooms after check-in. And Chris confesses to being the lone shooter.
And so it is that Chris, Sean, Harro, the hotel manager, Sayid, a couple of Moroccan police, and a few renta-thugz exit the Residence InTouriste.
I watch the tail-lights disappear. I'm concerned, relieved, guilty, frustrated, and ... tired. But our room is still locked. I return upstairs and debrief Tim, Kate, Jacqui, Anna and M-A on the day's events.
Hours pass, now late into the night. They return. But not for long. Chris must return to face court the next morning. I realize I don't even know what I had expected the result to be. On a positive note, Sean hands me key-cards for our room - reactivated. Finally this day is finished.
0830hrs, January 2nd, 2009: The trial.
I wish Chris a happy birthday, although I suspect it is in vain, as he departs for court. Sean, Harro, and Krystal go along. I consider joining the entourage. But, having already accompanied Chris to court many years prior, and seeing he is well represented, I opt for the beach and pool.
My skin absorbs the first real sun it has seen since Croatia. Tim, Kate, Jacqui and Anna ride Camels and watch Flamingos. Chris sits in a holding cell at the Agadir courthouse.
Second-hand information warning: Because I am beside the pool, I am not a primary source for the events that take place at the court.
Although we don't fully understand where Sayid came from, right now, Chris sure is grateful he showed up. He acts as translator and legal-council, even swearing the oath on Chris's behalf. Chris stands in front of the panel of judges as the facts are stated, before being returned to the cell. Over the following hours, the hotel progressively lowers the compensation being requested. These offers are made to Sayid, who translates and relays to the entourage, who relay to the incarcerated Chris. They are rejected. As the afternoon passes, and the deliverance of the judges' verdict surely approaches, the hotel returns with an offer of the same amount we had offered the day before: 15000 dirhams.
Chris accepts and is released. The verdict goes unheard. All return to the Residence InTouriste. I swipe my Barclays card. A number in a database in England decreases. A number in a database in Morocco increases. We go to the beach. And the incident is consigned to history.
