Anywhere but Home

by Vicky Jassey

Chapter I - England .................................................................................................................. 4

Travel Preparations ................................................................................................................. 4

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking ............................................................................................. 5

Which One is My Father?........................................................................................................ 7

Chapter II - France ................................................................................................................... 8

Paris by Night ......................................................................................................................... 8

The War Dance ..................................................................................................................... 11

Not My Kind of Cleaning Job................................................................................................ 14

Melon Scrumping.................................................................................................................. 17

Bonjour Monsieur, Je Cherche Du Travail S'il Vous Plaît...................................................... 18

Shop-Lifting and Acts of Human Kindness ........................................................................... 23

Pavement drawing and the Avignon Underworld................................................................... 31

Life as a Mute Farm Worker ................................................................................................. 35

A Country Walk .................................................................................................................... 42

Grape Picking with the Adonises ........................................................................................... 43

Chapter III - Spain.................................................................................................................. 48

A Musical Awakening on the Road ....................................................................................... 48

Sharing A Bed - Barcelona .................................................................................................... 50

Awkward Sex up a Hill ......................................................................................................... 51

Fried Aliens in Black Sauce .................................................................................................. 52

Carnal Desires in a Sex-less Relationship .............................................................................. 53

Dream Chasing...................................................................................................................... 54

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Chapter IV - England on a Rock ............................................................................................ 58

Caving in Gibraltar................................................................................................................ 59

A Night with Bats, the Police, an Axe Murderer & My Parents ............................................. 62

Pulling Pints on the Peninsular .............................................................................................. 65

Moving House....................................................................................................................... 73

Lying to the Lying Priest ....................................................................................................... 78

An Unexpected Job Offer ...................................................................................................... 81

A Smuggler’s Companion ..................................................................................................... 85

Chapter V - Morocco .............................................................................................................. 89

“Don’t Drink or Smoke Anything They Give You” ............................................................... 89

Mint Tea Hallucinations ........................................................................................................ 93

The Journey to Banana Village ............................................................................................ 101

Friendships Gone Bad and the Tattooist’s Bus..................................................................... 107

Meeting the Locals .............................................................................................................. 113

The Tagine Bake-off & Getting a Job .................................................................................. 115

A Blood Bath ...................................................................................................................... 118

The Return of the Man on the Train..................................................................................... 120

The Water Sellers ................................................................................................................ 131

Learning the Art of Begging and Deceit .............................................................................. 136

Go and Pray to Allah!.......................................................................................................... 143

What Goes In… .................................................................................................................. 149

…Has to Come Out ............................................................................................................. 156

Wolf and Ginger ................................................................................................................. 158

Chapter VI - The Journey Home.......................................................................................... 162

If You Run We Will Shoot .................................................................................................. 165

The Adventures of Wim ...................................................................................................... 170

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Short Overview
With an oversized rucksack, a pair of red sparkling bongos, £30 and Skully, her psycho
travelling companion, eighteen-year-old Vicky sets off across the channel to find work.
Escaping the emotional fallout from a childhood of neglect, abuse and abandonment she is ill-
equipped to face what lies ahead. Shoplifting, begging, bongo playing, pavement-drawing,
hairdressing and drug-smuggling, she will do almost anything to avoid going home. The odds are
against her as she fights off a string of sexual predators armed only with a swiss army knife and a
single-minded determination to survive. This is a tale of brutal naivety, hope, loneliness, poverty,
self-discovery and incredible acts of human kindness.

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 Chapter I – England

There are three sides to every story: yours, mine and the truth. Andrew Loog, Oldham (2000)

Travel Preparations

I left in August 1986. Don’t expect me to remember which bands were playing, or what was on
the TV, or what people were wearing because I don’t remember. I don’t remember because I
spent many years trying to forget those early years of my life. What I do remember was my
overwhelming desire to get the hell out of the small, oppressive town I lived in. I may have been
only been living there for four years but a lot had happened and the place was already full of
awkward memories, unrequited love and people I did not want to bump into on my way to the
local Spar supermarket.

The foreboding grey skies, barren moors and relentless drizzle foretold my hopeless future. I had
written and sent ‘the letter’ to my father and it felt like the right time to get out, so I began to
plan my escape. Did I go to the local library to research how to find work abroad? Or ask older,
wiser people about how one goes about travelling and working overseas? No. My entire travel
plans consisted of asking a few mates if they knew where and when the grape picking was in
France. September, I was told, head to the south, I was advised. The south, I thought, now that
sounded far away and exotic but September! Fuck that, I thought. There was no way I could wait
until September, that was more than six weeks away.

I had picked up Skully (or had he picked me up?), a tattoo-covered, shaven-headed Geordie, in
Kent while raspberry picking. We didn’t really like each other but there were a couple of crucial
elements that bonded us. It wasn’t music, like-minded politics or even good sex. It was that
neither of us had any work prospects, family or friendship ties, and England and everything in it
was, for us at that time, shit. I would have preferred to implement my escape out of the UK with
just about anyone else on the planet, but no one I spoke to was interested in going on an
adventure across the channel with someone who had no money or concrete plans of how to get
some. Losers, I thought. And so, after two weeks of loveless, flesh-pounding meat-cleaver sex
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with Skully – the kind that leaves you sore and depressed – he agreed to travel to France with me
in search of work. There were no big farewells, no elaborate send-offs. We just walked out of the
town and started hitchhiking south, our over-full rucksacks clanging and clattering with various
utensils including my prize possession, my sparkling red bongos.

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking

For those who don’t know, hitchhiking was a popular and free way to move around. A form of
transport begging but with conditions attached. You had to be willing to wait in some of the
world’s most uninteresting soul-destroying places for many hours, often in the rain. Women
were less likely to give you a lift so you were largely dependent on the generosity of lonely,
long-distance male lorry drivers. This had its own drawbacks, especially for young, female
hitchhikers. The payback could include having to listen to a driver talk for hours about his wife’s
infidelity and the breakdown of his marriage or, if you were unlucky you’d get the ‘pervert’
who’d try feeling up your leg or worse still, masturbate while driving. If you were really unlucky
you’d find yourself sat next to a driver who would talk about the breakdown of his marriage
whilst trying to touch you up and masturbate all at the same time. Yes, hitch-hiking was free but
it had its drawbacks.

Our journey from Yorkshire had been quite smooth until we got dropped off near the M25. After
twenty minutes of standing in a layby together with our thumbs out we decided to take it in turns.
I went on the first shift and was confident of imminent success. As the minutes passed into hours
without even a suggestion of a lift I began to employ various psychological tactics hoping to
influence the drivers with the power of my mind and facial expressions. I started with trying to
look deep into their eyes as they advanced. That didn’t work. If anything I think some drivers
even sped up as they passed me. I tried the save me sad helpless child face, the happy I could
cheer up your miserable day face, I even tried the neutral you won’t even know I’m in the car
face but nothing worked. With a gnawing sensation in my gut, I began to fear our grand travel
plans would end here in this grey non-descript no-where shit-hole of a place. Slumping onto the
curb in defeat, I signalled to Skully that it was his turn to take over.

As he walked off towards the mouth of the layby where I’d been standing, I realised our chances
of us leaving this godforsaken place had just taken a massive dive. I knew I wasn’t much to write

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home about but if I couldn’t get someone to pull over, he definitely couldn’t. He looked more
like someone you would run away from not willingly invite into your car. I watched him there
with his thumb out looking like an escaped convict and each thunderous swoosh of a passing car
or lorry compounded my feeling of hopelessness. Another hour passed and I began to blame him
and the way he looked for our predicament, not the oblivious motorists that didn’t give two shits
about a couple of depressed-looking teenagers trying hitch-hike their way out of a miserable
existence.

I imagined all the lifts I’d have been offered if only I’d been on my own and then an idea came
to mind. My ingenious plan involved Skully staying out of sight so I appeared alone. Of course,
I’d be offered a lift in minutes (albeit from a leg-feeling pervert but I was desperate). Just as I
was getting into the car, Skully would jump in with me. If the driver took issue with a shaven-
headed tattooed Geordie jumping in the car from nowhere and refused to take us we would
simply stay put and refuse to get out. What could they do? I thought. I called Skully over and
told him my plan. He responded by screwing up his face.
“Fuck that,” he said flatly, “Who do think I am? You expect me to hide in the fucking bushes
while you prick tease a driver into pulling over? What am I your fucking pimp?”
“Well,” I screamed, “Have you got a better idea of how to get us out of this fucking dump?”
Without saying a word he turned his back on me and walked slowly back to the mouth of the
layby and stuck his thumb out. I watched him with pure resentment and willed him to disappear.

To my shame, it had been Skully who had been hitching when the timber laden lorry pulled over.
Mind you, Eddy, the driver, did look like an older version of Skully maybe this had helped. I
don’t know what had led Eddy to take pity on us but after saving me from the most mind-
numbing experience of my life so far I considered him my new best friend. Fortunately, he
turned out to be neither a leg-feeling pervert nor a masturbator (at least not in our presence). He
did talk about his family fondly (but there was no mention of infidelity) and about his life
carrying timber from one country to another. I tried to appear interested, saying the ‘aha’s’ and
‘oh really’s?’ in the right place. Skully wasn’t much of a conversationalist so it was mostly left to
me. I had explained to Eddy we were off on an adventure fruit picking in France and eventually
our verbal exchange dried up. I was glad. The conversation-less space was instead filled with the

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soothing rumble of the diesel engine, the mindless banter from the radio and the swish-swish of
the windscreen wipers batting away the rain that had started to fall.

Which One is My Father?

Sat high up in that lorry cab, the motorway stretching out relentlessly in front of me, I felt a
sense of calm and my mind wandered back to the letter I had sent my Dad before I left. I had met
my Dad for what, for me, felt like the first time when I was fifteen years old. We had arranged
over the phone to meet in London on Exhibition Road, by the Natural History Museum.
Although he had known me in the first year of my life, I of course, don’t remember him. I do
remember seeing him once when my brother and I were very small. It was a memorable occasion
because he took us to the local toy shop and told us we could have anything our hearts desired
(so I chose a yoyo…what was I thinking). After that short sweet visit, I didn’t see him again until
I’d grown into a lanky goth/punk with a weighty chip on my shoulder.

Standing on the street corner by the Natural History Museum that morning waiting to meet my
father was one of the more surreal experiences of my life. I was there at precisely ten o’clock in
the morning, at our arranged meeting time and place, and a short overweight smartly dressed
man began walking towards me. Wow, I thought, that’s him, that’s my dad, and feling a bit
underwhelmed and slightly disappointed I smiled at him as he approached. He smiled back
slightly nervously, understandable under the circumstances. When he walked straight passed me,
slightly hurriedly, I realised that the man I had been smiling at was not my dad.

With no idea of what my dad looked like every man on the busy street was potentially my father.
Is that him? …Nope. What about that one?…Nope. Oh please not him. Really?... Nope. And so
it went on. I was either intrigued or mortified at the various potential father candidates in the
vicinity, it was an excruciating wait. The thought crossed my mind that my dad may also have
been going through a similar experience as he walked to our rendezvous point. Would he think I
was the sweet looking pre-pubescent teenager with pigtails and a blue and white sailor dress who
had just walked passed me? What would his reaction be when he realised his long-lost daughter
was a near six-foot-giantess of a girl with a red and purple Mohican, Dr Marten boots, a short
skirt, ripped fishnet tights, a leather jacket and thick make-up? Eventually, a tall, slim handsome

7
forty something-year-old man walked elegantly and confidently towards me There was no doubt
that this was the man with whom I shared my DNA.

Three years had passed since that meeting and I wondered what would happen to us once he’d
read the letter I wrote and posted the day before. When I thought about him receiving it two
contrasting scenes played out in my mind. In the first, he wakes up just like it is any other
ordinary day, pads towards the front door in his slippers and dressing gown and picks up the
post. As he walks back into the kitchen he picks out the white envelope and separates it from the
brown ones, on it his name written in slanting handwriting. He sits at the kitchen table, opens the
letter and as he reads the first page a melancholic violin begins playing in the background. Tears
begin to well in his eyes. The violin intensifies as he reads on, tears now streaming down his face
which has become etched with pain and remorse. The second and more likely version begins the
same but, in this version,, my dad doesn’t sit down to read my letter, he stands. The violin is
replaced with Radio Essex and, after scanning the first page he tears the letter up, chucks it in the
bin and decides on the spot never to talk to me again. I felt a huge sense of relief to be in the
lorry travelling south, away from him and away from the mess that I had left behind.
*********

Chapter II - France

Paris by Night

We boarded the ferry at Folkstone and Eddy then drove us all the way into Paris. By the time we
arrived in the city it was 1 o’clock in the morning, too late to hitch any further and we set about
looking for a place to stay. We did not have enough money to get a hostel so our options were
limited to a park bench or a subway. In the end, we opted for scaling a fence of a locked
privately-owned well-kept park that was surrounded by beautiful 1930s apartments. We pitched
our little tent on the grass and hoped that no one would notice our trespassing between now and
the morning. Lying in the tent with Skully gently snoring beside me, the last thing I thought
before falling asleep was how un-romantic Paris was, and how small and exposed I felt.

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I awoke the next morning with a start and tried to to remember where I was. Once reality had
come back to me I shook Skully awake. I was eager to leave before we were evicted and eager to
get a coffee and get on with our journey south. We packed up and climbed back over the fence
like empty-handed thieves. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting golden rays of light at
sharp angles across glass and concrete. Paris was coming to life around us. We set off to find out
where we needed to be in order to hitch to the south of France. After some time and various
fractious exchanges between us, because each of us thought we knew the best way to do things,
we found our way to a junction on the south side of the Boulevard Périphérique and the E5.
Despite the early hour, there were already three other fellow hitch-hikers each stood individually
apart with their thumbs out and placards with writing on stating their intended destinations. Our
hearts sank, etiquette demanded we go to the back of the line.

Around midday we finally got a lift with Gérard, a businessman who we assumed was going to
the south of France. We assumed this because we had Sud (French for south) written on a piece
of cardboard that we had been holding up to passing drivers. We had found the primitive sign in
the layby no doubt discarded by a hitchhiker who had eagerly rejected it after receiving a lift. We
held out the cardboard talisman hoping it would improve our chances of luring a driver into
pulling over. It’s hard to say what possessed Gérard to want to spend several hours in a car with
two scruffy teenagers he could not converse with (neither party spoke the other’s language) and
if he had mentioned the name of the place he was heading to it would not have made any
difference to us. Not only was our comprehension of the French language non-existent–oh how I
regretted skipping all those French classes in school–our grasp of southern French geography
was zilch. By this stage, we didn’t really care where he was going as long as he took us far away
from the asphalt hell-hole we’d been standing in all morning.

After ten hours of waiting, hitching and travelling we found our way to a municipal campsite on
the outskirts of Carpentras. On entering we were met with the hustle and bustle of families on
holiday. There was a cacophony of screaming children and barking family dogs tied to posts.
Parents were busily chasing children or tending smoking barbeques, which covered the whole
campsite was in a kind of grey haze you’d normally associate with a night club. A colourful
array of tents, one buttressed up against the other, along with an assortment of complicated-
looking camping paraphernalia, extended out in front of us, row upon row upon row.

9
I felt like we’d turned up to the party wearing the wrong fancy dress. Everyone looked so clean
and normal. We knocked on the door belonging to the campsite proprietor. An un-smiling,
middle-aged man opened the door. He had off-yellow skin and had combed the remaining dark
strands of his hair over his shiny bald head. He looked weary. In spite of my exhaustion I put on
a cheery face and asked politely in English if there was space for us to stay. He looked us over
and I became acutely aware of my unsavoury travel companion whose appearance had not
improved after two days without washing. Mind you, neither of us compared very well to the
dirt-free, healthy, tanned people we’d just seen walking around in cool cotton shirts, shorts and
soft leather loafers.

The proprietor looked at us sternly, furrowed his brow, shook his head, made a gesture with his
hands and rushed off to an adjacent room mumbling in French. I watched him put his glasses on,
lean over a table and leaf through a large heavy looking book. Next to the table sat a large
bosomed woman, who I assumed was his wife. She was reading a newspaper and smoking a
long, thin, brown cigarette that glowed red in the gloomy room. Unperturbed by us or her
husband she continued to read her paper without looking up. She cut a glamorous figure in
contrast to him. Her eyes were thick with black coal, her lips and nails were ruby red, and her
bouffant hair counterbalanced the fluffy slippers that were perched precariously on her small
feet.

The proprietor looked up from the book to his wife and said something in French that sounded
like a question. The woman completely ignored him and continued to read as strands of curling
cigarette smoke climbed lazily around her. I tried to gauge what this awkward silence meant for
us and our chances of being able to have a shower and go to sleep in the relative safety of a two-
man tent in a proper campsite. I willed her to be in a good mood and let us stay. Eventually she
raised her head from her newspaper and faced her husband. He spoke again and she turned
towards us and gave us a once over. She looked unimpressed. Without taking her eyes off us she
spoke to her husband in a low husky voice. I didn’t understand but I knew she was giving the
orders and that she did not like the look of us.

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The proprietor rushed back towards us and began speaking to us animatedly in French. We
looked at him blankly not understanding a word. He took a deep breath and tried again, still
nothing. He became more animated and began gesticulating wildly. Then suddenly I caught it, a
word I recognised “passport.” Relief flushed over me and I began laughing.
“Oh, you want to see our passports? Yes, yes we have those!” We rummaged around in our stuff
and pulled out the pieces of card that served as our temporary passports. He looked at them
dubiously and went back into the gloomy room. A second later he was back without them and,
walking past us, motioned for us to follow him. We were shown around the campsite, the
communal showers, toilets, water pump and given a list of dos and don’ts translated into French,
English and German. Finally, in the second field, with the backpackers and away from the clean-
looking families, he pointed to a patch of land and indicated that this was where we could pitch
our tent.

The War Dance

The stress of the journey had not improved things between Skully and me. The small thread of a
connection we had had in England had snapped en route to France. We put the tent up and ate
some sausage and bread in a sulky silence, each of us brimming with built-up resentments. Even
though it was early I washed and got into my sleeping bag and was about to go sleep when I felt
Skully curl up to my back and start stroking my arm. Oh no, I thought. I lay there hoping he
would think I had gone to sleep and leave me alone. Then I felt his erection through my sleeping
bag pushing into my back.
“Skully,” I said sleepily, “I am really tired.” He ignored me and carried on stroking my arm.
“I’m just stroking you,” he whispered into the back of my head. I lay there wanting to tell him to
leave me alone but afraid if I did another argument would ensue. I tried the gentle approach first.
“Skully, I really need to go to sleep” He ignored me and continued to push his hard cock up
against me.
“Come on,” he murmured, “just a quickie.” His hand travelled down to my breast and as if he’d
pressed an alarm button, I sat bolt upright and hissed at him, “I do not want a fucking quickie! I
want to go to sleep, alright?” He rolled away from me and I instantly felt guilty. I took a deep
breath and in a softer more consolatory voice I said, “Please, I’m just really tired.” But, it was
too late, he jumped up un-zipped the tent, scuttled out, popped his head back in the tent and said,
“Fuck you,” zipped it back up again and left.

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I woke in the early hours and Skully was asleep next to me. I lay there listening to the strange
sounds around me and to what sounded like two men talking hushed tones and occasional
suppressed laughter. Unable to sleep I got up and stepped out into the night. A few metres away
at the next tent along were two men sat around a small burner that was glowing with hot coals.
They saw me and beckoned me over and motioned to a little stool. I squatted down on it and
gazed into the burning coals glad of the warmth and for having something to stare at. In a
lowered voice, one of them said something in French but I shook my head.
“I don’t speak French, I’m English.” He then picked up a mug, pretended to drink from it and
motioned it towards me. “Yes please,” I said, “I would love one.” The tea was disgusting, no
sugar and no milk but it was hot and liquid and I appreciated their hospitality.

It was hard to see clearly what they looked like in the darkness but I could see they were older
than me, maybe in their thirties. One of them wore glasses and when he smiled he revealed a
dark hole where there should have been the glint of white teeth. Their skin was dark and they
both wore short black hair. They may have been brothers but it was hard to tell in the dark. We
sat there for some time. They carried on talking quietly to each other and I felt strangely
comfortable in their presence until one of them began to make a rasping sound as he collected
something viscous and repulsive in the back of his throat. I watched him as instead of spitting the
unwanted collected material ahead into the bushes he threw his head back and with his Adam’s
apple exposed to the night sky above gobbed it up and backwards all at the same time. The sight
was so unexpected, so utterly revolting and wonderfully weird I snorted into my tea and began to
giggle uncontrollably.

My laughter made it all worse as, to my horror, encouraged by what he read as a favourable
reaction, he did it again. My laughter grew louder and turned into a kind of hysteria.
“What the fuck is going on here?” I snapped out of my laughing trance and saw one pissed off
looking Skully glaring at all of us.
“Oh, hi… Skully” I said slightly breathless feeling like a naughty child, “I woke up and couldn’t
get back to sleep so I came and sat with these guys.” I turned towards them to introduce them but
realised I didn’t know their names. Before I could ask, Skully snapped, “Well tell your friends to
keep the fucking noise down. I’m trying to sleep and I think you should do the same thing.” That

12
didn’t seem fair as I had been the one making most of the noise and anyway, right now I just
didn’t feel like going to bed.
“In a minute,” I said. He glared at me.
“I think,” his voice hard and cold, “you should come now.” I stood up petulantly and said, “I’m
just going to the toilet, I’ll be back in a minute.” He stood there rigid watching me go while the
two men sat perched tensely on their stools watching Skully watching me.

I don’t know what passed between the three men while I was away but as I returned from the
toilet, I heard voices shouting. I rushed back towards three dark shapes and walked in on a scene
I could hardly believe. The three men were locked into a circular kind of war dance. Skully was
brandishing an axe – I had no idea where he’d got it from, it certainly was not on our travel kit
list – one man was wielding a knife and the other, the one with no teeth, clutched a stool in both
hands raised above his head. What he was hoping to achieve with it I don’t know. They rotated
in a circular motion, not one of them encroached even a millimetre of distance into the space set,
as if by some magnetic force, between them. First they turned in a rotating motion one way then
the other, all the while trading insults with one another their chosen weapons raised in the air.

“Whoah! What the fuck? Skully, where the fuck did you get an axe?” I blurted out before
realising that this probably wasn’t the most pressing issue at hand. “Skully, for God’s sake put it
down,” I pleaded, now getting desperate. But he couldn’t hear me, none of them could. They
were locked into some primal space that did not include listening to the likes of me. I did not
want to get caught in the cross-fire and end up with an axe in my head and backed away to a safe
distance, reduced to looking on, helpless and incredulous at the scene in front of me. I did not
have the faintest idea of what to do.

The war dance continued until eventually it became clear that no one that night was going to get
axed, knifed or bludgeoned to death with a stool. All three men simultaneously lowered their
weapons and cautiously stepped back without taking their eyes off each other. I saw this as my
cue to re-enter the space and cautiously approached Skully. I said his name gently and cautiously
touched his arm, the one still holding the axe.
“Let’s go to bed,” I said but he snatched his arm away recoiling from me and went back inside
the tent with the axe. Great, I thought, my travelling companion, is a fucking psycho. I gave him

13
a minute as I debated whether it was a good idea to get into a tent with an axe-wielding maniac. I
decided I was too weary to care and climbed in. We both lay with our backs to one another not
talking. I could tell he was awake by his breathing and I tried to control mine so he would think I
was asleep. I needed a moment to process what had just happened. I had to leave Skully, that was
clear, but I was trapped by a fear of being on my own and not knowing exactly how to get rid of
him. When I woke up in the late morning Skully was gone. He’d taken his stuff and all the
money in my purse. I had only what was left in my trouser pockets.
“Fucking idiot” I blurted out loud, not sure if I was referring to him or me. I counted the money
and started calculating what I could buy food-wise and how long I could survive. I had enough
for three days of food at most. This was it. This was when the real adventure began. I was angry,
relieved, scared, excited and alone as I tried to figure out what would happen next.

Not My Kind of Cleaning Job

I got up and saw that the two men from the night before had either gone for the day or were
asleep in their zipped-up tent. There was no evidence of the madness that had unravelled the
night before. I showered and dressed and even though it was already midday I set off to find
someone who could tell me about farm work and fruit picking. I soon found out that I had
arrived too late for the apple picking season and too early for the grapes. Undefeated, I set out to
visit all the local shops to ask if they needed a dish-washer or shelf-stacker. That was how I met
Claude who was sitting at a table when I turned up to a café to ask for work. It was the fifteenth
shop I had visited that day and somewhat jaded, I asked the owner if he had any work available.
He just shook his head, turned his back on me and without a word and began cleaning another
table. I stared at his back blankly, now that’s bad manners! I thought, just plain rude. I turned on
my heels and left. I had only gone a short distance when I heard someone behind me shout,
“Excuse me…excuse me?” and I turned around. Before me was small, smartly dressed, mid-
thirties man wearing glasses.
“Yes?” I said. He explained he had overheard me asking for work at the café and wondered if I
would consider cleaning as he was looking for a cleaner. I gave him a huge grin.
“Yes, definitely!” In my excitement, the questions tumbled out of me.
“When can I start? Where do you live? Is it a big house? How many times a week should I
come?” What days are best for you?” And so on. He gave uncertain answers but I didn’t care. I
was so pleased with myself. Day one on my own and I had landed a job!

14
If I liked, he said, I could look at the house now,
“It’s only a short distance away,” he explained.
“Fine, great, now is perfect”.
We walked for a bit and then stopping by a little Renault car he motioned for me to get in. Oh, I
thought, Okay, we’re driving there.
“Is it far?” I asked, suddenly feeling a bit uneasy.
“It is very close, about fifteen minutes.”
We drove mainly in silence apart from him asking me my age, my name and what I was doing in
France. I suddenly felt shy, being in such close proximity with a man whose house I was about to
know intimately. He didn’t seem very relaxed either and I was relieved when we finally arrived.
The semi-detached modern bungalow was much like him, boring, grey and characterless.

We entered the house and he showed me around. He seemed more nervous than me. I tried to put
him at ease by making nice comments like, “Oh nice lino,” as we entered the kitchen and,
“Goodness, isn’t it spacious,” as we entered the living room. There were two bedrooms one for
him and one for his mother, who was apparently away for a while. Perhaps that’s why he needed
a cleaner, I mused. The place was neat and tidy and I wondered how long his mother had been
gone. We returned to the living room and he asked me if I would like some lemonade.
“Yes please.” I was thirsty. He motioned for me to take a seat and I plonked myself down on the
hard couch. I tried to imagine what his life was like living in this modern, comfortable and
innately boring house. He came in from the kitchen with two glasses of lemonade, placed them
on the coffee table and without a word of warning jumped on top of me and began kissing my
face. Startled, I tried to push him away saying “get off me” but with his mouth glued to mine all
that could be heard was “gerrrrwaffffffeeee.”

Had we been boxers I would have been a middleweight and he a lightweight, so lucky for me I
had the advantage. Eventually, managing to free both my hands, I placed them evenly on his
chest and gave him an almighty push. His mouth detached from mine and he tumbled backwards.
Now my words found the clarity I was looking for.
“You fucking creep! What the fuck was that? You dirty fucking little pervert.” I stood up
breathing heavily and towering over him ready to stick him with my knock-out punch if he got

15
up. Whether he sensed the balance of power change or not, he did not get up. Instead he began
fumbling around on his hand and knees looking for his glasses that had fallen somewhere in the
struggle. He whimpered pathetically.
“Sorry…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what ‘appened, I didn’t mean to…I just…I’m sorry.” I
grabbed my bag and ran out the front door and continued running until I was completely out of
breath. I slowed to a walking pace saying, shit, shit, shit over and over as I tried to make sense of
what had just happened and tried to remember how the fuck to get back to the campsite.

It took me about an hour to walk back but I didn’t notice. I was so angry and disappointed I
could have kept walking for hours. I slumped down onto the sandy floor outside my tent and
began tearing into the baguette and some cheese I had in my bag. I ripped at the bread like a tiger
ripping flesh from a fresh kill. I didn’t chew or taste the food I just swallowed whole chunks, my
mind racing with questions. Did he think I was a prostitute? Was he going to fuck me and give
me some money? Or did he think that he had so much charisma and sex-appeal that I would just
want to fuck him even before I had the chance to taste my lemonade? Then more alarmingly I
began to wonder what would have happened had I not been strong enough to push him off me.

Day three and things were not going very well. If I didn’t find work quickly I would have to go
home. Then I realised I didn’t even have enough money to get home as even if I hitched all the
way I would still have to buy a ticket for the ferry. It was too late to do anything to help my
situation that day so I swallowed the last dry lumps of bread and took a walk around the
campsite. There were several fields some with tents, others with motorhomes. The ground was
sandy and every few metres there was a leafy tree offering shade. At the far end was a large,
empty field where families played boules. I watched them for a while trying to make sense of
how the game worked. There was a group of middle-aged women and men who were standing
around chatting and I decided to go talk to them. Luckily, some of them spoke English and were
kind enough to give me various suggestions of how I might find work in the area. One man told
me to come to this field on Sunday because the local farmers came to play boules and pick up
labourers. It was only Wednesday, four more days to go until Sunday. Another woman suggested
I should try the job centre in town.
“Thanks,” I said, “I will,”

16
The setting sun was casting long shadows and the blue-grey haze from the family barbeques rose
filling the evening air marked the change between day and evening. I made my way back to my
tent full of optimism that it would all work out.

Melon Scrumping

When I arrived the two men from the night before were sat by their tent next to mine. When they
saw me, they waved and I went over to say hello. Although physically similar I could see now
that they weren’t brothers. They had the look of people who worked outside, strong and
weathered. They were cooking on their charcoal stove and offered me some of their food and
wine. I turned down the food, I was still trying to digest the bread I had not chewed properly, but
gratefully accepted a cup of wine. I introduced myself and they told me their names, Antoine and
Zackerie. Zackerie did have teeth after all but they were all black.

After some exaggerated miming and help from my pocket English/ French dictionary, we
established that they too were looking for farm work. They had been at the campsite for two
weeks and were both hopeful of finding work within the week. They also mentioned the Sunday
gathering in the top field as a good place to ask about farm work. Antoine, the one wielding the
knife the evening before, nodded towards my tent. I understood what this gesture meant and
frantically looked up ‘left/gone’ in my dictionary.
“Parti,” I said pronouncing it parteey. I waited to see if they understood and then to my surprise
Antoine said in English, “This man is crazy.” I nodded in agreement.

Later a friend of theirs, Michele, turned up and we spent the evening all togther. I marvelled at
how well we all got on despite not knowing each other well or each other’s language. Trying to
understand each other became like a game. They were trying to communicate something to me.
If I understood them correctly they were asking if I would like to join them tomorrow and… I
was watching their comical miming trying to understand the next part of the clue. Miming at the
same time I said, “Get some…food?” They all nodded their heads. We laughed and I felt like I
had one a round of the game. I hesitated feeling anxious about having enough money to eat with
them. I wondered what kind of place they had in mind; a nice restaurant whereby even the
cheapest thing on the menu would use up the remainder of my money? Or, maybe they were they
going to a supermarket? If that was the case, if I went I would be surrounded by a million
17
different choices of food and still only be able to afford more bread, cheese and tomatoes. What
the hell, I thought.
“Okay, I’ll come.”
Job hunting could wait another day. I thanked them for the wine and said good night. I had
friends and I went to bed feeling less on my own than I had the night before when Skully had
still been in the tent.

Michele returned in the morning to pick us up in his car. I still didn’t understand where we were
going but I was up for an adventure. We drove through the beautiful countryside for an hour. The
roads got narrower and narrower and finally we stopped on a leafy road next to acres of
farmland. I didn’t have a clue as to what we were doing in the middle of the countryside. The
men jumped out of the car, took out a load of cloth sacks from the boot and beckoned me to
follow them. About 500 hundred metres down a lane we came to a fence that they began to
climb. I followed dutifully. Once on the other side we stood and took in the view. Far and wide,
rows and rows of ripe melons stretched out before us. Michele gave me a knife and a sack and I
watched them as they set to work severing melons from plants and stuffing them into the sacks. I
copied them. They worked quickly, every few seconds they looked up around the field
nervously. Once all six sacks were full of melons we carried them awkwardly back to the car.

We then drove another hour into a town somewhere. Michele pulled over, got out of the car and
went into a shop. He came out and nodded to the two men. They instantly jumped into action
carrying the bags of melons into the shop. Now I got it, they were stealing fruit to sell it cheap to
store owners. This was how they were making money to survive. I couldn’t help but feel a bit
sorry for the farmers. The three men returned to the car looking pleased with themselves. I didn’t
get paid for my part in the great fruit robbery but I did get taken to a canteen and give a hot meal.
I was grateful, not only for getting to eat something other than bread but it also saved me a day’s
food money. They asked if I wanted to go with them again the next day but I explained I needed
to go to the job centre. They looked at me as if I was mad.

Bonjour Monsieur, Je Cherche Du Travail S'il Vous Plaît.

I got to the job centre the next morning before it opened. There were already three people in
front of me. When it was my turn, I went up to a counter and told the lady, in English, that I was
18
looking for work, any kind of work. I said brightly that I had raspberry picking, waitressing and
hair washing work experience. No, I did not have any useful qualifications and no, I did not
speak any French. Her large brown eyes stared at me through gold-framed glasses her, tightly
pursed lips accentuated by shimmery pink lipstick . She was waiting for me to give her
something she could work with but I had nothing else.

I saw my own reflection her glasses. A dishevelled, scruffy eighteen-year-old who couldn’t
speak French asking for a job. What was I expecting, a miracle? She went to say something and
thought better of it. Instead she leafed through some cards in a box, wrote something on a piece
of paper and gave it to me. I looked at it blankly.
“Er…I’m sorry, I don’t understand?”
I stared at the paper trying to make sense of it. She took the piece of paper from me and circled
the first line of writing.
“Zis in the name of za shop owner.” She circled the next line of writing, “It is a shoe-shop.”
Then circling the last few words she said, “and zis is the place where you ‘ave to go.” She
returned the paper to me.
“Oh,” I was shocked at how easy this was, “So when I go there they’ll give me work?”
“It is possible.” Then she looked past me to the next customer. I walked out clutching the piece
of paper, my golden ticket. Once outside I studied it more closely. The top line said, Monsieur
Bernard, then, Magasin de Chassurrers, and then underneath that, Unité. 24, Shopping Centre
Avignon Nord.

It is amazing how much a little piece of paper with a few scribbles on can really fuck-up your
day. But, to give the French some credit, despite their reputation, each person I approached for
help that day – and I approached a lot – took the piece of paper with intent. To my amazment,
they appeared to make sense of the paper’s mysterious markings. Taking it from me, their brows
would furrow for a few seconds, they would look one way then the other, say something I didn’t
understand and point off into the distance. I would fix my gaze on whatever was at the end of
their outstretched finger and, after thanking them (one of the few French phrases I had learned at
this point) would make a hasty bee-line for whatever building, object or person I thought they
had been pointing at. Miraculously, despite not being very accurate and having some unintended

19
consequences, this strategy more-or-less got me from the jobcentre to the shopping centre and
back to the campsite, albeit a long way around.

The shopping centre was the biggest I had ever seen. You could fit about twenty normal sized
supermarkets in this place. It must have been three miles from one end to the other. I must have
asked at least another ten people before finding a kindly shop assistant who assured me that the
building she was pointing to was the shoe shop. When I arrived at the shop two things bothered
me: It did not have a unit number on and it was closed. The sign on the door said that it would
not open again until 3.00 pm. It was only 12.30 pm.

With the midday heat bearing down on me and with no money to spend in the insanely oversized
supermarket, I decided to wait it out. Lurking in the back of my mind, just on the edge of
conscious thought, was the question, what would a French shoe shop-owner want with a
dishevelled non-French speaking teenager? Pragmatism not being my forte, this question did not
make it to the frontal lobe of my brain. I sat on the curb and set about preparing to make a good
impression on Monsieur Bernard by studying my trusty little French/English dictionary and
learning how to say, ‘Hello sir, my name is Vicky.’ Then, on a roll I added, ‘I am looking for
work please.’ After two and a half hours I had said these two phrases so many times in in my
head and out loud that I began to think that Monsieur Bernard might actually think I was,
well…French. Monsieur Bernard would no doubt be so impressed with the fluency of my
phrases that even when he had found out that I was in fact extremely limited in the French
communication skill department, he’d have a fatherly soft spot for me and give me the job
regardless.

Finally, 3 o’clock came and a young girl and a sweaty, overweight, grey-haired man arrived and
opened the shutters. They disappeared inside the dark shop. I gave them a minute, took a deep
breath and strode in. He was behind a counter and bent over the till. I cleared my throat to get his
attention and in a confident voice said out loud my two practised French phrases.
“Bonjour Monsieur, Je m'appel Vicky. Je cherche du travail s'il vous plait.”
Impeccable, I thought. However, I was not prepared for the tirade of French that came back at
me. When he finally finished talking at me, I stared at him blankly and passed him the now

20
grubby, dog-eared piece of paper. Even though I didn’t understand his words I knew I was at the
wrong fucking shop and he wasn’t going to give me a job.

Taking the piece of paper from me, he did the furrowed brow thing and then shook his head
vigorously, his flabby jowls wobbling one way then the other. A deep and irrational hatred for
this man began to well up inside me. It started in my solar plexus and spread steadily out into all
my extremities. I watched him heave himself from behind the counter and walk towards the door
jabbering in French as he did. He beckoned me to the door and, like everyone before him, raised
his arm and pointed off into the distance. Where the fuck now? I thought, looking at him with
pure hatred in my heart. As I stood beside him all I could do was fix my eyes on the indistinct
building in the direction of his finger. Without saying a word, I set off, afraid that if I had stayed
a second longer I would scratch Monsieur Bernard’s fat fucking eyeballs out.

I walked away from the shopping district into an area of industrial units and warehouses. There
was nothing there. I was just about to turn back when I saw two men talking. Why not? I
thought, Give it one last chance. I went over to the men, passed them the piece of paper and
practiced my new French line.
“Je cherche du travail.”
They looked at me, then at the paper and had a little conference. One of the men was well
dressed in a dark suit, his hair showing a bit of grey at the temples. The other wore blue overalls.
He had a round head of closely shaven hair, piggy blue eyes and a face full of stubble. The
discussion between them continued for a good while after which they each pointed in two
different directions. Finally, the well-dressed man declared in English that he was sorry but they
did not know where this place was. Utterly dejected I turned around and began the walk home.

I had not even made it outside of the shopping centre before a silver Citroën Van pulled up
beside me. Inside sat the man in blue overalls. He beckoned me to get in the van.
“Carpentras?” I said to him hopefully.
“Oui, oui” he said enthusiastically and pushed open the passenger door. Oh well, I thought, at
least I’ll get a lift back. We set off and I settled into the ride, staring out the window into the
open fields. We had been driving for about ten minutes when I became aware that the driver was
laughing. When I turned around he was looking straight at me. What’s so fucking funny, I

21
thought, becoming irritated. His eyes flitted back to the road momentarily and then snapped back
towards me. Then I realised that his cock was in his hand and he was masturbating furiously.

I had never seen a man masturbate before. For a moment I sat frozen, unable to look away from
this cackling masturbating maniac. Then a newspaper headline flashed before me, English teen
found raped and murdered in a field in Avignon Nord. I jumped into action. My knife! I thought.
I grabbed my bag and began desperately searching. I had to pull out the bag’s entire contents out
onto the floor of the van until I found it right at the bottom. All the while wanking man tugged at
his penis and laughed on.

I stuffed everything back into my bag and pulled out the blade of my beloved red swiss-army
knife. It looked so small in this big van but it was all I had. Holding the knife firmly in both
hands I turned to face him.
“I’ve got a fucking knife. Let me out now!” I shouted over the noise of the engine. He just
laughed even more. This was not the reaction I was hoping for.
“Let me out pervert or I will cut your fucking dick off!”
Still in raptures of laughter and masturbating furiously, with his non-wanking hand he pointed
outside. Holding my knife steadfast in position, I snatched a look out the window. Not only were
we in a street lined with houses we were stationary at a red traffic light. I got the message and
fumbled for the door catch. With knife and bag in hand, I jumped out of the van onto the road to
safety. I could still hear wanking man’s laughter as he drove away. On wobbly legs I made my
way to the side of the road and found a wall to sit down on.

I was shaking uncontrollably as everything that had happened over the past few days finally
caught up with me and I began heaving up great sobs of despair. But before I was able to fully
surrender to the abject misery I felt, a large saloon car pulled up right in front of me, and through
the window I saw the face of the well-dressed suited man who been talking earlier with wanking
man. I stared at him in disbelief, snot and tears oozing out of my face and down on to my lap.
Between guttural sobs and uncontrollable hiccups I said, “What do… (hiccup)… you…
(hiccup)… want? Leave… (hiccup) … me … (hiccup) …alone… (hiccup).”
Slowly and carefully, he got out of the car and sat on the wall next to me. I didn’t have any fight
left in me and I sat there pathetically heaving up the remaining sobs left in my gut.

22
Once my convulsions had died down he asked if I had been hurt and if I wanted to call the
police. Without looking at him I shook my head. He told me that when he had seen me get into
the van he had become worried about my safety and so followed behind. I don’t know whether it
was stupidity, tiredness or just intuition on my part, but even after everything that had happened
to me at the hands of men that week there was something about this man. I trusted him. Next
thing I knew I was in his car heading back to Carpentras again.

My intuition served me right. He spoke softly, soothed and reassured me, and shared in my rage
at both the job centre sending me on a wild goose chase and the awfulness of wanking man. He
was careful not to patronise despite our age gap and my stupid behaviour. Re-energised by his
kindness and with a restored faith that not every man in the world wanted to take advantage of
me, we arrived at the entrance of the campsite. In the short drive I had formed an attachment to
this stranger and found myself reluctant to get out of the car. Before I could shut the door, he
reached his hand out towards me.
“Please, take this. It will help a little until you find a job.” I looked at the money in his hand.
“No, no, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Please, just take it. You need it, I don’t.” I looked at his posh car. Well he has a point, I
thought. Somewhat embarrassed, I took the money from him, stuffed it into my trouser pocket,
thanked him and walked away. On my way back to my tent I went to take the Franc note out of
my pocket but instead pulled out a screwed-up piece of paper. I unfolded it and read the circled
hand-written words, Monsieur Bernard, magasin de chassurrers. Unité. 24, Shopping Centre
Avignon Nord. I screwed it back up into a tight little ball, calmly walked towards the nearest
dustbin and tossed it meaningfully into its gaping cavern.

Shop-Lifting and Acts of Human Kindness

He had given me ten Francs, which if I was careful – meaning no more extended bus journeys
looking for non-existent jobs – gave me enough money to survive on for a couple more days,
after which I would either have to find work or go hungry. Sunday was only two days’ away and
I was hopeful that I might find some farm work. That evening I saw my neighbours, Antoine
Zackerie and Michele. They looked pleased to see me and invited me over to their camp. They
greeted me warmly and gave me a seat and a cup of wine. Guessing they were asking me how

23
my day was and if I had had any luck finding work – I caught the word ‘travail’ – I searched
frantically in my faithful English/French dictionary.
“Aujourd'hui... pas de chance,” today…no luck.

With little to do until Sunday I pulled out my sparkling red bongos. With all the events of the
past few days, I had neglected to practice. Seeing as I had carted them all this way, and they
weren’t light, I may as well play the bloody things. I sat crossed-legged in front of my tent and
began beating out some random rhythm, not having a clue what I was doing but taking great
pleasure in the sounds produced by my hands beating the skins.

My intense passion for drums began after meeting my birth-mother, the year before I met my
birth-father. She was an ex-junky who, together with a bunch of hippies and my half-brother, left
London and moved to a town called Hebden Bridge in Yorkshire. She lived in a two-up, two-
down terrace of squatted houses that had been built for mill-workers in the early 19th-century.
The only modern development the house had seen since that time was the installation of a
chemical toilet placed precariously on the narrow landing between my mother’s and half-
brother’s bedrooms. After his first meeting with my mother my social worker described her as
unique and creative. Those words stuck in my mind. Well, at least she doesn’t sound boring, I
thought. She wasn’t. Within a few days of meeting her and my half-brother, I was introduced to
punks and hippies of all ages, joint rolling and smoking, miscellaneous African hand-drumming
and shitting in a chemical toilet. This was all quite a departure from my previous life living with
a Sun-reading foster family on a council estate in Uckfield.

To celebrate our happy family reunion the whole terrace threw a party and it was at about four in
the morning that I first saw and heard two little African drums being played. I was completely
mesmerised. They were played by a young boy, about my age. He held the furry-skinned
instruments tight between his knees and his hands danced from one drum to the other, creating
the most amazing sound I had ever heard. This experience inspired in me a mission: I spent the
next couple of years of asking everyone I met if they knew where I could get some African
drums. Eventually, a hippy friend of my birth-mother, who they called Mick-Stability, gave me
my set of sparkling-red bongos. I was in love. I didn’t have the foggiest idea how to play them,

24
which did not make me a very popular musician but I didn’t care. I loved them and the sound
they made when I hit them, When I sat and played them I forgot all my teenage troubles.

I wanted a teacher and the first person I ever saw playing hand drums was Carl. He was several
years older than me, six foot three and looked like James Dean. I wasn’t interested in him – I
knew he was out of my league – until I saw him play in a pub in Halifax. I plucked up the
courage to ask him if he would teach me. He agreed and like a lapdog, for the next year I spent
every spare moment I had loitering either in or outside his cold, shared, grubby terrace house in
Halifax hoping he would be in and in the mood to give me a lesson. Sometimes he did, most
often he didn’t. Carl was addicted to speed which made him manic, sweaty-looking and prone to
bouts of erratic behaviour. Our teacher-pupil relationship ended abruptly one-day when he
convinced me to hide in his bedroom with him as a matter of urgency. He said the landlord was
coming around to get the rent and he didn’t have any money. It took less than two minutes of us
being in his bedroom before he pinned me to the bed and raped me. I didn’t tell anyone what
happened. I just avoided Halifax and never saw him again. I still wanted to learn how to play
hand drums.

Sunday finally arrived and around midday, Antoine Zackerie and I walked up to the boules field.
When we arrived, the leafy field was packed with people standing around talking or deep in
concentration on the various games of boules taking place. There was a definite festive feel about
the place and I felt like a party-gate crasher. Antoine and Zackerie set to work moving from one
group of people to another. They soon found a farmer who was looking for some labourers but
he didn’t want a pasty, lanky English girl who looked like she’d never done a day’s hard physical
work in her life. They got the job and I didn’t. They would leave the next day. I wondered
whether they’d got a job working on one of the farms they had stolen from. The weather-beaten
farmer explained that in a couple of weeks there would be lots of farmers desperate for workers
and I was not to worry because I would get a job then. The question was, could I last a couple
more weeks?

Although happy they had both found work I was sad to see my neighbours go. I spent the next
few days wandering around aimlessly watching my money dwindle quicker than I had
anticipated. At this rate if I didn’t find work the following Sunday I would not have enough

25
money to last the next week. Sunday came and employing my best French accent, I utilised my
most used French phrase.
“Bonjour Monsieur, Je cherche du travail s'il vous plait.” All I got was shaking heads. There
was nothing and I was up shit creek.

I wanted to blame the lousy unemployment rate in France at the time for seducing me into a life
of petty criminality but I knew deep down it was my own stupidity that had driven me to stand in
front of the cheese section in the local supermarket, summoning up the courage to slip one of
those creamy, yellow clingfilm wrapped blocks into my bag. I hadn’t stolen anything since I had
been caught nicking sweets from a stall on Brighton seafront aged ten. All of us from the local
children’s home regularly went there to pillage from distracted stall owners. But the time I got
caught was a traumatic, humiliating experience. Once he had collared me, the only way the stall-
owner would agree not to contact the police, or worse the nuns who ran the home, was if I paid
for the item I had stolen. Not an easy job as I had no money and all my friends had scarpered.
Luckily, once they had realised they did not have an angry bloke hot on their tails they came
back looking for me. Seeing me in the clutches of the stall-owner they all started shouting,
demnding he let me go. Not in the least perturbed, he repeated the terms and they all began
digging deep into their scrawny little pockets for pennies. The sweet cost ten pence and they had
nine pennies between them. I looked at the stall-owner pleadingly and said I was really, really
sorry. He let me go but the whole experience had left me scared of stealing anything ever again.

Until now. But this time it wasn’t sweets it was cheese. The first time was the hardest but
shoplifting from a supermarket soon became easy and part of my daily routine. I would walk in
confidently, size up two ripe tomatoes and a small baguette. On my way to the checkout to pay
for them I’d slip a couple of other essential food items into my bag like Camembert and
chocolate. With my new shoplifting skills, I calculated I could last another week.

It was market day in Carpentras. The place was full of stalls selling all kinds of produce from far
and wide. It was much busier than usual. That day I decided to ‘shop’ at the supermarket in the
main square. I ruminated for some time over which plumb tomatoes to buy. I took my time
picking up items and putting them back on the shelf or in my bag depending on who was around.
I walked calmly to the checkout and waited calmly in the queue watching the hustle and bustle of

26
the market through the window. When it came to my turn, I placed the tomatoes and baguette on
the counter. The cashier rang through the items and I paid for them. Just as I was about to leave
she said, “Mademoiselle, ouvre ton sac s'il vouz plait.”
“What?” I said, but I had understood. She repeated the request again.
“Ouvre ton sac s'il vouz plait.”
“Oh fuck,” I said and, failing to come up with any other plan, I did as she asked and opened my
bag. Putting the tomatoes and bread to one side she pulled out one camembert, one salami
sausage, a bar of chocolate and some lemon squash.

By now the store manager had arrived and stood by the checkout girl glaring at me. Tall and thin,
he towered over me, his long angular face flushed with anger. He was saying something to me in
a stern voice but I didn’t understand. I kept repeating, “je ne comprends pas.”
He came around the counter and firmly led me by the elbow away from the checkout and into the
bowels of the shop where I was put in a pokey little office. All the shoppers watched me go, their
mouths open in stunned silence, this was by far the most exciting thing that had happened in a
long time. He pointed at the chair. I slumped into it like a petulant child and he placed all the
stolen items on a table. He paced the floor of the tiny room all the while talking at me. Although
by now I understood the odd bit of a sentence I decided that it was better to play completely
dumb. Eventually he gave up and left the room. I was tempted to open the chocolate bar and start
nibbling but I thought I probably shouldn’t make matters any worse than they already were.

I had been sat in the office for about an hour when two young police officers walked into the
room followed by the gangly manager. The room hot and crowded. They looked at me like I was
an animal in a zoo, standing back and sizing me up whilst conferring with each other. One by
one they picked up and examined the stolen items, turning each one over in their hands as if
looking for other evidence of criminality. The store manager was still angry and one of the
officers attempted to communicate with me by sitting opposite me and speaking loudly into my
face. I waited for him to finish and repeated, “je ne comprends pas.” He looked despairingly at
his colleague and then at the store manager. The other police officer then tried but used exactly
the same tactic. I could see this was going nowhere so I decided to play the only card left in my
pack. I started to cry.

27
This seems to change things. The three men began another conference as I continued to weep
quietly in the corner. A decision was made and everything happened very quickly. One of them
spoke into their walkie-talkie, the stolen items were placed into a carrier bag and before I knew it
I was being escorted through the busy market square of Carpentras by two police officers and the
lanky store manager. People parted to let us through and we walked down the corridor they made
for us all the way to a police car parked at the far end of the square, its blue light flashing despite
there being no one inside. The police officers were enjoying the attention, they were positively
strutting.

We drove to the police station and they placed me in another, slightly less pokey room along
with my stolen items. Again, I waited for another interminable time until finally the two
policemen entered with a third, younger police officer. This new police officer stood in front of
me, cleared his throat and in heavily accented English said, “You ‘ave stolen zese zings, no?” I
looked at the items on the table and nodded. “Monsieur Chouinard, zer store manerger ‘az told us
zat ‘e wants to,” he paused looking for the right word, “prosecute you for stealing iz things.”
Tears started to roll down my face, this time for real. He continued, “’owever, if you can pay for
zees items ‘e ‘az said he will let you go.” He passed me a piece of paper and on it was a sum of
two francs and thirty cents.
“I don’t have any money,” I said taking my purse out of my bag and tipping its entire contents
onto the table. I had eighty cents left to my name. They looked at the pittance of coins on the
table. I looked them and thought I saw a little sympathy pass over their faces. The store manager
remained implacable.
“What are you doing ‘ere in France?” the officer asked.
“I am looking for work.” I looked at the floor, not ready to meet his gaze.
This set them off talking amongst themselves and I listened hard trying to understand what was
to be my impending fate. The English-speaking officer turned back to me.
“Where are you living?”
“At the municipal campsite.”
Again they conversed with each other and then he said,
“We will take you there now. You must collect your passport and show us where you live.” I
nodded. I left the manager still looking angry and minutes later I was yet again speeding through
the streets of Carpentras in a police car with flashing blue lights.

28
I assumed they would park the police car in the campsite carpark and escort me on foot to my
tent. Since most people in the campsite were normally out in the afternoon the three of us could
enter and leave the campsite without any of my neighbours, or worse the proprietor and his wife,
noticing that they had a criminal in their midst. But, no, the drive of shame would continue,
endless and excruciating. With its blue lights flashing, the police car made its way exceedingly
slowly through the narrow lanes towards my little tent pitched in the second field. I sat there
stony-faced and looking straight ahead but I could see families popping out from all over the
place, peering in to get a good look. No, I thought, this really could not get any more
humiliating.

“It’s here,” I said pointing to the small green tent in front of us. They pulled up right in front of
it. These guys were really not up for walking anywhere.
“Bring us your passport,” the officer ordered. I got out of the car racking my brain, trying to
remember where the hell I had put it. One of them got out and watched me through the entrance
of my tent as I searched everything in my tent once, twice, three times. I started cursing out loud
to myself.
“Shit…fuck… Where the fuck did I put it?...Fuck!”
I searched one more time. By now I was sweating, flustered and on the edge of a panic attack.
Exasperated, I said in English, “I don’t know where it is.” Fresh tears were rolling down my
face. They looked annoyed and told me to get back in the car. We drove back through the
campsite but now I didn’t care who could see me, I couldn’t feel anything.

Ahead, as we approached the exit of the campsite, I could see the proprietor and his wife waiting
for us. The police car stopped (with its blue light STILL flashing) and the officers got out of the
car to talk to them. This surely was the end of my great adventure. It would be a cell for the night
and deportation in the morning. At least I wouldn’t have to pay for the ferry home. There was a
rap on the window. I turned to look and there pressed against the window was my face staring
back glumly at me.
“My passport!”
The officer peered in and smiled, seeing my facial expression change so dramatically. I opened
my mouth to speak, “But…but…,’ was all I could manage. My mind was trying to make sense of

29
it all and then the light came on and I remembered that I had handed over my passport over to the
proprietor when we arrived. Jesus, I thought, I wasn’t making things easy for myself.

We drove back to the police station and they took down all my details. The store manager had
decided not to press charges but they explained, I was never to set foot inside his store again. I
gratefully accepted the terms of my release and got the hell out of there. I began walking back to
the campsite wondering what would happen next. I still had no money to pay off my debt to the
proprietor, which he must now realise. I wondered if they would throw me out. I couldn’t blame
them, I had hardly improved their reputation. I thought about trying to sneak through a back
entrance to my field. I had had enough humiliation for one day. But no, I thought, fuck it, and
walked through the entrance with my head up high.

By the time I got back, it was getting dark and there were few people around. I knocked on the
proprietor’s door. When finally he answered, I could not bring myself to look at him. Instead, I
looked at his feet and held out my passport to him. He took the passport from me and said softly,
“Merci.”
The kindness in his voice made me look up and when I looked into his face I could see no sign of
him being angry with me. I turned to leave but he said, “un momento,” and called to his wife. Oh
no, I thought, it’s her that’s going to deal with me now. She came to the door holding something
in her hands. She too had lost some of the hardness from her face. Passing me a bowl with a lid
on it, she said, “C’est pour toi.” I looked at in wonder.
“For me?”
They both nodded smiling.
“Merci beaucoup,” I said, smiling back at them, trying to hold back the tears that started to prick
at the corners of my eyes. I clutched the warm bowl to my chest like a long-lost teddy bear.
When I got back to my tent I saw they had given me a bowl of meaty casserole. I ate it hungrily
and gratefully and, without even washing or cleaning my teeth, fell asleep instantly.

I woke blearily with the rising sun. The tent got so hot in the morning it was impossible to sleep
past 7 o’clock. Each morning I would unzip the tent to let some air in and then lie back down for
a few more minutes hoping to sleep a little more. On this morning, there, just outside my tent,
were a couple of tied up carrier bags. I looked out to see who had left them but there was no one

30
around. I brought them into my tent. Inside were various food items; bread, three types of cheese,
fruit, biscuits, salami and even a small flask of coffee. Stuck with a small slither of Sellotape on
top of one of the cheese boxes was a ten franc note. My eyes filled with tears that proceeded to
plop heavily onto the salami. I tried to imagine who had left these anonymous gifts. The
campsite proprietor and his wife? Some of the campers who had heard about my predicament? It
didn’t really matter. Rejuvenated by these unexpected acts of human kindness, I poured myself
some coffee and stuffed several biscuits into my mouth, smiling and crying at the same time.

Another Sunday came and went and there was still no sign of work. But every morning when I
woke up there were little food parcels waiting for me at the foot of my tent. I no longer felt
ashamed for getting caught stealing just ashamed that I had yet to find work and was dependent
on the generosity of people I could not thank. Because anyone of the people I met at the campsite
could be my mysterious benefactor, I smiled and said hello to everyone, and they smiled back. I
didn’t feel alone any more, but part of a community that quietly and unassumingly looked out for
one another.

Pavement drawing and the Avignon Underworld

One day a group of three young Danish girls pitched their tent next to mine. We soon got talking
and they told me they were going to hitch into Avignon centre the next day and asked me if I
would like to go with them. I hadn’t left the campsite area for more than a week and thought a
trip out would do me good, so I gratefully I accepted their invitation. As we talked I told them
more about my situation, leaving out the bit about the shoplifting. They were very sympathetic
and in their efficient way began thinking up schemes for how I could generate some money until
I found proper work. One of them said, “it’s a shame, if you could draw you could probably
make some money pavement drawing.”
“I can draw,” I replied.
I got my little sketch pad out of my tent and passed it to them. They leafed through the pen
drawings nodding.
“Could you draw this on the pavement?” She held up the image of an African mask I had drawn
in black and white.
“I think so.”
“Well, that is what you can do tomorrow.”

31
I smiled.
“Okay, I’ll give it a go, why not?”

I decided I would take my bongos with me to Avignon. I could try my hand at busking if the
pavement thing didn’t work out. I wrapped the drums in my thin sleeping bag and put them in
my rucksack along with my sketch pad. Although we had got up early getting a lift was harder
than we had anticipated and we did not reach Avignon until midday. The city buzzed with
tourists and we spent a bit of time walking around taking in the sights. I noticed several people
pavement drawing and, sizing up their artwork, wondered if I could get away with doing the
same thing. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon and the sky was thick with black
ominous clouds. I spent the last of my money on a pack of chalk and looked for a place to begin
drawing. I found a spot and set about drawing the outline of my design. I could not believe how
quickly the pavement ate up the chalk! At this rate, I wouldn’t get beyond the outline before it
was all gone.

My new Danish friends stood and watched me work and before long they were joined by two
men. One of them carried a guitar around his neck. Suddenly, the heavens open and it began to
pour with rain, washing away the carefully drawn chalk outline I had just completed. The two
men suggested we follow them to a place where we could find shelter. We walked up the high
street and then down into a sheltered into what felt like Avignon’s underbelly. The subway was
home to a congregation of homeless people, beggars, pickpocketers, buskers, pavement drawers
and street hustlers all seeking sheltering from the rain. We were welcomed into this weird and
colourful underworld and I soon made friends with a Romanian dwarf called Luca and Albert,
his juggler friend. They both spoke quite good English and it was not long before I felt at home
among this bunch of misfits. My Danish friends hung about for a bit but then they told me they
were going to go back to the campsite. I still had a few sticks of chalk left in my bag and not a
penny to my name so, with nothing much to lose, I decided to stay and try my luck the following
day. I had no idea where I would sleep but in the worst-case scenario, I could stay up all night.

After a couple of hours the rain stopped but the skies remained grey and there was a chill in the
air that I had not felt since I had arrived in France. The streets were deserted. Luca said, “Come
on let’s go and get dinner.” Great, I thought, I was starving and excitedly followed him. What he

32
meant was let’s go and beg until we had enough money to buy something to eat. With hardly
anyone around it was easier said than done. In an hour we made fifty cents and it was starting to
get dark. I suddenly had a bright idea.
“Luca, can you play the drums?”
“No, why have you got some?”
“Yes,” I was rummaging in my rucksack. I pulled them out and Luca let out a long whistle of
approval.
“They are beauties.”
“Aren't they?” I said proudly.

We tried various combinations. First, I played, or at least hit, the bongos, sitting cross-legged on
the pavement while Luca approached the handful of passers-by for money. Then we swapped
and he hit them enthusiastically but no more rhythmically, while I approached people for money.
We were definitely not taking Avignon by storm but we managed to raise enough to buy two
bags of fries. We ate them and more than our own body weight of mayonnaise and washed it
down with water from the fountain. By this time it was dark and I was getting tired.
“Luca, is there anywhere I can sleep around here without getting mugged or raped?”
“Mmm, That’s difficult. Let me think.”
He stood gazing off into the distance.
“I know,” he said brightly with a smile, “the bridge!”

I followed him through the alleyways of Avignon and eventually, we came to a railway bridge.
“There,” he said and pointed to what looked like a row of sleeping caterpillars. Five people lay
motionless in sleeping bags of various shades of green.
“Oh…Okay.”
He whispered loudly into my ear, “Tie your rucksack to your arm so if they try and steal it off
you in the night you will wake up.”
“Okay,” I was now feeling a little uneasy. “Are you going to sleep here too?”
“Yeah, yeah don’t worry. You are safe here with me. These sons of bitches know better than to
mess with me. I may be small but I can get pretty nasty if need be.”
He pulled a cut-throat blade out of his pocket and flipped it open. I smiled weakly and climbed
into my sleeping bag joining the other caterpillars. With one of the straps from my rucksack

33
wrapped around my wrist, I hugged the rucksack, my bongos safely stored inside, tightly to my
chest. Luca didn’t use a sleeping bag. He just lay on his back, one hand behind his head and
smoked a cigarette.

I awoke before anyone else. It was just getting light and must have been around 5.30am. Luca
was sleeping soundly and I was relieved to find my rucksack had not disappeared in the night. I
got up desperate for a piss and tiptoed away. It was going to be a beautiful day. There was dew
on the ground and not a cloud in the sky. In the morning sun, it was easy to find my way back to
the centre of Avignon. The beauty of getting up so early was that there was no one around and I
felt a unique intimacy with my now familiar surroundings. I was also able to find the absolute
perfect location to begin pavement drawing, a little picturesque square set back just of the main
drag. I excitedly set to work making a piece of artwork as tall as me on the pavement.

I soon realised the folly of my ambition when I remembered how quickly the pavement ate up
the chalk. Shit, I was going to run out of chalk really soon and I hadn’t even got started. I noticed
a well-dressed old man hunched over with a walking stick making his way slowly across the
little square. I smiled and said good morning and he smiled and said good morning back. I
carried on working giving it my full attention. There was no one about apart from the old man
who was now slowly shuffling back across the square with a bag of croissants and a baguette. It
was then I noticed something sitting in the little pot I had put out to collect money. I went over
and to my absolute amazement neatly folded inside was a ten and five-franc note folded up
together. I looked after the old man but he was already gone.

I brought coffee, four croissants (two for me and two for Luca if he ever turned up), seven packs
of chalk and I still had some money left. I went back to the drawing full of the joys of life and
got to work. The streets began filling with tourists and before long I heard the wonderful sounds
of coins dropping into my plastic pot. I even had to empty it a couple of times because of the
amount I was collecting. By lunchtime I had completed three-quarters of my drawing. I looked
up to see a circle of tourists standing around my drawing, pointing at it and making comments.
An English voice said, “You see? These French they just have art in their blood.”
I kept quiet and carried on working. I was in my element. In total I made thirty-six francs and
fifteen cents. I was so happy as I stood back and surveyed my artwork. The African mask stood

34
six feet tall and about five-feet wide. I silently thanked the dark-eyed person behind the mask for
my good fortune. I didn’t see Luca again and so was never able to say goodbye and to thank him
for being my friend and looking out for me.

It took two buses to get back to the campsite. I went straight to the proprietor’s door and knocked
loudly. The long-suffering man opened the door and smiled at me. I held the banknotes out in my
hand. He looked surprised and then slightly worried as if he was wondering how I’d come about
such a windfall.
“It’s okay, I earned it.” I mimed the actions of pavement drawing and kept saying, “En
Avignon.” He seemed to understand and clapped his hands together.
“C'est formidable!”.
He gave me my bill and after paying it off, I still had five francs left. I wasn’t worried. If I didn’t
get a farm job this Sunday, I would return to Avignon. Now I felt confident I could earn enough
money to survive, although I wasn’t so sure about sleeping under that bridge again.

Life as a Mute Farm Worker

“Vicky, Réveillez-toi.” The loud whisper woke me up. I unzipped the tent and popped my head
out blinking in the early morning light. It was Michele, Antoine and Zackerie’s friend. I had seen
him a few times hanging around the campsite since they had left. He had said he was just passing
but I wondered if he was checking up on me. He always left me something to eat, usually fruit
from his latest countryside pilfering.
“J'ai du travail pour toi.”
“Wait, What?” It took my brain some time to make sense out the words that were tumbling out
of his mouth. Did he just say what I thought he said?
“J'ai du travail pour toi dans une farme.”
“On a farm? Really?”
He nodded enthusiastically.
“Great!” I said laughing, “C’est formidable! Merci, Merci beaucoup Michele.”
Michele said he would come and pick me up the following day and take me to a farm where I
would start work. How much I would get paid, what I would be doing or where I was going, I
wasn’t sure. I was happy to blindly follow Michele’s enthusiasm and see what happened.

35
I went to see the proprietor and his wife to tell them the good news, and to say thank you and
goodbye. I had been in the campsite for nearly a month and I was ready to leave. By the time
Michele came the next morning, I was packed-up and waiting for him. We raced through the
French countryside, the radio blaring out with the quickest French I had ever heard and I was
glad to be on my way to a new adventure.

We arrived at a farm in the middle of nowhere. We pulled into a drive scattered with pickup
trucks and parked in front of a large modern house. Suddenly two Alsatian dogs came running
out barking ferociously. I froze inside the car. I was terrified of Alsatians having been bitten in
the face by one as a child. Michele laughed and jumped out of the car, petting the dogs as a way
of demonstrating they meant no harm. It didn’t help. I was sure they would smell my fear and
that one whiff would send them into a frenzied attack. A middle-aged couple, weathered, sturdy
and healthy, followed the dogs out the front door.

I remained in the car still too afraid to get out. I knew it was rude but my fear was greater than
my desire to make a good impression. I watched Michele walk over and greet the farmer and his
wife. They all looked over towards me and I smiled back weakly from inside the car. Michele
gave me an intense glare as if to say, get out the car. I shook my head to indicate that I couldn’t
move. Then he strode over and just opened the door. I went rigid as a corpse with fear as the
dogs rushed in and began sniffing my face, armpits and crutch. When I looked at the farmer, his
wife and Michele for help they were laughing at me. It was not a good start. Finally, the famer
called the dogs off me and they trotted away back into the house. Humiliated, I emerged from the
car looking pale and frail, not a very likely candidate for farm labouring. I went and, with my
best French accent, said hello and shook their hands. Michele introduced them as Madame and
Monsieur Fontaine. Once the introductions had been made Michele went to pulled my rucksack
from the boot of the car. I saw my new employers eyes eyes widen when they saw my sparkling
red bongos hanging from the bottom of my rucksack. Michele kissed me on both cheeks.
“Bon chance, Vicky,” he said before jumping into his car and speeding off.
Madame Fontaine, motioned for me to follow her as she set off at a brisk, meaningful pace
towards the back of the farmhouse. I hitched my rucksack onto my shoulder and jogged after her.

36
From the front, the house looked like it only had one floor but as we walked down a steep
sloping driveway at the side of the house, I could see the back had another floor built into the
earth. There was an additional large tarmacked area littered with rusty bits of farm machinery in
various states of disrepair. From here you could see orchards of fruit trees followed by fields and
fields of grape vines that went on for as far as the eye could see. Madame Fontaine entered a
room. I followed her in.

There was a musky, earthy smell. The walls were made of rough bare grey breeze blocks that
had hardened bulging cement oozing out from between the blocks. It looked like the room had
been built in a hurry. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. There were two sets of bunk
beds, two plastic seats and a sink and single stove under a dirty window that overlooked the
orchards. Madame Fontaine pointed to the empty bunk bed in front of me and I threw my
rucksack down on to the lower bunk, glad to be free of its weight. Someone already had stuff on
the other bunk bed and I looked at the things neatly folded trying to extract clues about the
person I was going to be sharing with. Please let it be an English-speaking girl, I thought. The
farmer’s wife went over to a make-shift corrugated iron door that left a gap both at the top and
the bottom of the door frame. It creaked noisily as she opened it revealing a bathroom with a
toilet, a single tap sticking out of the wall at knee height and a bucket placed underneath. In the
corner next to the toilet was a small space that I assumed was the shower area because it had a
hole in the bottom corner to allow the water to run outside. There was no shelf or mirror and I
was sure there was no hot water. I began to miss the communal showers at the campsite which
now seemed luxurious. I smiled, trying not to show my disappointment.

As we turned back into the main room the front door opened and a man entered. He jumped at
the sight of us. Madame Fontaine began talking to him in a fast no-nonsense tone and I heard my
name and ‘Anglaterre’, jumbled in among the words. He looked quite agitated and was wringing
his hands together. He kept his eyes lowered, looking in every direction except at Madame
Fontaine or myself. It was hard to tell his age, maybe late twenties. He was short and sturdy with
broad shoulders and long, thick arms. His hair was close-shaven, he had a strong jaw, a heavy-set
forehead and he wore thick-rimmed glasses. Inside I was praying, please God don’t this be the
person I am going to be sharing with. When Madame Fontaine had finished speaking she stared
at him expectantly. He continued to wring his hands, twisting them one way and then the other.

37
He turned his body slightly to face me, his eyes darted up to mine nervously and back to the
floor. Stammering he slowly managed, “B…b…bonjour, J’eme appelle Y…Y…Yan.”
His voice was deep. He pointed to the stuff on the other bunkbed to indicate that it was his and I
almost groaned in disappointment. Great, I’m going to be living with a fucking Neanderthal, I
thought. Trying not to show what I felt, I said hello and told him my name. Madame Fontaine
said something to him and they both left, leaving me staring after them.

I sat down heavily on my bottom bunk. It squeaked as the springs complained under my weight.
I hadn’t slept on a bed for weeks. Well, I thought, that’s something to look forward to. I took in
my new situation and tried to imagine sharing such an intimate space with this ox of a man. Oh
God, I thought, as reality hit home, I’m going to have to shower, piss and shit in the next room
with only a flimsy piece of corrugated iron, that doesn’t even fill the doorway, between us.
Horrified, I though, what was going to stop him from watching me? How do I know he won’t
attack me in the night? But I knew there was nothing I could do unless I was prepared to walk
out of the farm there and then… and then do what?

There were no shelves or draws so I kept most of my stuff in my rucksack apart from my tent, I
wasn’t going to need that, and my bongos, which I placed under the bed. I lay on my bed and felt
two springs digging into my back. Shit, I thought, shifting my body to try and get comfortable.
“This is not going to work,” I said out loud as I climbed up onto the top bunk. It was worse.
Resigned, I returned to the bottom bunk and shifted my body into a position that avoided the
sharp springs. I got out my little English/French dictionary and began studying. I must have
fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes Yan was in the room. I watched him moving
around in the kitchen area. He must have sensed I’d woken up because he turned and his eyes
flitted towards me and then away again nervously when he saw I was awake. It gave me the
creeps. Without looking at me, he held a plate out towards me. I got up and took it from him. On
it was some bread, butter, cheese and homemade fruit jam. I thanked him and sat on one of the
plastic chairs. He passed me some coffee. I hadn’t eaten that day so I was grateful and threw him
an involuntary smile. The food was only simple but everything tasted amazing. Yan took his
plate and coffee outside. The door was ajar and I watched him go and sit on a large rock facing
the orchard. He didn’t seem to happy with his new roommate either.

38
As usual, I didn’t have a clue what was going on. I didn’t know when we would start work, how
long I would be at the farm for, how much I was getting paid and if anyone else would be joining
Yan and I. Despite all my studying, I did not have the vocabulary to ask these questions in
French let alone understand their answers. For the next five days there was nothing to do apart
from a study my English/French pocket dictionary, not the most stimulating read, and play my
bongos mindlessly. I even got bored of that. Each morning I would wake up and Yan would be
gone. Where? I had no idea. Madame Fontaine would come by and give me breakfast, lunch and
dinner. Yan would come home late at night and pretty much go straight to sleep apart from
taking a shower. When he did that, I left the room as I couldn’t handle the idea of him being
naked so close to me. We hardly spoke, mostly because I didn’t see him. I wasn’t doing anything
useful and I didn’t understand what I was doing there. I went for five days without speaking to
anyone apart from hello and thank you to Madame Fontaine. I felt like a prisoner even though
the door remained open and I was free to walk out.

One morning, I woke up to Yan calling my name in his low guttural rumble. I sat up, it was only
just getting light. Confused, I looked at him and he passed me a hot cup of coffee,
“n…n…nous allons travaille a…a…a…aujourd’hui,” we have work today. He struggled to get
the words out.
“Travaille? Moi?”
“Ou…oui,” he stammered.
I jumped out of bed excited to finally have something new to do. I thought we were going to pick
grapes but he led me down to the orchard, gave me some clippers, an apron to tie around my
waist and some crates to carry. There were two sets of step ladders already set up when we
arrived. The plumbs were first. There weren’t that many, it looked like we were just collecting
the last yield of the season. We only managed two crates before we moved to another area where
there were peaches and finally the figs.

I gorged myself on the fruit as we went along. I had never tasted fruit this good. Yan and I
worked in silence but bit by bit we became a little more at ease in each other’s company. He was
helpful, taking the heavy crates from me and showing me what to do. I was much happier
picking fruit than I had been stuck in the farmhouse and my mood and attitude towards Yan

39
lightened. We stopped only briefly for lunch and by four o’clock the clippers had given me
blisters, my back ached and I was ready to stop. Yan looked like he could go on forever.

We finished around six and by the time we got back to the house I desperate for a shower. I sat
on the edge of my bed trying to work out how to take a shower with Yan in the room. I didn’t
want a flimsy piece of corrugated with gaps to be to be the only thing that stood in between him
and my nakedness. Up until now I had showered in the day while he was out working. I thought
about how to construct a sentence in French or a bit of crude miming to convey that I would like
him to leave. But in the end, I was too embarrassed and sat sulking instead. Get it wrong and
there was every chance he would misinterpret my message and that could lead to all kinds of
mess. I thought about showering in my bra and knickers but rejected that idea as too ridiculous.
With no other option available I thought, fuck it. I grabbed my towel from where it was hanging
at the end of the top bunk. As soon as Yan saw me reach for it he turned the off stove where he
was making coffee and went outside, shutting the door behind him. I stopped in my tracks and
watched him go. Oh…ok, I thought that wasn’t so bad. I showered and changed and had lay on
my bunk for a good while before Yan gently knocked on the door.
“Entrez,” I said.
He came in and turned the coffee pot back on. With small unassuming acts of kindness and
consideration Yan won my trust and became my quiet, gentle friend.

After that one day of picking the last of the fruit from the orchards we went back to waiting.
Empty days rolled into one another punctuated only with meal times. My limited French
language and Yan’s severe stammer did not make us very chatty friends. For the most part, we
sat in each other’s company in silence. Yan sat fixing broken radios and I practised my French
and bashed my bongos. I had now memorised the French word for everything I could see inside
and outside of our room. In a vocabulary exam on the topic of French farmhouses I could have
beaten anyone hands down.

Most of my childhood was spent with very shouty foster parents and siblings. There was never a
time in our house when someone wasn’t making their opinion known, loudly. I was not used to
being in the same room with another human being without words. It felt awkward and I
compensated by striking up two-person conversations in my head. When a few words did pass

40
between Yan and I they seemed to upset the air around us like unexpected visitors. The
exception to this was when I practiced my French on him. My bad pronunciation made him
smile, revealing his blackened teeth. He would say, “No, no, c'est pas comme ça c'est …” and
repeat the word back to me correctly. I would try the word again purposefully saying it wrong so
that it would make him laugh. Feeling like a small child, I enjoyed his relief and excitement
when I got a word or phrase right. He seemed to be able to manage this level of verbal
communication and I tried to make it a daily habit.

I had no idea how to learn a whole language. Getting my head around verb conjugations was the
equivalent of trying to unravel Einstein’s theory of relativity. Learning and studying was
something you did at school and I had not spent much time at school. Moving from one foster
family to another, from one part of the country to another and one school to another took its toll
on my concentration. My teachers had made it clear quite early that I wasn’t very clever, which
would have been fine except that I couldn’t stand all the kids I was put with. I decided early on I
didn’t care much for schools or the people in them and did my best to spend as little time in them
as possible, which was something I achieved with aplomb.

I had grown used to Yan’s company and felt comfortable around him, safe even, but he didn’t
like talking, not to me or to anyone. Madame or Monsieur Fontaine, nor any of their offspring,
and there were quite a few, went out of their way to communicate with me either. So my time on
the farm became an unintended silent retreat. I didn’t have a real conversation with anyone for
weeks. My dreams became a kind of toilet for all my unspoken words. In them, I chatted
incessantly all night long. I would talk and talk to anyone–family, friends or strangers. The
problem was it didn’t matter what I said they didn’t seem to hear me, either because they were
ignoring me, or because they had gone inexplicably deaf.

Not hearing the sound of my voice – putting forward opinions, making decisions,
complementing or complaining about the world around me – for weeks on end made me feel like
I was slowly fading away, losing my form, my substance. I was left with too much time to think,
too much time of lying on a lumpy bunkbed staring up at the broken missing slats above me. The
memories of my past hovered menacingly close by. The aim of this adventure had been to make
discoveries, have new experiences and sand away the gnarly knots of a fucked-up childhood.

41
Instead, I felt like an unravelled tape measure; open but threatening to coil back up into myself at
any moment. This was not the hedonistic teenage adventure I had imagined and I longed for
hard, physical work to take me away from the empty silence.

A Country Walk

To relieve my boredom I tried going for a walk. Not finding any footpaths into the fields around
the farmhouse, I walked west along the only road in the area. The landscape was relentlessly
unchanging. There wasn’t so much as a hill to break the monotony, just miles of road lined by
fields of grapevines. I didn’t care, it felt good to be out of the house and I became mesmerized by
the rhythm of my walking pace and the heat waves rising off the tarmac in front of me.

Every five minutes or so a car would speed past me. The hum of the engine would reach me long
before I could see it and then I felt the punch of air as it whooshed past me. I had been walking
for about half an hour when instead of speeding past me, I heard a car slowing down. I turned to
see a white estate slow until it became parallel with me. The driver was dark-skinned, thirty-
something; a North African-looking man. I thought maybe he was lost and I stopped and smiled
at him. My brain worked hard to make sense of the sounds coming out of his mouth. He had a
gravelly voice but it was his tone I noticed, it didn’t sound like someone asking for directions. I
stared at him blankly and then the penny dropped. He was trying to get me to get into his car. I
flushed with anger and embarrassment and decided the best thing to do in this situation was
pretend he wasn’t there. I marched on defiantly. He followed me for a while trying to cajole me
into his car until he finally got the message and sped off. I was seething inside and now every car
that passed made me feel uneasy.

I was so wrapped up in my rage that at first, I didn’t notice a second vehicle, on passing me, had
slowed down, done a U-turn and now pulled up alongside me. A grey-haired, pot-bellied man
was smiling at me from his pick-up truck, making what he must have thought were alluring
noises aimed at enticing me into his vehicle. I ignored him but this one was more persistent. He
crawled alongside me for several minutes always staying right next to me. Until I lost it. I took a
deep breath and turned squarely to face him.
“Leave… me…(breath) the fuck…(breath) ALOOOOONNNNNE….”

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The final word became a vehicle for all my anger and frustration, ending in a sustained, hissing
crescendo of a scream. I held that last vowel for as long as I could, its pitch rising higher and
higher until every last millilitre of oxygen in my lungs was spent. Red-faced, with veins bulging
at my temples and spittle gathering at the corners of my mouth, by the time I had replenished my
lungs with a breath of air the truck had sped off. I stood motionless waiting for my heart to return
to a normal pace and for my breathing to steady. I turned on my heels, crossed over the road and
made my way back to the farmhouse, ever so slightly alarmed by the edges of madness I had
heard creep into my voice when I shouted at the man.

On my journey home, I tried to imagine where these men were going and what led them to
behave in such a way. Two possible scenarios came to mind. 1) They on their way somewhere –
maybe to work, or to see family or friend – and on seeing my irresistible form were so overcome
with sexual desire they could not resist pulling over and acting like fucking pubescent imbeciles.
Or 2) they had been at home feeling randy and rather than ‘rubbing one out’ they’d decided to go
for a drive in hope of finding a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old girl milling around the countryside
ready to give them a quickie in the back of the car? How, for the love of God, could this be
possible? Is this what it is like for properly beautiful women? Do they have to live with men
behaving like this around them all the time? Do any of them actually like it? For the first time in
my life, I was relieved I was not beautiful.

I wasn’t exactly ugly, striking would be would a kind way of putting it. I was nearly six-foot,
heavy boned, with big hips and small-breasts. My oval, slightly horsey face was framed by
brown shoulder-length hair. I had good skin and nice hands and feet. But it was made quite clear
early on at school that my aesthetic attributes scored low on the beauty Richter scale and this, I
thought at the time, put me at a disadvantage. As I marched home seething, I now reconsidered
this position. If being attractive means you are more likely to ‘attract’ fuckwit twats when you’re
trying to have a nice relaxing walk in the countryside then beauty, I now decided, was really
overrated.

Grape Picking with the Adonises

Two evenings later we had a surprise visit from Monsieur Fontaine. He didn’t knock, he just
shouted for Yan from outside. Yan jumped up and opened the door. They stood talking for a
43
while at the door. Monsieur Fontaine looked past Yan to where I was sitting on a chair, his eye
lingered on me for a moment as he continued talking but didn’t acknowledge me. After he left,
Yan explained that tomorrow we had to wake up by five-thirty; the grape picking would start.
After six weeks I was finally going to do what I came for. I would have a job earning money and
finally get out of this depressing little room. I was about to embark on a new adventure and I was
excited. As no else had arrived, I assumed it would just be Yan and I picking Monsieur
Fontaine’s grapes.

It was just turning light when Yan and I climbed into the back of the pick-up truck and at some
pace, set off with the farmer towards our first picking site. I shivered as the cool air whipped at
my bare skin. The early mornings were now quite chilly and I hadn’t brought anything warm to
wear. I had one of those ‘this could be a movie’ moments looking down on myself, speeding
through fields of grapevines in the back of a pick-up truck as the sun came up. We arrived at a
small compound with three primitive buildings and a little courtyard. Monsieur Fontaine got out
of the truck and went inside. Yan and I waited. A few minutes later four beautiful Italian men
emerged from the house and walked towards our vehicle! Really? I could not believe my eyes.
Sure enough, they climbed up into the truck. Yan and I moved up to make space for them as they
mumbled sleepy good mornings. Next thing I knew I had an Adonis sat next to me and I could
not stop myself from grinning for ear to ear.

We were taken to another location not far from the compound. I was given gloves, clippers and a
plastic tray and told to gather around to watch a quick demonstration of ‘how to pick grapes.’
The demonstration lasted all of two minutes and we were off, making our way up the uniform
rows of grape bushes, snip, snip, snipping away. This is easy, I thought. Clouds of insects buzzed
around me as I tried to settle into a rhythm and keep up with the others. It took three hours for
the novelty to wear off, in spite of the close proximity of four beautiful Italians. It was clear I
wasn’t cut out for grape picking.

The bunches hung at about the level of my belly button. To find, reach and severe them from the
bush, required stooping at an angle that was not natural for a person of my stature. I looked up at
the others enviously. They were way ahead of me. These sturdy, square-framed men all looked

44
like they were born to pick grapes. It will get better, it’s just the first day, I told myself. It didn’t.
Every day felt like running a daily long distant marathon and every day I came in last.

Life is funny though, you never know how one thing might lead to another. It was through my
back pain that I got to know Pino, one of the lovely Italians. Each day after we had finished
picking we would be taken back to the compound, where the Italians stayed, and given lunch. I’d
get one whole glorious hour with them before I was reluctantly taken back to my prison cell with
Yan. Even though I knew why Mr and Mrs Fontaine kept me locked away, I resented them for it.

Pino was the first of the Italians to speak to me on that first day. We were eating our lunch when
he said, “D'où viens-tu?”
I looked up nearly choking on my food.
“Moi?” I said looking around me.
“Oui” he said in a ‘well obviously’ tone.
“Angleterre.”
I wanted to say so much more, anything to keep his attention but my mind went blank. All those
French words I had learned over the past few weeks evaporated into thin air. Moreover, my voice
was so underused it sounded weird in my head, like it wasn’t mine, making me feel self-
conscious. Clearly unimpressed by the interaction between us he turned back to his plate and said
nothing more. I wished I was able to speak Italian and French and hold an interesting
conversation or even better, make them laugh. They seemed friendly but as they didn’t speak
English and my French was appalling, it looked like they weren’t going be any better company
than Yan.

Even though I mostly sat in silence the hour in the compound with the Italians was the highlight
of my day. Their jovial banter and laughter would get me through the daily grind of harvesting
grapes and the boredom of living in a farmhouse with the least outgoing person I had ever met.
On the third day, Pino approached me to tell me he was going to the shop and asked if I would
like him to get me anything for me.
“Yes, could you get me some paracetamol, please? But, I can’t pay until I finish work because I
don’t have any money,” I said in crude French.

45
He asked me why I needed paracetamol and I placed my hands on my back. Pino looked
concerned and told me to wait there.. He went inside one of the little buildings and a few minutes
later came back with a small clear bottle full of little white balls. I looked at them, confused.
“Paracetamol?”
“No, no,” he said emphatically and spent some time and effort trying to explain something to me
that I just didn’t understand. Eventually, taking the bottle from me and opening it, he mimed for
me to open my mouth and lift my tongue. I did as he asked, feeling a bit silly. He gently tapped
the bottle and one of the small white balls rolled out and dropped under my tongue. Recognising
the sweet sensation I said excitedly, “Homeopathy?”
“Oui! Omeopatia.”
He laughed like I’d solved a great mystery and explained that I should take one little tablet three
times a day for my backache. And so it was, through those little balls, we became friends.

I knew about homoeopathy because in Hebden Bridge whenever you complained about an
ailment someone would pop a sugary ball under your tongue. Whilst everyone else went on
about how amazing it was it did absolutely nothing for me. Pino was studying to become a
homoeopathic doctor and each day he’d give me a little consultation when he’d ask how I was
doing and if the little white balls were working. They weren’t. Then he would ask a series of
other questions which seemed to have little to do with my back, but I didn’t care, I enjoyed the
attention. I really wanted the sugar balls to work, not only because I was in a lot of pain but
because I wanted to please him. But if anything my back pain got worse. After about a week he
admitted defeat and got me some heavy-duty paracetamol.

I worked picking grapes and popping paracetamol for five weeks and then, just like that it was all
over. On my last day at the farm, I sat (for the first time) in Mr and Mrs Fontaine’s living room
waiting to get paid. The house was spacious but simple. Madame Fontaine bustled into the room
with her glasses perched on the end of her nose and a big book in her arms. She lay it down on a
coffee table and began writing numbers in a long column and making calculations. Finally, she
wrote a number in what looked like a receipt book, ripped out a page and handed it to me. It had
my full name and the figure one hundred and ten francs written in neat curly writing. She then
opened her apron and began counting out the money onto the table and passed it to me. I liked
the heavy feeling of it in my hands. I smiled and said thank you. I didn’t bother counting it.

46
There didn’t seem any points seeing as she could have easily added up the number wrong and I
still wouldn’t have had a clue about it. No one had ever told me how much I would get paid or
how much my board and lodgings were. The wad of money seemed like a lot, I had earned it. I
accepted it graciously.

I tucked the money away and Madame Fontaine with her hands in her lap began asking me what
I was going to doing next.
“Espana,” I said. “Je vais a Barcelona.”
She suddenly jumped into life. After not haven spoken to me for five weeks, she began prattling
on ten-to-the-dozen. I had no chance in keeping up with her. I heard her say the name Pino but
that was all I got. Next thing I know she had picked up the phone and was dialling a number. She
stood there motionless with the receiver by her ear looking really pleased with herself.
“Pino?” she said into the receiver followed by several sentences of rapid-fire French. What was
going on, I wondered. Next thing I knew she was holding out the receiver towards me.
“But…wait…what…?” I moved towards the receiver like it was going to bite me. “Bonjour,” I
said. It was Pino and he bagan talking excitedly in French. I didn’t stand a chance.
Understanding French was hard enough when face-to-face with someone but on the phone,
forget it. There are only so many times you can say “Je ne pas comprend,” before it gets really
boring. In the end I resorted to saying “uhuh” over and over because I didn’t know what else to
say. All I could extract was that I was to “attendre jusqu’a demain,” (wait until tomorrow).
Madame Fontaine reiterated the same message after she put the phone down.
“Okay,” I said smiling.

I returned to my room and lay on my bunk trying to piece togther what had just taken place.
Maybe Pino knew there was no bus to Barcelona until tomorrow? But that didn’t make sense
because Madame Fontaine could have just told me that without calling him. A thought came to
me. Could Pino also be going to Barcelona and want a travel companion? The thought of
travelling to Spain with kind, good-looking Pino filled me with hope and excitement. And now it
had entered my head I couldn’t face the thought of not going with him. I hadn’t realised how
nervous I was of travelling to an unknown country on my own again and I prayed my
interpretation was right. Twenty-four hours later there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see
Pino grinning broadly,

47
“Prête?”
“Er…oui.”
I grabbed my rucksack, stuffed the last few items into it, turned to Yan, who stood staring at us
looking confused, hugged and thanked him and left.

********

Chapter III – Spain

A Musical Awakening on the Road

Communication is an inexplicable thing. With something people, even with a common language,
it is hard to be truly understood. With others, like Pino, it is the opposite. On the long coach
journey from Montpellier to Barcelona, with only a few words in common, we spoke to each
other non-stop. Don’t ask me how. There was an urgency between us, a need to exchange ideas.
It didn’t matter how long it took, we found a way. It was like entering into an elaborate game
that was like a mixture of charades, Who Am I? and I Spy, all rolled into one. My
English/French dictionary passed between us so often it was like playing catch. I was beside
myself with excitement. For the first time on this journey, I had someone who understood me,
who wanted to understand me. I studied a kind, handsome face as Pino told me about himself. He
had that typical tanned Italian glow. His hair was black and curly and hung down around his
face. He had dark brown eyes, a Roman nose and a broad smile of even teeth. He had been
travelling all summer, was in his third year studying homoeopathy and would return to Italy in
three weeks time. He also told me that his parents were both medical doctors and that they were
not very happy with his decision to study homoeopathy. They did not think it was real medicine.
I was inclined to agree but kept this to myself.

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And then he told me he had a portable cassette player. When he pulled it out of his bag I began
squealing like a pig at feeding time.
“Oh my God, oh my God you’ve got some music, you’ve actually got some music!”
I kissed him on the forehead. I had not heard any music for two months and I ached inside like
someone starved of food. Pino had several cassettes in a small compartment in his rucksack. He
rummaged around and then pulled one out. It had a red, yellow and green spine. He took it out of
its cover, placed it in the machine, snapped the door shut and passed me the headphones. I placed
then over my ears, closed my eyes and sunk back into my chair. He pressed play.

The music he played me was so different from anything I had ever heard. I could not even begin
to describe it. I simply did not have the words. From the moment the first song began, I was
transported away; completely transfixed and transformed. I was arriving in a place where I
belonged. I belonged to this music and this music belonged to me. I did not know why or what it
meant, only that it was important and a part of me even though I didn’t recognise its style. The
instruments made sounds I had never heard and they were singing in a language I didn’t
understand, but I had an overwhelming sense that everything in my life had been leading up to
this moment.

When the first song finished I opened my eyes and Pino was staring at me.
“Well, what do you think?”
He clicked stop on the recorder and I removed the headphones. I looked at him. I could not begin
to explain what I thought, it was too enormous.
“Who is this?” I asked.
He passed me the cassette case. I turned it over in my hands. On the front of the case, there was a
worn picture of three black men. Above the picture and on the spine was the name Toure Kunda
Live framed in bold letters. I stared at the cassette in wonder trying to absorb every bit of
information on it.
“Where are they from?”
“Senegal,” he replied, obviously pleased with himself that he had managed to impress me so
much.
“Where is Senegal?” I gazed at the cover.
“In West Africa. Listen to another song, it gets even better.”

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He pressed play again. The music washed over me and carried me back to a place where
nostalgia, familiarity and longing were entwined.

Sharing A Bed - Barcelona

And like this, our journey went by in a flash. We arrived at the bus station and, luckily for me,
Pino had it all worked out. He knew exactly where we were going and how to get there. I was
happy to follow. We finally came to a beautiful cobbled square packed with bars full of people
drinking and eating even though it was eleven o’clock at night. The smells were completely new
to me and they were wonderful. We passed through a huge wooden doorway studded with brass
and entered into an inner courtyard surrounded by doors and windows. Above an open doorway
was a sign, Hotel Magdalene. We went up to the ornate desk and Pino spoke to the lady there.
She gave him a key and pointed to an old fashion lift with its two sets of doors. We were on the
third floor. The room and its bathroom were small and beautiful. The ceilings were high and the
elaborate old iron bed had knobs on the end like the one I had seen in Charlie and the Chocolate
Factory. Outside the window was the busy square with its bars and life. It was so luxurious after
sleeping at the farm for six weeks. The only problem was there was only one bed. Mmm, I
wondered, how is that going to work out? I didn’t have time to dwell on this problem, we were
hungry and desperate to dump our heavy rucksacks. We headed straight back out into the
Barcelona night to fill our bellies with food and beer. We walked the streets gawping at
everything like aliens who had just landed on planet Earth. For the first time in my life, I realised
I was a proper tourist. I felt like an actor in a play that would soon be over.

About three in the morning, drunk on beer and with our bellies full of tapas we returned to our
hotel room, still without having discussed the bed situation. As the lift ascended, for the first
time since we set off on our journey together we were both quiet. The imminent awkwardness of
what would come next weighed heavily on me, perhaps both of us. Despite his great company
and good looks, I didn’t know if I fancied Pino enough to get intimate with him, I suspected that
not being sure probably meant that I didn’t. This was not unusual for me. My experiences of
physical intimacy had been so disastrous that my sexuality had retreated up into my very core, to
a place of safety that even I couldn’t access. I didn’t orgasm, not through sex or masturbation, so
it was hard to understand what all the fuss was about. However, I knew enough to know that if I
slept in a bed with a straight young man there was a good chance he would want to have sex me.

50
So, I climbed into bed with Pino, still wearing my underwear and a t-shirt and waited to see what
would happen.

We lay there awake and in silence. It was a hot night and we tossed and turned for hours without
touching one another. Was he expecting something from me? I kept expecting to feel a hand, a
movement, but there was nothing. We must have both eventually fallen asleep and when we
woke up it was already ten-thirty. I jumped up out of bed and got into the shower. While the
warm water washed over me I explored my feelings about the night before. Was I disappointed
Pino didn’t make a move on me? Was I relieved? If I was honest, I think I liked the idea of him
wanting me, being attracted to me, more than I wanted to go through with potentially
uncomfortable sex. I was relieved that we hadn’t had a bad experience. Nothing drastic would
have changed between us.

Awkward Sex up a Hill

I was reminded of Scott who taught me early on that awkward sex can change things between
people. I had met him the night my mother threw her grand reunion party for my brother and me
– the same party I discovered drumming and smoking joints. Well before the party had got
going, Scott, who knew my Mother dropped by to say hello. He was by far the most exotic man-
boy I had ever met. He had a ginger Mohican, several piercings, tartan trousers with zips and
chains, and a leather jacket with a picture of the Queen’s head with a real nappy-pin through her
nose on the back. I was in a blue and yellow floral dress which made me look more like a
character from a cowboy movie minus the pigtails and face freckles. Nonetheless, he seemed
interested in hanging out with me.

He said he’d like to show me around Hebden Bridge but in reality he was only interested in
showing me one particular part, his bedroom. To get there we had to climb three miles up steep,
near vertical hills so that by the time we arrived at his front door I was red-faced and wheezing
like a life-long cigar-smoking old man. Not really the look I was after. Once in his bedroom, he
put The Clash’s London’s Burning on his record player and left me to recover while he went off
to make me us tea. Not long after he returned with two steaming mugs we were on his bed
kissing. I became aware of him frantically fumbling around with his trousers. Although he had
the coolest trousers I had ever seen they were not suitable for physical intimacy with another

51
person. The chains kept getting caught up on my extremities and the zips scrapped the top layer
of skin off my bare thighs. After some frantic scrabbling around he managed to free his hard
little cock from his complicated punk-trousers only to find a much greater obstacle in the way of
completing his corporeal desires; my dry-as-a-bone vagina. Prod as he might at my vaginal gates
they were not open for business. Eventually he had no choice but to give up. We lay awkwardly
on the bed with nothing to say.

Scott took me back to my mother's place where the party was just getting going. He left early on
and didn’t say good bye. For the next four years, I would bump into Scott the Yorkshire punk
with the ginger Mohican at least twice a week. Our awkward encounter meant he was never able
to look me in the eye again, let alone make a comment on the weather. So, with this in mind, I
got out of the shower, dried myself off, got dressed and returned to the bedroom feeling relieved
nothing had happened between Pino and myself the night before. As I entered the room Pino
stretched and smiled up at me and said brightly,
“Buenos días Victoria.”
“Bonjour Pino. Comment ça va?”

Fried Aliens in Black Sauce

We spent the next week exploring Barcelona’s rich history and culture. It was sensory overload
in every way; the history, the architecture, the food and drink, even the open and closing times of
the shops. I loved how different it was from everything I knew. The more different the better. I
was greedy for new experiences, each one taking me further away from my past. These new life
memories were carving out a new Vicky whose form, physical and phycological, had a different,
more substantial presence in the world. Who I was before was no longer who I was now. And
that had to be a good thing. I felt like I had won a prize every time I saw a new monument, a
piece of architecture, or tried a new dish. I didn’t care if I couldn’t understand the menu, I would
just point to something and wait in anticipation at the next new gastronomic experience. More
often than not it was some kind of fried fish or yellow rice that looked like it had been mixed in
with the leftovers from the night before. It was all amazing and glamorous. That is until a fried
alien turned up on my plate swimming in a pool of black sauce. I looked at Pino and asked if
someone was playing a joke on me. They told me it was squid cooked in its own ink. I had

52
reached the boundaries of my culinary exploration. I tentatively tried it but no, the rubberyness
was too much for my English teenage palette. I gave it to Pino who ate it with enthusiasm.

Carnal Desires in a Sexless Relationship

From Barcelona we travelled to Granada where we stayed a week in a campsite on the outskirts
of the city. Each day we would catch a bus into Granada where wandered the narrow streets in
and around the Alhambra Palace. It was enchanting and I could have stayed there forever. I
learned that those who made that exquisite place came from Africa and another seed of intrigue
about that continent was planted. But, however much I loved my life as a tourist it wasn’t
sustainable. In just two weeks I had spent most of my fruit picking earnings and I needed to think
about what to do next.

Pino and I had fallen into a loving but sexless relationship. We did everything normal couples
did; talk and laugh incessantly, look out for each other; hold hands and cuddle together in bed.
The only thing that was missing was kissing and sex. If I’m honest had Pino made a pass I
probably would have consented but I was not overwhelmed with lust for him. I was quite happy
with the uncomplicated status quo and assumed he was too.

I awoke from an afternoon siesta in the tent to find Pino sat next to me with his head in his
hands. He looked like he was crying.
“Pino, what’s the matter?”
I put my arms around him but he shrugged me off and just kept shaking his head. It was during
intimate times like this I was most frustrated at not being able to communicate freely with him. I
spoke softly, trying all the reassuring French words I knew. After a while he turned to face me.
“Vicky, I can’t do it anymore.”
“Can’t do what?”
“It’s too much for me.” His voice cracked with emotion.
“What? What’s too much? What’s the matter?” I replied in French. My mind was racing. Was it
travelling with me? No, I thought, it can’t be because our time was nearly up. Was it studying
homoeopathy? Going back to Italy?
“I cannot lie next to you anymore Vicky. All I can think about is making love to you and it is
driving me crazy.”

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He put his head back into his hands.
“Wait, what?”
My world pivoted slightly on its axis while I tried to process this.
“What do you mean Pino? What are you saying? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
He spoke into his hands.
“I am a Catholic Vicky. I do not believe in sex before marriage but lying next to you all these
nights is testing me to my limits, I think I am in love with you.”
Even if I could have spoken fluent French I would not have known what to say to this. We sat in
silence for some time. Was Pino really in love with me? I knew he really liked me and maybe he
was just really horny.

I put my hand back on his arm for reassurance. He let it stay there and I felt his body begin to
relax.
“Pino, look we only have a few more days together. Why don’t we try and enjoy them as we
have been doing, as friends…as very, very good friends? Listen, soon you will be back in Italy,
away from me where you will meet a beautiful Catholic Italian girl who you will marry. Then
you can make love to her every day and you will be glad you saved yourself.”
He nodded, his head still in his hands. I continued,
“We care about each other very much but I am not going to marry you. You know that and I
would make a terrible wife.” He began to laugh.
“Maybe you just need to cool off a bit. It’s really hot in here. Take a shower, you’ll feel better.”
What I was thinking was for God’s sake go and have a shower and a good wank, but I kept that
to myself. Pino got up and headed off to the campsite shower block. I lay back down and staring
at the orange right-angles of the tent roof pondered how it was possible, I could spend so much
time with someone and not know they were a devout Catholic who wanted to have sex with me. I
also wondered whether Catholics were allowed to masturbate and hoped, for Pino’s sake, they
were.

Dream Chasing

We had been travelling in Spain for nearly three weeks. Soon I would be on my own again. I was
nowhere near ready to return to England so I had come up with a plan for the next part of my
journey. I decided to travel to the south coast of Spain, to Gibraltar where I might find work.

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Pino, who had now recovered from his outburst, agreed to come with me for his last few days.
We couldn’t afford public transport anymore so we set off hitching down towards the coast.
Maybe it was because I knew Pino was going to leave me soon or maybe it was the gnawing pain
that had accumulated over my right eye – the same one that came like clockwork every month on
the first day of my period – but that day was my turn to throw a wobbly. Within half an hour of
hitching I fell into a mega sulk. Pino kept asking me what was wrong and I honestly couldn’t tell
him because I didn’t know. The car drivers sensed my mood and no one stopped to give us a lift.
After about three hours we were hot, hungry and my migraine was full-blown. I aimed all my
misery at Pino and began shouting at him for bringing us to the wrong place at the wrong time.
He didn’t say anything which made me even angrier. I tried to goad him wanting him to say
something nasty back so I could let loose. Pino just stayed quiet. I let out everything I had and
then stormed off like a petulant child to cry under a tree.

I was embarrassed and I knew I was being unfair but was completely unable to control it. Then
Pino did something that no one had ever done before when I was in that state, he came and put
his arms around me. This made me cry even harder until snot oozed down his back. He didn’t
seem to mind. Eventually the sobs subsided and he got up and took out his sleeping bag from his
rucksack. He laid it down on the earth and motioned for me to lie down . I did as he asked. He
sat next to me stroking my hair until I fell asleep.

When I woke up it was early afternoon. My migraine had gone along with it my foul mood. Pino
was sat close by staring at me. I looked up at him.
“Sorry.”
He shook his head, “It’s okay.”
He began stroking my hair again. Pino’s little white homoeopathic tablets may have done little to
ease my pains but his kindness and patient love proved to be powerful medicine.

Rejuvenated, I was back on form and ready for action. We walked back to the layby where
drivers had spectacularly ignored us earlier on that day. Within minutes a turquoise VW
campervan screeched to a halt a few meters ahead of us, convincing me more than ever that our
moods shape our life opportunities. A strawberry blonde guy in his twenties leaned out the side
entrance and shouted in an London accent.

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“Where you going?”
“Er… Gibraltar.”
“Great! Get in.”

We jumped in and began manoeuvring ourselves and our rucksacks into a suitable place as the
van drove off at speed. When we finally settled down the strawberry blond blue-eyed man-boy
smiled at us both.
“Hi, I’m Adam. That’s Siobhan,” pointing to the voluptuous woman driving. She turned briefly
and had to shout to compete with loud music and wind whistling through all the open windows.
“Hi, darlings!”
She waved a bangled arm at us. Siobhan had long auburn hair that was blown about in the wind.
Her crocheted halter neck bikini top revealed white-pink soft skin and full breasts. She had
enormous green eyes, long black lashes and a green sparkly bindi between her eyebrows.
“Hi,” Pino and I shouted back.
“And that’s Joshua,” he said pointing to the brown-haired man sat next to Siobhan. Joshua turned
his whole body around to face us.
“Where are you guys from?” he said in an expensive accent.
“I’m from England and this is Pino, he’s Italian.”
“Where have you been?”
I began to tell our story. I did all the talking because Pino didn’t speak any English and I realised
this was the first time in months that I’d had a conversation in my own language. This small
group of Oxford students were travelling to south Morocco for the winter. I was in my element
as we laughed and swapped strories.

This was the dream I had been looking for, driving down the motorway with this bunch of young
hippy travellers in a seriously cool looking VW, the sea on our left, the sun shining above and
the sounds of Talking Heads’s, ‘Road to Nowhere’ blaring out of the car stereo. Then Siobhan
turned and shouted back to us, “Let’s go for a swim.”
We turned off the motorway and within five minutes we were splashing in the sea. Someone
went to get some food and beer from a nearby store and we sprawled out on the sand talking and
laughing. I guessed Joshua and Siobhan were a couple as they seemed intermate with each other.
I sat soaking up the moment with the warm sand underneath me and the sky turning orange as

56
the sun began its slow descent. These are my people, I thought looking at my three new friends.
They were from my tribe, not because they were English, but because of their humour, their
ideas and the way they saw the world.

As I sat there in my own thoughts Siobhan, who I already felt I had known forever, came over to
me and put her arms around me, nuzzling her face into my neck, she smelt of sea salt. Her bare,
soft skin, turned pink by the sun, pressed against mine,
“I’ve had an idea,” she said into my ear, “why don’t you come with us to Morocco? I know Pino
has to go home but you don’t. Then you can get a lift with us back to the UK in a couple of
months’ time.”
My heart lurched and I turned to face her, eyes wide with excitement.
“Come with us, you’ll love it and we can do this every day,” She continued.
My mind raced for a moment and then I looked down at the sand in disappointment as reality
broke through the loved-up haze in my head.
“I can’t, I would love to more than anything but I can’t. I don’t have any money left. That’s why
I’m going to Gibraltar to find work.”
“We have money, you don’t need to worry about money, we’ll lend it to you and you can pay us
back when we get back to the UK. Come on it will be amazing.”
I was just beginning to think it was possible when I remembered something much more serious.
“I don’t have a permanent passport. The one I have now is only temporary and you can only
travel outside of Europe with it. “But…”
As I spoke an idea began to form in my mind.
“…I could get a passport in Gibraltar. It may take me a few weeks but in the meantime, I could
work and save up enough money to come and hang out with you. I could meet you down there in
say, a month?”
“That’s it!” Siobhan shouted, “she’s coming!”
Adam and Joshua both raised their beer bottles in the air and cheered. Pino looked up, confused
at the sudden commotion. I went over and sat next to him and excitedly told him my plan. He
didn’t look excited only worried and said in French,
“How will you get there? I can’t come with you, I have to go home.”
“I’ll be fine on my own Pino, don’t worry.”

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“Morocco is dangerous for a woman on her own, I don’t think you should travel there on your
own Vicky, please.”
But I had already made up my mind and rather than spoil this moment I leaned into Pino and
turned to watch the orange turn to purple as the light faded from the sky.
“Time to go,” said Adam standing up and collecting all the beer bottles.
We piled into the van, salty, sandy and dehydrated, and set off for the final leg of our Spanish
journey. Siobhan and her entourage left Pino and me at the UK/Spanish border. We gave each
other meaningful hugs and repeated our vow that we would see each other again in a month.
Siobhan passed me a piece of paper on which she’d written the name of the place they were
staying in Morocco. I tucked it away in a safe place in my bag. We waved at the VW as they
drove off and then turned to face the lump of rock they called Gibraltar.

Chapter IV - England on a Rock

We walked towards the border and joined about a hundred other people queuing up to pass
through immigration. In front of us were two young girls who immediately struck up a
conversation, asking where we were from and why we were visiting Gibraltar. For the second
time that day I told our story to complete strangers, a condensed version of our journey from
France to Spain. Stories, I was finding out, were a valuable commodity, especially among
travellers. Telling a good story opens doors, literally. They may lead to offers of a place to stay, a
plate of food or a free drink. Although for the majority of the time they remain neatly tucked
away, the stories that you choose to share with the world – as opposed to the ones you want to
forget – are always hovering, ready to be re-enacted at a moment’s notice. Like a pebble on the
beach, with each telling they become smoother and more rounded. It felt good to have been
somewhere and done something that people could relate to. To have a story that I could tell that
didn’t involve juvenile delinquency, the care system or dysfunctional parents. This was my new
story–one of a young, worldly, independent traveller. I left out the bits about being lonely,
sexually harassed and becoming a petty criminal.

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In exchange for our stories, the two girls shared theirs. They were called Maria and Sonia, half-
English half-Spanish sisters who had been living and working in Almeria on the southern coast
of Spain. They lived with their Spanish father, from whom they needed to ‘take a ‘break.’ As
they said this they looked at each other in a way that indicated family issues. They had come to
Gibraltar, as they often did, to stay with their English aunt and to get in touch with their British
side. Around me I saw road signs in English, the British uniforms of the police and customs
officers, and heard the familiar twang of English accents around me. It was already too much
Britishness for me. I wasn’t ready to be reminded of home.

Caving in Gibraltar

We were inching slowly towards the immigration desk when Sonia piped up,
“So, where are you staying?”
I looked at Pino.
“Er, we’re not quite sure yet. Pino’s only going to stay for a few more days and I’m here to look
for work. We’ve run out of money so we were just going to, you know… find somewhere to
sleep rough until I get some work.”
The two sisters looked at each other and seemed to come to an unspoken agreement. I was
trying to guess what when Maria said, “We may be able to help you.”
She leaned closer towards us both and said in a whisper, “But you mustn’t tell anyone.”
We shunted forward in the queue an inch, still a long way the immigration desk. Both Maria and
Sonia were very short and I had to bend over them both, rather conspicuously, in order to hear
what Maria had to say.
“We know of a place you can sleep but it is very basic.”
“Really? That’s amazing!” I translated this good news to Pino.
“You mustn’t tell anyone because it’s illegal to stay there and if they find out you’ll probably get
kicked out,” Maria continued seriously.
“Oh, okay. No problem. What kind of place?”
I imagined us breaking into an empty house.
“It’s a cave.” Maria’s eyes lit up with mischievous excitement.
“Wow, a cave?”
I gazed out over at the enormous Rock of Gibraltar and tried to imagine us sleeping inside it
somewhere. I went to explain to Pino the news in my basic French and realised I didn’t know the

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French word for rock. But of course he understood Spanish! I asked the girls if they could
explain what they had just said in Spanish so he could understand. I listened to the unfamiliar
phonetics being passed between the three of them and waited for Pino’s face to react to the news
that we were going to sleep in an illegal cave. Sure enough his eyebrows rose, his eyes grew big
and he repeated back to them a word that sounded quite like 'cave.’ He looked to me as if
checking it was true. I nodded.

For the duration of time it took us to get to the immigration desk the two sisters explained more
about our accommodation arrangements. They had found the cave a few years ago and used it for
private drinking parties away from their aunt. Another look passed between them, a mutual
recognition of the undisclosed activities that had gone on there, not to be revealed. In order to get
to the cave we would have to climb a tree, that was no problem for us, and that there are some
public toilets close by which we could use for washing etc. Nobody must see us entering or
leaving, they told us sternly, and we should be very careful about leaving our stuff inside
unattended as anyone could get in.
“Wow,” I said again stuck on the same superlative, and then, “amazing! Thank you so much.”
“Oh, and one last thing,” Maria said, “it has bats living inside the cave but they’re harmless they
just ignore you.”
I swallowed hard. “Oh, okay.”

We finally passed through immigration and the sisters advised us to buy some candles, matches,
water and food before they took us to the cave on the north part of the peninsular. We climbed a
road that wrapped itself around the Rock. There was a pavement on either side with a steep drop
on our left and view down to the harbour framed by orange street lights. After climbing for about
ten minutes we reached the crest of the hill and just as the road was about to descend Sonia
pointed.
“There it is.”
I followed her finger but it was too dark to make out the entrance to the cave but I could see the
tree behind which it stood. Sonia and Maria began looking around them to check there was no
one around. Pino and I copied, exhilarated by the adventure.

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We came level with the base of the huge tree and Maria said she would go up first and check the
space.
“Give me the candles and matches.” She commanded. Pino rummaged around in the plastic
shopping bag, pulled out the recently purchased items and gave them to her. She tucked them
down her top and I watched her lithely climb the tree and disappear. We continued to look
around us to make sure we were still alone. Five minutes later Maria materialised above us like
an apparition.
“All good,” she said slightly out of breath, “pass me your bags.” She reached her arm down.
One by one we passed her our belongings.
“Okay, now it’s your turn,” she said to me. “Put one leg there,” pointing to a small recess in the
trunk, “and place your next foot on that first branch.”
I did as she asked and with a little guidance I was able to shimmy up the tree. Seconds later I was
at the mouth of the cave. Maria had lit several candles and it looked magical. I had to stoop to
climb into the cave but once inside there was plenty of space and I could easily stand. The
ceiling of the cave was obscured by the darkness. There was enough space for about ten people
inside. I stood staring in absolute wonderment while Maria went back to guide Pino up the tree.
Scattered about were signs of recent inhabitants: the remains of a fire, an empty whiskey bottle,
several beer bottles, a coke can and numerous cigarette butts. Someone had painted ‘fuck
capitalism’ with an anarchy sign on the wall in black paint. Homo sapiens hadn’t evolved much
in the last fifty thousand years.

Pino appeared at the mouth of the cave followed shortly by Sonia. They watched us take in our
new residence. Pino’s face lit up in awe as he looked about.
“My God, it’s incredible!” and in his amazement he began to giggle. It was infectious and the
next thing I knew we were all doubled up with the joyous agony of uncontrollable laughter.
When finally, the hysteria passed Maria pulled four beers out of the shopping bags, opened them
and passed them around. We all clinked bottles and shouted “Salud!” which set us off laughing
again. Pino brought out the bread, cheese and biscuits and we all ate heartily. After arranging to
meet the sisters for lunch the next day at a café in town we said goodbye and thanked them again
for sharing their secret with us and watched as they vanished over the mouth of the cave.

We sat for a while in silence. Then Pino got up and blew out all but one of the candles.

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“We need to save them.” He was right of course, we only had enough money for a couple more
days. Ah Pino, I thought, what will I do without you? The cave floor was smooth enough with a
more or less horizontal plane where we could sleep side by side. We cleared a space of cigarette
ends and dead leaves and lay down our sleeping bags, our feet point towards the mouth of the
cave. Once zipped up I blew out the last candle and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness
but they didn’t, the blackness was absolute. I looked towards the entrance of the cave in hope of
seeing a slither of light to reassure me. All I could make out was one street light off in the
distance, its orange glow appeared to flicker on and off as the leaves of the tree swayed in the
breeze, intermittently obscuring its faint light. It gave little reassurance and I decided I may as
well keep my eyes shut tight as the darkness behind my eyelids was less oppressive than the
actual darkness around me.

A Night with Bats, the Police, an Axe Murderer & My Parents

It had been a very long eventful day but I could tell that, like me, Pino was wide awake. We lay
there adjusting to the new sounds and smells of the cave. Our bodies alert, ready to deal with the
unexpected. In the darkness and quiet I remembered that we were not alone. In the void right
above me there were probably hundreds of bats hanging upside down. Don’t go there Vicky, I
told myself, but it was too late. I began scanning my memory for everything I knew about bats. I
conjured up an image of their squashed, fanged faces. I also remembered that they were expert
flyers, a reassuring thought as maybe they would be less likely to bump into the two squatters
who had taken up residence in their front room as they flew in and out the cave. I could hear
nothing and wondered if they were waiting for us to go to sleep before springing into action. I
imagined them flying inches from our faces. Then I began to wonder about their toilet habits.
This was important because if they did it while hanging upside down there was every chance
Pino and I would wake up in the morning covered in bat shit. I shuddered at the thought and
considered asking Pino what he knew about bats but by now, judging by his deep breathing, he
was fast asleep.

Not me. Although exhausted, my mind was in overdrive. My paranoia now moved from bats to a
variety of unsavoury possibilities. First was being found and arrested by the police for illegally
inhabiting a cave. The next was being attacked by psychopathic axe murderer who wanted to
chop us into little pieces. I was in the process of making counter attack and getaway plans in my

62
head when my rational brain kicked in and told me this was all going too far and to shut the fuck
up. I made a mental note to stop watching horror movies and learn how to meditate. Pino snored
and rolled over. Jealous of his unconscious slumber I opened my eyes to look over at him. I still
couldn’t see anything so I closed them shut again.

Over the last few days we had become distant from each other. A sadness was growing between
us as the weight of Pino’s departure grew ever nearer. Neither of us spoke about it, the mounting
silence between us said more than we could muster with our clumsy French. And I was going to
be on my own again. I had no desire to go home but I thought more and more about my friends
and family and wondered if they missed me. I had been away for four months, a significant
amount of time. I wanted people to know I was on an exciting adventure and, let’s face it, to miss
and worry about me.

I thought about my mother and pictured her walking into our local organic health food shop. Sky,
the middle-aged hippy shop assistant would ask after me – everyone knows everyone in Hebden
Bridge and nobody leaves without being noticed.
“Hey, how’s Vicky doing?” Sky would say, “I heard she’s gone travelling.”
Walking over to the organic pulse section my mother would reply, “Oh, I think she’s fine.”
“Whereabouts is she now, didn’t she go to France to work?” Sky would enquire, silently
wishing it was her who was thousands of miles away.
“Er, I’m not sure,” my mother would say slightly distracted as she tried to decide between
cannellini or pinto beans, “I haven’t heard from her since she left.”
“Oh, aren’t you a bit worried about her? Hasn’t she been gone for a few months?” Sky said now
looking concerned.
Finally making a decision, my mother would pick up the pinto beans, turn towards Sky, smile
and say, “Oh no dear.” She would pause for effect, for here it comes, that fucking annoying all-
encompassing ‘get out of parental obligation free card’ that allows her to indulge in all the joys
of having children without taking any responsibility for them.
“You see, I believe that whatever is meant to be will be. Everything that happens is all for a
reason you know.”

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And there it was. Who could argue with that? I could be rotting down a ditch and still my mother
would think that it had some divine significance. I sighed deeply. I was now past the point of
thinking I had any control over the avalanche of dark thoughts queuing up to keep me from
sleep. Mind you, I’d challenge anyone to illegally spend a night sleeping in a cave full of bats, in
the pitch darkness, and still have sunny thoughts about life.

Thinking about her led me to my dad. I hadn’t thought about him much since I was in the truck
heading towards Dover. That was after all the whole purpose of this journey, to get away from
thinking about them and their fuck-ups. It felt like a lifetime ago that I sent Dad that letter. I re-
read the letter again in my head. I had spent so long on it I could easily recite it from memory.

Dear Dad,
This is a difficult letter for me to write but here it is. It took me seven hours to travel from
Hebden Bridge to Southend last week to see you and you hardly even said hello. If it
hadn’t been for Lynn, I would have left after the first night. She’s made me feel more
welcome in your home than you ever have. It always feels like you are trying to avoid
me. Are you? Why can’t you look me in the eye and talk to me? Do I remind you of
something or someone unpleasant? Are my brother and I a reminder of a mess you didn’t
clear up? Are we getting in the way of your new perfect family? You realise you have
never given us an explanation as to why you fucked up our lives. Don’t you think you
owe us that? Although this makes me sad, I have decided that unless you are prepared to
apologise and explain yourself, I no longer want you in my life.

Your daughter
Vicky

P.S. Sorry to Lynn.

P.S.S. I am going away for a long time.

Four months on in a dark cave in Gibraltar with my hot anger now dissolved the letter seemed
too harsh. I didn’t regret sending it but wondered if it should have been softer. I wondered again

64
what his reaction had been when he read it and whether we would ever speak again. I felt okay
with him not being in my life. It was better that way than all the pretending to be a happy family,
but I was sad about losing Lynn, my step-mum. She had been a better parent than both of my real
parents put together. I became aware of the sound of birds singing and I opened my eyes to find
it was beginning to get light. Comforted by the realisation that I had made it through the night
without a bat shitting on me, being arrested for vagrancy or axed to death, I closed my eyes and
fell into a deep sleep.

Pulling Pints on the Peninsular

I awoke to Pino shaking me gently.

“Come on, it’s nearly eleven. Let’s go and get some food and meet the sisters.”
I groaned as I tried to move, realising that I’d gone to sleep on my arm which was now
completely numb. I spent the next five minutes wriggling around like an oversized caterpillar
trying to get the blood back into it. Pino thought this was hilarious. I didn’t, I was hungry,
needed a pee and was groggy from too much anxiety and too little sleep. We debated for some
time what to do with our rucksacks. Eventually we decided to put all the items we couldn’t
survive without into one rucksack and carry it with us. Everything else, including my bongos,
went in the other one, which was stashed at the back of the cave where it was dark. We peered
out the mouth of the cave and waited until it was clear before scuttling down the tree We
disappeared into the public toilets a few metres away and reappeared washed, changed and ready
to face the day. We set off back into town to meet the sisters and get some food, after which my
plan was to begin asking around for work.

Gibraltar was confusing. On the one hand you had the Britishness with shops like Marks and
Spenser’s and Woolworths and English being spoken everywhere. On the other hand the
architecture and people looked mostly Mediterranean or North African. I struggled to make sense
of the place. Sonia and Maria were already eating when we arrived at the café and they greeted
us like old friends even though we had only met the night before. As Pino had never eaten
English food before I ordered the cheapest and most substantial item on the menu, a fried egg
sandwich. When it came Pino looked horrified. He cautiously lifted the white slice of bread with
his fork. When he saw the oily sunny-side-up egg underneath he looked at me pleadingly. I
passed him the tomato sauce.

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“Put this on it. It will make it taste better.”
The sisters asked us how our night in the cave had gone and whether we would stay there
tonight. I told them we had been fine, deciding not to bring up my nocturnal anxiety attack.
“We’re gonna have to stay there for the next few days,” I said.
At that moment it dawned on me that if I didn’t sort somewhere out soon I would have to stay in
the cave on my own. Pino would be leaving in a few days. Fuck, I thought, I need to get my shit
together fast. I wolfed down my fried egg sandwich, arranged to meet up with the trio later and
left to look for work.

I set off down the street and passed a clothes shop with a rail of clothes outside, with a ‘sale’ sign
above it in large red letters. I stopped dead. There, at the end of the rail, was a beautiful burnt
orange dress with buttons down the front. I knew instantly that I was going to buy this dress,
despite not having enough money to last me until the end of the week. I tried it on and looked at
myself in the mirror. ‘Vicky, you need this dress,’ I said to myself by way of easing my guilt, ‘it
is going to help you get a job.’ I paid for it whilst still wearing it, stuffing my old clothes into a
plastic bag.

My job searching strategy was to start at the end of the pedestrian street and work my way up
asking in one bar or shop at a time. The fourth building I entered was a small pub down a side
alley just of the main drag. Although the pub was closed for business the door was open. I
walked in to find a clean-shaven man in a crisp blue shirt bent over the till.
“Hello,” I said brightly, “I just popped in to ask if you need any bar staff?”
He looked at me and gave me the once over. I stood tall, confident and glowing orange. I was
expecting him to say no but instead, he asked, “Got any experience of working in a bar?” He had
a London accent.
“Er…well… um, not exactly but I’ve worked in a restaurant and I’m really willing to learn. I’d
pick it up really quickly.” Careful Vicky, I thought, don’t sound too desperate now. I smiled and
tried to convey a look of someone who could do anything if they put their mind to it. He stared at
me unsmiling and I knew his mind was making a series of risk calculations. I held my breath.
“When can you start?” I let my breath out.
“Oh my God, whenever you want. I could start today, now if you want?”

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He looked at his watch, “Come back at four. Spencer’s working tonight, he’ll show you the
ropes. You’ll work with him on a trial shift and if we’re happy with you you can start officially
tomorrow. The pay is £3.25 an hour and shifts are generally four until eleven-thirty. My name is
Gareth, I’m the manager, I’ll be in and out. And you are?”
I walked towards him and stuck out my hand.
“My name is Vicky.” He shook my hand firmly.
“Well Vicky, I’ll see you at four then…oh and wear a white shirt and a black skirt.” He went
back to the till.
“Thank you, yes, see you at four then.”
I turned and had to stop myself from skipping out of the pub.

I raced back to the cafe to find the trio still where I had left them.
“I’ve got a trial shift tonight!” I shouted as I approached. I was showered with hugs and
congratulations and Maria gave me a woof-whistle as she took in my new outfit. I sat down
breathlessly. Once I’d confessed that I had never worked in a bar before and the only drink I
knew the name of was Heineken beer, they set about educating me. They made me memorise
names, colours, likely mixers, how to pour, mix and measure. I couldn’t believe there was so
much to it and started to become quite nervous. My next task was to visit Marks & Spencer to
find a white shirt and black skirt. Looking through rails at the price tags I realised if I didn’t get
this job I was truly fucked. I decided that not getting it was simply not an option. I brought the
cheapest white shirt and a stretchy black tube skirt. I was now completely penniless.

Pino and I returned to the cave to check on our gear and by the time I had visited the public
toilets to change into my work clothes it was time to start my trial shift. I arrived early and the
door was locked. The Anchor Inn was sandwiched between a row of tall, ice-cream-coloured
continental buildings, all arches and shutters on a narrow alleyway a few meters from the main
high-street. I waited on the corner for someone to open up feeling self-conscious in my crisp
white shirt and smart black skirt. I felt like a fraud who was disguised as a normal, well-adjusted
working person rather than a penniless, cave-dwelling vagrant.

A small serious looking man with short brown hair and ferrety features rushed towards the door
rummaging in his pockets. He pulled out a key ring packed with an assortment of keys. I

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watched and waited for the right moment. He searched systematically through the bunch of keys
for the one he wanted. Just as he looked up to put the key in the door I went up to him.
“Hello, are you Spencer?”
He gave a jump and looked alarmed clearly not having heard me approach. I intuitively stepped
back to give him a bit more personal space and blurted out, “Gareth has put me on a trial shift
with you this evening. My name is Vicky.” I smiled. It worked, his face relaxed and he looked a
little embarrassed as he rubbed his nose under his metal rimmed circular glasses.
“Hi,” he had a soft voice. “Come in.”

We stepped across the threshold into the dark room and it hit me, a wall of thick damp pungent
air formed by a lack of daylight, years of alcohol spillages, stale cigarette smoke, Mediterranean
heat and the remnants of male body odour. It was like walking into black treacle. Spencer turned
the lights on. It made little difference. I waited for my eyes to adjust. The pub consisted of a long
bar area, five tables with stools and a padded seating area built along the wall. There was nothing
interesting about this pub, it was like hundreds I had seen before.

Spencer went straight to work inducting me. He showed me how to use the till and the system for
the spirits at the back of the bar, starting with rums on the front row followed by vodkas,
whiskeys, brandies and at the back, the expensive speciality brands. He made little eye contact
but his soft well-spoken voice gave him a natural, slightly intimidating air of authority.
“You do know how to pull a pint don’t you?”
“Er, no.”
He looked exasperated.
“I’m sure I’ll manage it,” I said confidently. “It can’t be that hard right?” I smiled
enthusiastically. This evening had to go well. He took a deep breath and reached for a pint glass.
I began to notice a hint of irritation in his voice as he talked me through the art of pouring beer
into a glass.

Finally he showed me the storeroom and cellar and explained that my role was to shadow him
and watch what he did. I wouldn’t be serving customers unless it was really busy. No sooner had
he finished his sentence than a huge group of rowdy British tourists walked in who all wanted

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serving. It was pandemonium. I felt the panic start to rise as people started asking for drinks that
I had never heard off. Spencer shouted orders at me.
“Get me two shots of Pusser’s rum.”
I turned towards the rows of assorted bottles with different coloured liquids, and instantly forgot
where everything was supposed to be.
“Pusser’s rum, Pusser’s rum,” I said over and over, my eyes scanning the bottles. I was still
staring, motionless like a rabbit-in-headlights, when Spencer shouted, “That bottle there!”
I sprung back to life and reached for the bottle right in front of me and began pouring the shots
into what I hoped was the right glass.

It was a busy shift and the pressure had exposed my gross lack of experience. It must have been
clear that I did not work well under pressure. Working with Spencer hadn’t helped. He was
studious, hard working and efficient but he had little patience and absolutely no sense of humour.
By the time Gareth walked in at 10 o’clock I had served at least half a dozen wrong drinks and
smashed three glasses. Most of the customers had left and I busied myself collecting glasses and
cleaning tables. I could see Gareth and Spencer huddled together deep in conversation at the bar.
I knew they were discussing my future and it hung in the balance. I didn’t have a plan B and the
thought of not getting the job made me feel sick in my stomach. I didn’t want to face them so I
lingered in the side room cleaning each table meticulously. Gareth walked over and sat on the
padded bench behind one of the tables I had just cleaned.
“Vicky, can I have a word? Pull up a stool.”
He had a large brandy in one hand and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. I put the dirty dish-
cloth to one side and took a deep breath, my heart thudded in my chest. It felt like visiting the
headmaster for punishment. I sat on the little stool opposite him.

He leaned forward and pushed something across the damp table towards me. His hand lingered
for a moment. It lifted and revealed the queens face imbedded in a ten-pound note. I looked at it
not quite sure.
“Take it. You worked hard.”
I looked up at him to check it wasn’t a cruel joke. Gareth took a swig of his brandy. Perhaps
Spencer hadn’t told him about all my fuck-ups.
“Does that mean I have a job?” I still did not pick up the tenner.

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“You can start properly tomorrow, same time. You’ll be on about five shifts a week and you get
paid on Fridays. You still have a lot to learn but you should pick it up soon enough. Go on take
it, before I change my mind.”
I picked up the note and held it to my chest.
“You have no idea what this means to me, thank you so much.” I wanted to kiss him.
Gareth looked pleased with himself. He relaxed back in his seat and took a long hard pull on his
cigarette. It was my cue to leave.
“See you tomorrow,” I said and bounced off to get my bag.
Spencer was in the stock room. I stuck my head around the door, making him jump again.
“Only me. Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for all your help and I promise I won’t be such a
disaster tomorrow. See ya.”
Without waiting for a response I grabbed my bag and was out the door.

I was so exhilarated I had to run to burn off the excess energy coursing through my body. I had
springs in my feet and bounced to the bar where I had arranged to meet Pino. He was sat waiting
for me on his own. Breathless, I threw myself into his lap. The chair nearly toppled over as we
clung to each laughing.
“What happened? Tell me.”
I arranged myself into a comfortable position, rummaged around in my breast pocket and pulled
out my prize. His eyes widened.
“They gave you that?”
“Yup,” I grinned from ear to ear. “I am now a working woman.”
He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly.
“You did it! You’re amazing.”
My face was nuzzled into his neck, his curly hair tickling my face. I breathed in his essence
mixed with coffee and sea air. I lifted my head and our faces were close as we held each other’s
gaze.

I climbed off him and pulled up a chair. I ordered a beer and took one of his hands in mine. I
stared up at him.
“When are you leaving?” He looked down at our hands,
“Tomorrow at five.”

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“Tomorrow! I thought you were going to be around for a few more days?”
He apologised but he had no money left and needed to get home. We both looked at the floor. I
could have been fluent in French or Italian and I still would not have known how to express
myself. It was a rush of conflicted emotions. I had grown to love this kind man and knew I
would miss him and the safety his presence offered me. But it was time and I was also ready to
be on my own again.
“Thanks Pino, for being my friend. I really don’t know what I’m going to do without you.” He
looked back at me earnestly with those huge brown eyes.
“You will not even notice I am gone, you will be having so many amazing adventures.” He was
smiling but looked so incredibly sad at the same time.
“Perhaps, but you know it won’t be the same without you. For a start, I’ll just get lost all the
time. Who’s going to do the map reading when you’re gone?” I said hoping to make him laugh. I
wanted to get away from the heaviness of this conversation that I had started. He looked down at
our entwined hands again. The adrenalin had drained from my body and I felt tiredness take
hold. I let go of his hand and drank my beer.
“I will write to you in England. Give me your address.”
He passed me a pen from his pocket and grabbed the napkin from the table. I stared at the tiny,
red cafe logo on the napkin as I tried to remember where I lived. I looked up.
“I don’t have an address. When I left England I left the house I was renting.”
“What about your Mother’s address?” Seeing my puzzled face, he said incredulously, “Don’t
you know that?”

Immediately after meeting my birth-mother and half-brother, I decided I wanted to leave behind
everything and everyone I knew and move to live in Hebden Bridge. It meant leaving my foster
parents, siblings, dog, school, best-friend and all my wordily possessions save from one small
suitcase of clothes. Years of abuse and toxic family relationships had taken their toll. I had been
expelled from school for selling my foster mother’s pornography magazines to Year 8 boys and
was in a fight almost every other day. Ugly dramas exploded around me like fireworks and I was
being pulled into a dark ugly world I did not belong to. Meeting my mother and finding a
community of outcasts and straight-up weirdos felt like coming home for the first time.

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My mother was initially enthusiastic when I said I wanted to move to the area and made a lot of
noise about how happy she was to have us back in her life. However, despite the fact that she had
a regular job for the first time in her life, working as a drug counsellor, and had recently moved
to a nice terrace house with a working toilet, she did not at any point suggest I should live with
her in her house. I had to wait a year while social services found a foster family willing to take
on a fourteen-year-old delinquent. All in all, I had only known my mother for a few years and
had never lived with her, which was why I was still staring at a napkin racking my brains trying
to remember her address. In the end, I remembered the road and just made a guess at the house
number. I hoped that if it went to the wrong address a neighbour might recognise the name and
post it to through the right door. I scribbled on the napkin; 9 Rock Terrace, Todmorden, West
Yorkshire, England and added a smiley sunshine in the corner. Pino came from a nice Italian
family and I couldn’t even begin to tell him about my fuck-up family. I folded the flimsy paper
and passed it to him. He tucked it into his pocket and we got up to leave. I never thought to ask
him for his address.

On the walk back, I asked Pino what he was most looking forward to when he got home.
“A decent plate of food,” he replied enthusiastically. The moon revealed itself from behind a
cloud as we climbed the tree to get into our cave. I lit the candle we had left by the entrance and
saw everything still in its place. The cave had begun to feel safe and familiar. As we settled into
our sleeping bags Pino cuddled up to me and asked into my back “Where are you going to sleep
tomorrow night?”
“Here,” I said confidently, making a decision on the spot. I hadn’t known until then. “I will sleep
here. I might look for something that I could use to hit someone over the head with in case…you
know… I get an unexpected visitor. But I’ll be okay here. At least until I’m earning enough
money to rent a room somewhere. It’s pretty safe, right?”
His arms tightened around me.
“I guess so,” he sounded unsure. “Please Vicky, promise me you will sleep somewhere with a
door that locks as soon as you can?”
“I promise you Pino. Hopefully, it will also have a bathroom and a toilet too.”
“Don’t get too carried away,” he said adding, “Vicky, I will never forget our time together, even
if we never see each other again.”

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He held me tighter still. I sighed deeply and we fell into silence and our own thoughts and
eventually fell asleep.

We met up with the sisters the next day at the same cafe. Pino carried his rucksack with him
packed with all his stuff. I had left mine at the cave. The sisters looked worried when they learnt
I was going to be sleeping in the cave on my own, I explained that I’d be fine, it wasn’t that
different from sleeping in a tent. The cave was probably safer. It was a strange day. I wanted
Pino to just go so we could get the goodbyes over with and I could get on with my new life. But
the day dragged on and a heaviness hung over all four of us. Finally three-thirty came and it was
time for me to leave for the bar. I went into the cafe toilet to change into my white shirt and
black skirt and came out to say my last farewell to Pino. The sisters were staying for three more
days and promised Pino they would keep an eye on me. We embraced and he said,
“Oh, I wanted you to have this…” he pulled something out of his back pocket. I looked down at
what was in his hands. It was his cassette tape of Toure Kunda. I took it and hugged him again.
“Thank you,” I said laughing, “I think this music is going to change my life.”
“Well, promise you will let me know.”
“I will,” I reassured him and tucked it away in my handbag knowing that I would not be able to
listen to it again for a long time unless I met someone else with their own personal stereo system.
I stood and we stared at each other one last time, “Good bye Pino,” I said before turning and
walking off to work.

Moving House

It was harder without Pino than I had anticipated. I realised the sense of freedom I had felt since
we met was not a new-found confidence and independence on my part, it was a male-dependent
sense of safety. I had forgotten how vulnerable and alone I could feel. I became gloomy and
withdrew. Even the sisters didn’t seem as much fun without Pino around. Once they left I settled
into a routine which involved stashing my rucksack each day at the back of the cave, visiting the
public toilets where I would wedge the entrance door closed with a wooden block I had nicked
from the pub, wash all my necessaries with a flannel, brush my teeth and change my clothes. I
would hide the wet flannel, toothbrush and door wedge in a nook in a tree on my way back up
the hill so I could repeat the same thing when I got back late at night. I always made sure there
was no one about when I went into the toilet, climbed or descended the tree or hid my wash

73
things. If a car or a person appeared, I would keep walking until they were out of sight before
turning back.

But at least I had a job. Now I needed a permanent (rather than a temporary) passport so that I
could travel to see my friends on the continent of Africa. I went to the Post Office, picked up a
form and read through the list of things I would need to do to gain this little book of freedom. I
was immediately disheartened. Not only would I need to pay a lot of money I also needed ‘a
person of stature’ to sign the form saying they had known me for at least five years. Fuck, I
thought. For a start, I didn’t know anyone of stature here or even in England, let alone for five
years. I shoved the form in my bag and headed to work.

I was still making mistakes at work but they were less frequent. Spencer and Gareth seemed to
trust me and they left me alone to work the bar more and more while they looked busy in the
backroom. Usually Gareth was still in the pub when I left but today he said he was done for the
night and going home early. As we closed up and he was shutting the large oak doors it started to
rain. I realised that I hadn’t seen rain in months.
“Where do you live?” he said unexpectedly. He had his back to me while he searched through a
large bunch off keys. I felt my face flush red and began coughing to stall for time, to think. Shit,
I thought, what do I tell him. I hadn’t worked out a fake address.
“Er, oh I live just on the north side near Cliff Road.” I said, hoping that would be enough.
“Anyway, I’d best be off. See ya tomorrow.” I turned to go.
“Wait, it can’t be far I’ll give you a lift. It’s raining, it’s been a busy shift and you must be dead
on your feet.”
“Oh no, I’m fine really. Thank you. I like walking.”
“I don’t believe you for a minute,” he said in a friendly tone, “who likes walking in the rain?
You haven’t even got a coat. Come on. The car’s just around the corner.”
I was trapped. I was about to be caught out telling a massive lie and my whole life would come
to an end. I followed him to his car.
“Cliff Road you said?”
He turned the key in the ignition and the car came to life. “I’m not sure I know it, you’ll have to
lead the way.”

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My brain was racing as I guided him through the narrow streets towards the cave. I tried to
remember if there were any houses nearby but I couldn’t think of any. I hadn’t paid any notice. I
hadn’t planned for this and now I was going to pay the price. When he found out his employee
was living illegally in a cave he would be left with no alternative but to sack me.

We reached the brow of the hill, just meters away from the cave. Almost pleading, I said, “Here
is good. Thank you.”
“Here?” he said looking around him, “there are no houses here.”
He continued driving, passing my cave and the public toilet on the right. I felt like I was going to
have a panic attack. The road stretched on and still there were no houses I could claim to be
mine. I couldn’t take it any longer.
“We just passed it,” I said stony-faced as I resigned myself to my fate. He looked at me as if I
was mad.
“What? Back there? Are you feeling alright? There’s nothing here apart from the loos and…”
“And a cave,” I interrupted. “There’s a cave behind the tree we just passed. I’ve been living
there.”
He stopped the car and stared ahead.
“Wait, you’re telling me you live in a cave?”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“Jesus Christ. You do know that’s illegal? Not to mention bloody dangerous. You’re not there on
your own are you?”
“I am now. I wasn’t for the first three days but my friend had to go back to Italy so I’m on my
own while I save enough money to pay for rent.”
“Bloody hell Vicky.”
We sat in silence. A lump formed in my throat I quietly asked, “Are you going to sack me now?”
“Sack you? No, I’m not going to bloody sack you. What kind of man do you think I am? Just…
just give me a minute to think.”
I swallowed hard to stop the sob in my throat from escaping but tears of relief had already begun
streaming down my face.

“Right, go and get your stuff. You’re coming with me. I’ve got a sofa. You can stay there until
you get sorted.”

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He began turning the car around. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have time to think. The next
thing I knew we had pulled up alongside the tree. I jumped out of the car and felt exposed
climbing the tree a blaze with light from the car’s headlights. I could feel Gareth’s eyes on me. I
disappeared into the blackness and reappeared a couple of minutes later with my rucksack, threw
it on the back seat and got back into the passenger seat. I managed to get a out a mumbled,
“thank you,” as we drove off towards his apartment.

My new accommodation was in a nondescript flat, in a nondescript block, in a non-descript area

on the outskirts of the town. Of the four identical-looking condominiums all set within neatly
laid out landscape Gareth’s was the second. I followed him inside. It smelled of paint and plastic.
It had grey walls and a deep red carpet. We walked up three flights of stairs and along a corridor
punctuated with evenly spaced doors. A window at the end of the corridor looked out onto the
exact same building opposite with the exact same corridor window. I could even see the red
carpet and grey walls were the same. Gareth stopped and pulled out his key.
“Here we are.”
He opened the door to number thirty-seven. Even the door number was non-descript.

The small apartment smelled of fags and booze, like the pub. The front door opened straight into
the living room. It had one armchair, a sofa and a small coffee table strewn with unwashed
glasses, a half a bottle of brandy and scattered change. There was a small unit in the corner with
a TV on it. All the furniture looked like it had come from MFI. It was basic and functional,
completely void of any character. I looked around and saw a small bedroom and a kitchen that
was only big enough for one person. There was little indication that Gareth was living in the
apartment, no homely touches. It was more like he was on holiday. There were no pictures,
books, plants, photos or ornaments. Nothing that would give a sense of who he was. In the
bedroom I noticed an open suitcase, clothes spilling out all over the floor.

“Excuse the mess,” said Gareth.

He began picking up the glasses and brandy bottles and took them into the kitchen.
“Oh, trust me, I don’t mind the mess. You should see me my room.”
I suddenly worried if I had said the right thing and added, “It’s a great apartment. How long have
you lived here?”

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“Er, about a year and a half.”
“Wow.” And you're still living out of a suitcase, I thought.
“Sorry, I don’t have any spare bedding. I don’t really have guests you see. I’m normally too
busy. I’ve got a spare towel though.”
I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. What was his life like living here on his own going to
the pub every day.
“Oh, don’t worry, I have everything I need here,” I patted my rucksack.
He looked down and spotted the bongos. He frown in a way that reminded me of Madame and
Monsieur Fournier when they first spotted my drums.
“You can’t play those in here. The walls are really thin you know.”
“I promise, I won’t,” I said reassuringly.
“That’s your bed,” he pointed at the sofa. “Make yourself at home. Want a brandy?” he walked
into the kitchen.
“No thanks.” I pulled my sleeping bag out. “Would you mind if I had a shower?”
“No, of course not, go ahead. It’s in there.”
I grabbed my pyjamas and wash bag. The bathroom was the size of a small cupboard but it had a
door that locked, and a hot shower. I was in paradise. I came out half an hour later and Gareth
was watching TV.
“Any water left?” he said jokingly.
“Sorry, it’s been a while. I’ve been washing in the public toilets for over a week and well it’s just
not the same.”
“Look, I’ll let you get to bed,” he said turning off the TV.
“Oh, I’m fine” I climbed into my sleeping bag, “I can sleep through anything.”
He looked relieved.
“So, what’s your plan then? Do you want to settle on the Rock?”
“Oh no,” I said horrified by the idea. “No, I ‘m just here to save enough money to get to
Morocco and meet my friends.”
I told him my plans and how I needed to find a high-standing person in the community to say
they had known me for five years.
“Try the Father Williams,” he said, the local priest whose church was near the pub. Gareth didn’t
know him personally, “but I hear he’s a nice guy.”
“Ok, thanks, I will.”

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Then I asked Gareth how he came to live in Gibraltar and he launched into a two-hour story
about how his wife had run off with another man a year and a half ago taking their only son with
her. He had come to Gibraltar to try and move on, to start a new life. And he was still finding it
difficult. Encouraged by several brandies I had watched him drink since arriving at the house and
a sympathetic ear willing to listen, I sensed the outpouring of his story was probably the first
time he’d told it in a while. I worried that in the cold, sober light of day he might regret telling
me all his personal stuff. After all, he was my boss. I was tired and I tried hard to stop myself
yawning. It was four in the morning when he finally declared he was going to bed.

I was never comfortable in Gareth’s apartment. I had felt much more at home in the cave.
Whenever I entered the building I felt gloomy and trapped and as soon as I left I felt better. I was
grateful to have somewhere safe with a toilet and a door that locked but it didn’t feel good in his
place. It was awkward negotiating our new boss – employee relationship with such familiarity
between us. It was like we were having an affair that we needed to keep secret. Often I wouldn’t
see Gareth outside of work. He slept until late and I tried to leave the apartment before he got up.
He often stayed at the pub after my shift finished so by the time he got home I would be asleep
(or pretending to be asleep). He would sit drinking and smoking and watching TV with the
volume turn right down for an hour or so before going to bed.

Lying to the Lying Priest

I tried to visit Father Williams three times before I found him in. He finally opened the door and
I asked if I could speak with him. He led me down a polished oak-walled corridor into a polished
oak-walled office. Everything gleamed, the wood, the brass and Father Williams bright, friendly,
shiny face. He was a portly man with a roll of fat that bulged over his white collar.
“Do have a seat.” His voice was high and wispy.
He sat behind a large oak desk and, placing his clasped hands in front of him said smilingly,
“Now, how can I help you?”

I had prepared my story carefully beforehand. To get a priest to lie for me it was going to have to
be something quite special. I explained that I had come from a broken family and that I had run
away. But I regretted it and was really homesick and wanted to go home to see my mother but
because she is poor she couldn’t afford to pay for my airfare (At least a few truths mixed in with

78
the lies). And now the only way I could get home was to meet with some close friends who were
driving back to the UK from Casablanca in three weeks. Finally getting to the crux of the story, I
explained that to get the lift home, I needed a ten-year passport that would allow me to travel to
Morocco to meet them. But to get a ten-year passport I needed a signature from an upstanding
citizen who had known me for five years or longer. I looked at him imploringly, “As I have only
been in Gibraltar for three weeks, it’s going to be impossible for me to find someone, which puts
me in a very difficult predicament. And so,” I said clearing my throat for the closing statement,
“I wondered Father Williams, if you could see it in your heart to help me?”
He looked a bit flustered.
“I see,” he said, taking a pause. “But look, why can’t your friend just meet you here? That way
you wouldn’t have to travel all that way just to turn back again. Surely that is a much more
sensible plan?”
This I had prepared for and had an answer ready.
“Father Williams, I completely agree. That would by far be the very best plan. The problem is, I
have no way of contacting them. I received a letter from my mother two weeks ago begging me
to come home and telling me that my friends would drive me. She told me where and when to
meet them but there was no phone number. If I was to write to the address asking them to meet
me here by the time they received my letter it would be too late. They would already have left.”
Father Williams squirmed in his seat and I knew he was considering it.
“This a very difficult thing you are asking me to do. Do you understand?”
He didn’t say the word ‘lie’ but it hung there heavily in the room.
“I know Father. I am really sorry to ask this of you. It’s just I don’t know who else to turn to.”
I looked down into my lap.
“I think the best thing is if you come back tomorrow at eleven. By that time, I will have had time
to think about your request and I trust God will guide me to giving you the right response.” He
got up to leave and I followed him to the front door.
“Thank you Father, for taking the time to listen to me. I will see you tomorrow at eleven.” I
hoped God was in a good mood.

I was not a religious person and I hated going to church. We, my real brother, three foster
brothers and sisters and I, were packed off to church and Sunday School every week and I had
dreaded going. It was always freezing, even in the summer, the services mind-numbingly boring

79
and the weird churchy smells made my chest tickle. The only silver lining was when we got
invited the vicarage after the service. There would always be a big pile of biscuits and tea which
we would devour in seconds. I think the vicar felt sorry for us turning up every Sunday without
anyone at our side. So, despite knowing all the stories about Christ and hell, I knew early on the
church was not the place for me. Nonetheless, if God did exist and had some influence over
Father Williams, I hoped he wouldn’t hold my non-religiosity and lying to a priest against me on
this occasion.

I was working with Spencer that evening and for the first time he seemed relaxed. He was
friendly and talkative. I learned that he came from Cambridge and now lived on a little boat in
the harbour. Wanting to match his friendliness, I confessed to him about living in the cave,
Gareth finding out, moving in with him and trying to get a priest to lie so I could go to Morocco.
He thought it was all quite funny. Then he said, “Let me know if you get your passport. I might
have some work for you and you could earn some easy money for your trip.”
And at this he turned and walked away.
“Okay, I will,” I shouted after him.

The next day at eleven on the dot I knocked on Father Williams’ door. I watched a black and
white shape fill the mottled glass before the door opened.
“Ah, young Vicky. Do come in.”
I followed him again down the now-familiar oak-panelled corridor. As soon as we entered the
room, even before I had time to sit down, he began, “You’ll be glad to know that after a talk with
God I have agreed to sign your paper so you can go home to your mother.”
“Oh, Father Williams, really? I don’t know how to thank you!”
“Don’t thank me,” he spoke with an air of authority, “thank God. Now, where is the form? Did
you bring it?”
I pulled the neatly folded form and two passport photos out of my bag and lay them on the desk
for him to sign. Sitting behind the desk he pulled out a glasses case and a pen from the drawer.
He put on his half-moon spectacles and took a few minutes to read through the document.
Finally, he picked up his pen and signed them all. I let out my breath.
“There,” he said without a hint of guilt, “all done. Now, is that all?”

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He had already got up and was walking back towards the front door. I grabbed the form and the
photos, careful not to let the ink smudge and followed him out.
“I want you to promise me you’ll be very careful in Morocco it’s a dangerous place for a young
lady.” The front door was open and he was ushering me outside. “So, I wish you all the best and
a very safe journey.”
“I will. Thank you, Father Williams.”
I watched as he closed the door and the black and white shape disappeared
“Yes!” Clutching my paper and photos I made a beeline for the post office.

An Unexpected Job Offer

The spidery, slanting black intertwined lines that was Father Williams’s signature were the
magic key that could open doors to the rest of the world. Things, I decided, were going my way.
I was on roll. Even the lady behind the post office counter did not throw any obstacles in my way
and gladly accepted my passport photos, form and hard-earned cash. She told me I would receive
my passport in ten days. A sign that I was on the right path, I thought and then immediately got
angry with myself for sounding too much like my fatalistic mother. I tried to visualise Siobhan,
Joshua and Adam in their campervan but I couldn’t quite remember their faces. It seemed like a
long time ago we had spent the day together. Had I really only known them for a day? Knowing
my passport was coming I knew there was a real possibility I could make it to Morocco. But
would they remember me? What if they moved from the meeting place? I put my anxious
thoughts to one side and decided to concentrate on the positive.

That evening I told Spencer that I had sorted a ten-year passport and unusually for him he
seemed interested, asking me a load of questions. How long would it take to arrive? How long
did I plan to hang around once I had it? Had I ever been outside Europe? And, strangely, was I a
dope smoker? I said that I used to smoke dope back in Hebden Bridge. Everyone smoked dope in
Hebden Bridge I told him. But I hadn’t had any since I left England. To be honest I didn’t miss it
but I didn’t tell him because he seemed to think that dope was cool. Then he asked me if I would
like to see his boat sometime. If I hadn’t known I wasn’t his type I would have thought he was
trying to chat me up. Instead, I read his friendliness and interest in me as an emerging friendship
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after spending so much time together. I said I’d love to see his boat. He wrote down his address
and mooring number on a piece of paper and told me to meet him tomorrow at eleven.

Spencer’s boat was called Sundown and was dwarfed by all the large yachts surrounding it. It
had a wooden deck with tiny circular windows that were so small you couldn’t see inside. Each
window was framed in brass and they shone brightly in the morning sunshine. I got a flash of all
the Saturday mornings my eleven-old-year self had spent begrudgingly polishing the useless,
ugly array of brass ornaments that lived with us in our three bedroom council house. I could still
conjure the smell of Brasso and feel the resentment at having to make these pathetic objects
shiny when I could have been at netball practice. It was good to be eighteen and free.
“Hello, Spencer?” I called from the wooden boardwalk that ran alongside the boat.
“Come in and mind your head,” he shouted up from inside the boat.

I climbed awkwardly, down in to the boat. There was a little seating area and a small galley
kitchen that made Gareth’s kitchen look enormous.
“Wow.” I looked around in amazement. Everything was so small, so neat and perfect.
“How long have you lived here?” It was the question you asked everyone in Gibraltar. Everyone
had come from somewhere, hardly anyone said oh, I was born here. Everyone had a story of how
and when they came to be live on this lump of rock so close to Africa.
“I bought Sundown a year ago,” he replied whilst filling a little kettle by pumping at a little
button on the floor with his foot. Each time he pressed it a small spurt of water came out of the
tap. I was fascinated.
“Do you sail?” I asked still looking around me.
“No, I don’t sail. I don’t really like the water. I just figured living here would be cheaper than
renting an apartment.”
He put the kettle on the little stove and pulled a little board out from a cupboard. On it was
several items that I recognised; Rizla papers, a pack of tobacco and a box of matches, along with
a beautiful little box made of a mosaic of mirrors. I watched him perform the ritual I had
witnessed many times before. It involved artfully licking and pasting together several very thin
gummed papers into a long ‘L’ shape, sprinkling a layer of dark tobacco followed by a layer of
dark oily hash and then dexterously pinching and rolling the three ingredients together and voila!
A beautifully formed joint. Watching my mother and her friends, I often use to think that you

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could tell a lot about people by the type of joints they roll. Spencer’s was small, thin and tidy. I
watched as he burnt away the superfluous paper from the end of the joint. When this was done he
lit another match and, with several puffs, lit the joint. The end of the joint glowed red and
orange. He drew deeply and held it in his lungs for a couple of seconds before letting out a long
steady stream of smoke that seemed to go on forever. He passed me the joint and got up to finish
making the tea.

I didn’t really feel like getting stoned with a person I hardly knew at eleven in the morning but I
thought it would be rude to refuse. I mimicked Spencer and drew hard on the joint. The tobacco
caught in my throat and immediately sent me into a coughing fit. Spencer passed me a glass of
water and took the joint off me.
“It’s been a while,” I said in between coughs. I gulped down the water and was glad he had his
back to me. I could feel my face was red and tears were streaming down my face. I really wanted
to blow my nose but there was nothing around I could use so I just kept sniffing deeply. He
placed two cups of steaming tea on the table and sat down opposite and looked at me intently.
“I’ve got a job you might be interested in,” he said in a calm monotone.

The mucus and marijuana had made my head so foggy that I couldn’t quite take in what he was
saying so I just smiled and took a sip of tea, fighting back the urge to cough. The tea was sweet
and comforting.
“Before I explain what it is you have to promise me that you won’t talk to anyone about it
whether you decide to do it or not. You could say it is a somewhat unusual job.” He took another
long pull on the joint.
“Oh, wow, that’s intriguing,” pulling myself together, “Sure, I’m good at keeping things to
myself and anyway I hardly know anyone here to talk to.”
He shifted in his seat and leaned forward towards me. I instinctively moved back a little,
uncomfortable by the closeness. In a low voice, he said, “Part of the way I survive here is by
smuggling bit of hash and selling it.”
He looked at me waiting for my reaction.
“Okay,” I said, waiting for him to get to the interesting bit, everyone dealt a little hash in
Hebden Bridge. He continued, “I travel to Morocco twice a month to get stock and on my next
trip I would like you to accompany me.”

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He must have seen my eyebrows shoot up because he added quickly, “Don’t worry, you won’t be
doing any smuggling. I do this trip so often I have to go in disguise and having a young
travelling companion is one way of doing it. All you have to do is accompany me. I want us to
look like two travellers coming back from holiday. The rest I will take care of. I’ll pay you a
hundred quid.”
He sat back and watched me while I thought about what he had proposed.
“How long would we need to go for?”
“Just twenty-four hours. I’ll cover all the transport costs and food for the trip.”

A hundred pounds was almost a week’s wages and he was offering me the chance to make it in
twenty-four hours. He wasn’t asking me to do anything dangerous and I needed all the cash I
could get for the next part of my trip. I made the decision there and then.
“I’ll do it,” I said decisively.
“Great. Your passport should arrive in between ten and twelve days so we will go around the 7th
and 10th of November. It has to be on your day off. I’ll choose the date to work out with your
days off. You’ll have to make sure that you are out of the Gareth’s way so by the time I ring him
to tell him I’m sick and can’t work, he won’t be able to get hold of you, to ask you to cover for
me.”
I listened to him and marvelled at how he had already thought the whole plan through.
“What will I say to Gareth when I get back and have been missing for two days. He might really
worry about me.” I said already feeling guilty.
“You’ll have to tell him some story about getting laid or something. It’s only one night.”
True I thought. Spencer got up to clear away the cups and I took this as my cue to leave. “Right,”
I said like a normal person and not someone who had just been discussing drug smuggling, “I’ll
see you at work later. Thanks for the tea and er…well, the job offer.”
“Yeah, no problem. Mind your head on the way out.”
I squeezed past him in the tiny space and climbed the three steps to the top deck. I was pleased to
be out of the intense, smoke-filled cabin and breath fresh air again. The illegality of the job did
not bother me as much as lying to Gareth and leaving him short-staffed when he had been so
generous to me. I felt a sense of loyalty. I decided a way to offset the betrayal would be to go out
of my way to be helpful and nice to him.

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Over the next few days, I made an effort to stay up and talk to Gareth when he got home from
work. I asked him questions and listened to him patiently as he talked about his past life and
future dreams, which mainly involved seeing his son and owning his own pub. I cleaned the flat
and even made some food one evening. Eleven days later my passport was delivered to the pub. I
examined it closely marvelling at the watermarks and its solidity. Spencer was there when I
received it and he said conspiratorially over my shoulder, “Right, when are your next two days
off?”
“Er, next Tuesday,”
We would leave in five days time.

A Smuggler’s Companion

On the day of the trip, I got up early. Spencer had told me to dress casually and to make sure I
had a second set of clothes for the return trip so the customs officers would not recognise us from
our outfits. I wrote a note to Gareth saying I was going to stay with a new friend overnight and
would be back the following evening. I left bread, milk and sausages in the fridge but somehow,
I still felt I was doing something wrong. I hitched my rucksack onto my shoulder and closed the
front door quietly.

By the time we boarded the ferry from Tarifa to Tangiers I felt quite calm. Spencer wasn’t very
talkative. Ever since I’d agreed to be his companion he had become serious and only ever spoke
to me when it concerned the trip. I didn’t push him and kept my thoughts to myself. There were
hardly any Moroccan people on the ferry, most were tourists. We arrived at the port and once
through customs took a taxi to the hotel. I looked out of the window excited to be on African
soil. I saw men and women wearing long dresses and pointy slippers decorated with embroidery.
The hotel was only five minutes away from the port so before I even had time to take in my
surroundings, we had arrived. I got out of the taxi and looked around. We were halfway up a
street on the side of a hill. In one direction was the sea about a mile away and in the other were
busy streets. The street was lined with several seedy bars with names like Las Vegas and Palm
Beach. The doorways were decorated with small groups of men, lounging around, whose eyes
followed us as we walked from the car to the hotel entrance.

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Our hotel was an art deco style magnolia coloured four-storey building. As we walked towards
the dim lobby our feet made a sucking sound on the lino floor. Spencer spoke in French to the
pot-bellied man behind the counter. The unshaven man eyed us suspiciously as he passed us a
key and pointed upstairs. The room was as shabby as the lobby with crumbling plaster, peeling
paint and more sticky lino. There were two single beds, a small table and bathroom and nothing
else, no TV, no bedside lamps. The window looked out at a brick wall. Well, I certainly hadn’t
hit the big time with this job, I thought as I sat down heavily on the bed.
“I have to go out,” Spencer said putting his rucksack on the floor. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.
I’ll bring you back some food and something to drink. Is there anything you don’t eat?”
“No, nothing,” I said feeling even more depressed at the idea of staying in the dingy room on my
own.
“I suggest you don’t go out on your own. It’s not safe.”
And with that, he was gone. I tried to remind myself that this wasn’t a holiday. I was getting paid
to stay in a grubby hotel and be bored. I lay on the bed and fell asleep.

I woke up when Spencer came back. It was completely dark and I had no idea what time it was.
He turned on the light and passed me a can of coke and a box with some kind of curried chicken
thing and some fluffy yellow stuff. I ate it cautiously. It was lightly spiced and full of flavours I
had never tasted before. I couldn’t work out if I liked it or not but I was really hungry and was
never one for wasting food. He placed two large bottles of water on the table and I wondered
why he had brought so much seeing as we were only going to be there until the morning. Next,
he took out a brown brick wrapped in clear plastic, a knife, a lighter and two rolls of cling film
and set them all down next to him. Without saying anything, he rolled a joint took a few puffs
and passed it me. I smoked the joint and watched him, completely transfixed. He set to work
cutting a small amount of hash off the brick. Then he rolled it between his palms and carefully
wrapped the pellet in cling film, covering it over and back on itself a couple of times. He used
the lighter to seal the edges and repeated the process two more times.

This ritual had my complete attention initially but twenty pellets later I was bored.
“How many more do you have to do?”
“Oh, probably another seventy,” he said without looking up.
“Shit, that’s going to take hours.”

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“Yep.”
“Can I help?”
He looked over at me as if sizing me up for the job.
“Sure, I’ll show you how to do it.”
He broke down each of the actions I had just watched him do twenty times. Two wrappings of
the pellet were probably enough but he always did three for extra safety. The hardest part, he
explained, was making sure you didn’t melt the cling-film with the lighter flame.
“You need to heat it just enough to seal it. If you melt it you have to start again.”
He looked at me and I nodded to indicate I understood. He carved a chunk of hash off the brick
and passed it to me. I began rolling it between my palms as he had done. It took me two or three
goes of getting caught up in or melting the cling-film but I soon got the hang of it. The room
stank of hash and melted plastic. Stoned, we both settled into a steady rhythm and the pellet pile
grew and the brick gradually got smaller.

We finished wrapping the final pellets and Spencer said matter-of-factly,

“I suggest you get some sleep. We leave on the 9.30 ferry. I’ll wake up at six to swallow them.”
You what? I was shocked although I shouldn’t have been. Of course it’s obvious he wouldn’t
have gone to the trouble of carefully sealing eighty or so hash pellets individually just to carry
them in his backpack, but my mind, stoned as it was, had been too lazy to move beyond the
repetitive action of wrapping dope balls to consider how he’d smuggle them back to The Rock.
That was both the beauty and the pitfall of getting stoned, you stopped thinking or worrying
about the ‘what next?’

I made a mental check that I had definitely sealed each pellet three times and began to doubt
myself. What if I’d forgotten that final layer and one of the seals broke? I was worried. I wanted
to ask what would happen and what signs I should look for if a pellet were to split and more
importantly what I should do if it did happen. But I kept quiet. I didn’t want to make him worry
and I reminded myself it was probably just dope paranoia. I lay back on my bed realising for the
first time what I had got myself into. I tried and failed to stop myself thinking about what
happens to the pellets once they’ve been swallowed. “You’ve done this before, right?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said clearing up all the paraphernalia, “Many times.”

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He had been so quiet that by the time I woke, I only had time to watch him swallow the last few
hash-bullets. Now I understood why he had brought so much water. He took a mouthful of water
put the pellet in his mouth, took another glug of water and swallowed. Each one was about two
thirds the size of my thumb. He repeated the process until there were none left and then lay back
on his bed. I kept quiet and pretended I was asleep. I thought about all that water, plastic and
hash in his belly. Who knew the human body could hold so much? I kept reminding myself that
he had done this many times before. He knew what he was doing, right? The dawn light had
crept into the room and I was glad the night was over. I wanted to get this day out of the way and
was eager for time to hurry up.

A taxi came to collect us and take us to the ferry. We got out and as we approached the ferry
terminal Spencer said in a hushed tone, “Now, it is imperative you act normally and stay relaxed.
Do not look the customs officers in the eye. If you’re nervous talk to me. Smile and laugh where
possible even if you’re pretending. We stick together at all times. Understand?”
“Yes.” This was it. Here we go. There was such a long queue to pass through Moroccan
immigration and customs that I began to forget I was a drug smuggler’s accomplice, I was so
bored. Occasionally, I gave Spencer a sideways glance to make sure he wasn’t sweating or
looking ill. So far, so good.

We finally got through and hurried forward to board the ferry. Before we’d even had time to get
settled we were making our way off the ferry and towards another queue for Spanish
immigration. I found myself counting anything and everything to stop myself from thinking
about the possibility of being caught accompanying a drug smuggler. I counted the number of
people in the cue with blond hair (fifty-seven), people who wore glasses (thirty-four), women
(seventy-two), men (eighty-five) and people wearing trainers (forty-one). When it was finally my
turn, I stepped up to the immigration officer and gave him my most innocent smile. He took my
passport and stared back blankly. My heart began to thump in my chest. I could hear it in my
ears. BANG! With a loud assertive whack he stamped my lovely new passport and looked past
me to the person beyond. Spencer was already through and was waiting for me, his face
expressionless. We were on the last bit, the walk through Spanish customs. Three officers stood
scanning, watching the 9.30am Tangiers to Tarifa passengers walk past. Would they recognise
me? Like sheep we were herded through the grey windowless corridor and I concentrated on

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keeping my breathing regular and walking slowly. I fixed my eyes on the exit doors to freedom,
and we were through.

When we got back nothing was the same. When I told Gareth I hadn’t come home because I got
laid he went silent and weird. Maybe he felt some kind of ownership over me despite our
relationship being entirely platonic. I tried for a couple of days to win him back around but he
was in a mega sulk and whatever we had had was broken. Things were no better with Spencer.
Rather than being bonded by our shared hash-pellet wrapping and successful drug smuggling
experience, he seemed unfriendlier than before. Perhaps the fact that I knew he had shat out
nearly a kilo of hash-pellets and then washed and unpeeled them by hand in his little sink with its
foot pump made it uncomfortable for him to be around me.

Anywhere but Home

Chapter V- Morocco

Don’t Drink or Smoke Anything They Give You

I met Jeff in the marina launderette. I was watching a giant washing machine toss all my clothes
one way and then the other when a barrel-shaped man with thick grey hair dropped a basket of
newly cleaned, dried and folded clothes.
“Blast and bugger,” he shouted as everything tumbled out onto the floor, and then apologetically,
“excuse me.”
He stooped down and tried to gather everything up. He was making a mess of it.
“Let me help you,” I said, bending down to help.
“Thank you,” he said several times. Small beads of sweat had broken out around his hairline. We
picked up the clothes and I began helping him refolded them into neat piles. He introduced
himself as Jeff from Norwich on a business trip to Casablanca. He had a meeting later that day
and was in a hurry to catch the early afternoon ferry to Tangiers.

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“Wow, I said intrigued, “I plan to go ….,” I faltered as I caught myself about to say ‘back.’ My
mind flashed with a red danger signals warming me of what ensuing questions could follow if I
let on I had already been to Morocco. Questions like ‘oh where did you go? When were you last
there?’ I coughed to cover up my hesitation and finished with, “…I’m planning to travel there
soon to meet my Morocco friends living in Agadir.”
“Really? When are you leaving?” he asked enthusiastically as we folded the last few items of his
clothes. I avoided his boxer shorts and went for a shirt. It felt a bit embarrassing handling a
man’s clothing that I didn’t know but I’d started now and didn’t know how to stop. To cover the
awkwardness, I explained how I had been working at the pub while I waited for a new passport.
“Now the passport has arrived, I’ll probably leave in the next few days,” I smiled as I placed the
neatly folded trouser on the precarious tower of dry garments. “There, all done.”
“Thank you for your help. Look, if you’re prepared to come now I can give you a lift all the way
to Casablanca if you like? And you won’t have to pay for the ferry because I’m in the car, it
covers two passengers. But...,” he said looking at his watch and then over at the washing
machine with all my clothes in, “I’m leaving in an hour.”
“Erm, wow, okay.”
My mind began racing. Leave now? Right now? Could I? What did I have to lose? I ran through
the pros and cons. I had only £140 saved but my friends had said they would lend me money. I
would save on travel if I went with Jeff. I would have to leave with a bag of wet washing and
without saying goodbye to Gareth or Spencer. In the end, it was the prospect of not having to go
to work in the pub or stay at Gareth’s for another night that tipped the balance.
“I’ll come!”
A surge of adrenaline shot through me. With no time to dry my clothes, I stuffed my wet clothes
into my backpack and ran to the flat to pick up my bongos. Twenty minutes later with Jeff’s boot
full of my wet washing, a backpack and the bongos, the Rock was moving steadily further away
behind us as Jeff drove his comfy Ford estate car towards Tarifa and to the ferry back to
Morocco.

On the journey Jeff kept up a steady stream of conversation asking me about my trip and plans. I
told him about my chance meeting with Siobhan, Joshua and Adam and how I’d promised to
meet them in Morocco, how I’d had to live in a cave, get a job in a pub , and get a priest to lie in

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order to get there. I didn’t tell him about the drug smuggling. He asked if I had been to Morocco
before or if I knew anything about it. When I said no he looked concerned.
“Does your mother know you’re going to Morocco on your own?”
I told him no but she really wouldn’t mind.
“What about your dad? Does he know?”
I didn’t feel ready to talk about my dad so I just said,
“Oh, he trusts me. We’re really close.”
I wanted to change the subject but he began lecturing me about how dangerous Morocco was for
a young woman on her own. He said I was to be very careful not to trust anyone and most
important,
“Don’t drink or smoke anything they give you.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I didn’t need a dad lecture right now.
“Why not?” I asked feeling slightly defensive. He explained he had heard stories of young
English girls ‘about my age’ who had been drugged and sold into slavery never to be seen again.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him, “I’ll be ok, I’m an experienced traveller.”

We pulled into the ferry terminal waited in a long line of cars, campervans and luxury
motorcycles displaying various little European flags. The holiday vehicles and their passengers,
with their bleach blond hair and deep suntans, resembled the set of a Californian surf film. We
boarded, driving into the bowels of the boat and I told Jeff I was going to look for somewhere I
could dry my clothes. I carried my rucksack around until I found a warm boiler room and hung
them out to dry but the journey was so quick that by the time we were told to return to the car my
clothes were still damp. I threw them straight into the boot of the car not having time to put them
back into the rucksack.

Queuing to get through immigration and customs took longer than the journey itself but finally,
our car was waved forwards into a bay. The customs officer checked our passports and bent
down on the driver’s side window to peer at me. He was a young man with angular cheekbones
narrow eyes and a pencil moustache. I smiled tentatively. He asked to see inside the boot. Jeff
got out and went to the back of the car to open it. The immigration officer spoke French and
English and they were in conversation for some time when Jeff poked his head through the
driver's window.

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“Bad news I’m afraid. He asked me who owned the rucksack. I told him it was yours and that
you’re on your way to Agadir. I explained to him that I’m giving you a lift to Casablanca. He’s
saying there are no trains from Casablanca to Agadir and that you’ll have to get a train from
here. But that doesn’t leave until tomorrow.”
“Shit,” I said, and started getting out of the car.

By the time I had got out and arranged myself, Mohammed a thirty-something, well-dressed,
stocky, round-faced man with good English, had arrived and was speaking with Jeff and the
customs officer. I had no idea where he had come from or how he had arrived on the scene so
quickly. But there he was, as if by magic, guide and fountain of knowledge in all things related
to Tangiers, or so he claimed. Frankly I didn’t trust him. The three of them were discussing my
situation without me. In near perfect English Mohammed repeated to Jeff what the customs
officer had just said, there are no trains to Agadir from Casablanca and I would need to stay in
Tangiers for the night and catch a train the next day.
“Don’t worry,” he said speaking to Jeff as if he was my dad,
“I will find her a very good hotel. She will be perfectly safe.”
I found my voice.
“I don’t want a hotel. I’ll sleep in the train station overnight.”
All three men looked at me horrified. I sounded like a petulant two-year-old child on the verge of
having a tantrum. In a unified chorus they told me this was out of the question because of all the
bad things that can happen to a young woman on her own at night. Mohammed addressed me
directly.
“I am a professional guide and know these streets like my own mother’s face. I will see it as my
personal responsibility to find you a good hotel here in this beautiful city. You will be safe with
me, I can promise you.”
I didn’t like it, it felt like it was a scam but I couldn’t see a way out of the predicament. If I got to
Casablanca and couldn’t find a way to Agadir I could be in more trouble than if I went from
Tangiers. I just had to be careful and be on my guard. I replied, “Okay, I’ll stay but the hotel has
to be cheap…very cheap. I don’t have much money.”
Sounding like the grumpy teenager that I was and resigned to my fate I pulled my rucksack out
of the boot. Jeff was uncomfortable and not sure what to do. He was caught between a sense of
parental responsibility towards me and getting to a meeting he was going to be late for if he

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didn’t hurry up. As if in consolation he said, “Look, I feel terrible about this. At least let me give
you a lift to your hotel. That way I can make sure he’s taking you
somewhere…well…respectable. But we’ll have to make it quick because I don’t have much
time. Mohammed will have to guide me there so I suggest he gets in the front seat.”
Before I had time to respond Mohammed replied, “Excellent plan!” and jumped in.
I slumped into the back of the car and hugged my back-pack close to me as the customs officer
signalled for the barrier to be lifted and we drove into the city of Tangiers.

Mint Tea Hallucinations

The hotel was on a hill in a busy part of town. It looked in better shape than the hotel I had
stayed in just a week earlier and I hoped it wasn’t too expensive. We pulled up and Mohammed
jumped out of the car and opened my door taking my rucksack from me and offering his hand to
help me out like I was royalty. I reluctantly accepted and climbed out. Jeff looked nervous as he
came over to me.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
A stupid question but I tried to reassure him. What could he do? What could I do?
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” I gave him a hug and he said in my ear, “Look, be very careful. Don’t
drink or smoke anything they give you.”
He pulled away and looked at me earnestly.
“I won’t,” I assured him. “Thanks for the lift.”
He got into his car and drove off leaving Mohammed and I watching him from the pavement. I
really wanted to stay with him. I wanted to stay in the safety of his car and to see this strange
new world from inside a safe bubble. Without him I felt desolate and alone. I was sure something
bad was going to happen.

Inside the hotel Mohammed spoke to the man behind the desk in Arabic. I stood there feeling
helpless listening to them without understanding. I was sure the elderly bald man with shifty eyes
was in on whatever Mohammed was planning. I knew I had to stay alert and ready at all times.
Mohammed turned to me,
“It will be fifteen dirhams for the night.”
I looked at him blankly.
“I believe that maybe around one pound in your English money,” he said.

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“I don’t have any dirhams.”. Christ, I hadn’t even thought about changing any money, idiot.
There hadn’t been time. Mohammed looked at watch, a big silver digital affair.
“Then we must hurry and get to the bank before it closes. You can put your bag in the room. I
will wait for you here. Your room is number 25 on the second floor.”
I took the key from him and sprinted up the stairs. The room was small and dingy but it would
do. I chucked my rucksack on the bed and ran back down the stairs. We set off across the city at
speed. He never stopped talking, as if afraid I might evaporate if we weren’t connected by the
one-way conversation. I was desperately trying to figure out his next move and work out a
possible escape but I was distracted by all the new things I was seeing, hearing and smelling. His
voice became like a radio in the background. I kept saying “Uhuh…” every so often so as not to
seem rude. I was drinking in everything around me as well as trying to take a mental note of my
surroundings in case I had to find my own way home. And then the heavens opened.
“This is very good news,” Mohammed said with a huge grin, his hair plastered to his face with
rainwater, “It has not rained here for nearly eight months.” We made our way through the
torrential downpour. Good for the people of Tangiers, I thought. I was soaked, cold and
miserable. Drenched, we arrived at a high-ceilinged bank. Mohammed hung back as I made my
way to the counter. Dripping onto the desk from my hair and nose, I watched as the cashier
counted out my money.

It was still raining heavily and I told Mohammed I wanted to go back to the hotel.
“Yes, yes, of course, we will go this way and, on the way, we must get you some food. Soon you
will be hungry no?” he didn’t wait for the answer and continued striding forward.
“I know of some very good places here, very cheap. Come.”
Breathless, I tried to keep up with him. I was torn between demanding right there and then that
Mohammed take me back to the hotel and getting a chance to see the city, I was so curious and
intrigued by what was around me. I told myself it was fine just as long as we didn’t go down any
dark alleyways. We left the main street and turned into a dark alleyway. Then another and then
another. I stopped and looked around me. I thought about running back but it was already too
late. I couldn’t see the main road any more. Mohammed realised I wasn’t behind and came
running back.
“What are you doing? I nearly lost you. Don’t you know it is not safe in here for a woman on
her own? Please stay close.”

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“Where are you taking me?” I demanded. “Why are you bringing me somewhere that’s not
safe?”
I was almost shouting. He looked uncomfortable and answered in a whisper.
“It is safe…but you must be with me. It is how it is. We have to go this way to get back to the
hotel. So please, stay close. It is not far.”
He turned and beckoned for me to follow. A couple of men watched us from a doorway. I
followed but was sure I was making a terrible mistake.

We entered a rabbit warren of close alleys hemmed in by rickety-looking houses and shops
painted shades of blue, orange, purple and earth red, all stacked randomly on top of one another.
Mohammed explained that this was the famous Medina. We turned and I followed him down a
narrow lane of shops selling leather bags, carpets, spices and a whole array of things I had never
seen before. Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth we went. It stank of cat piss and spices. Groups
of men in long robes with embroidered necklines gathered on the corners and watched us pass,
knowingly. Mopeds and donkeys zig-zagged in and out scattering children and cats in their
wake. Old men sat in doorways motionless, watching shadows. Several calls to prayer start up
around the city simultaneously all competing for the faithful. I was lost in this unfamiliar world. I
had fallen overboard at sea without a life jacket. I was as vulnerable as a new-born without a
mother.

Mohammed continued to chat incessantly as he navigated our way through the tangle of
darkening passageways. It was still raining. Then abruptly he came to a stop.
“Come,” he said as he passed through a doorway, “we can take shelter from the rain in here.” I
stood and watched him disappear into a gloomy corridor. This is it, I thought, the final part of his
plan. The place he had been planning to bring me all along. The place where I am going to be
abducted. I didn’t want to go in and thought about making a run for it but I was so cold and more
frightened of being lost on my own in the maze of passageways than I was of following him into
this building. The dark passageway opened out into a cavernous brightly lit shop covered in
beautiful rugs and carpets. My mouth hung open, I had never seen anything quite like it.
Mohammed walked across the shop floor to the other side of the room and into another dark
arched passageway. There was no one else around. I followed him through and into another
bright room with a large window and a low cushioned seating area which contained three

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intricately carved wooden coffee tables. The white marble tiled floor and walls provided a blank
canvas, perfect to show off the highly patterned rugs in all shades of red, brown, blue and green
that hung from the walls. It felt like a dream. Mohammed motioned for me to sit and for the first
time since I met him, he had stopped talking. This made me even more nervous. My body started
shivering and my teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
“A salaam alaikum.”
A tall slender man with a long beard and kind eyes, wearing a long white robe and matching
white skull cap walked into the room. Mohammed got to his feet hurriedly and went to shake the
man’s hand. “Mualaikumsalam” he replied.
The white-robed man turned to me and said, “Good afternoon. Goodness me, you are soaked.
You must be very cold. Look you are shivering. This weather is very unusual for us. Let me get
you some hot Moroccan tea. It will warm you.”
He spoke in English with a soft lilting accent. He motioned to a young boy at the door, handsome
and growing his first beard. Jeff’s words rang in my ears, “don’t drink or smoke anything they
give you.”
“Th…tha…Thank you,” my voice sounded feeble, “but I’m fine really. I don’t want anything to
drink thanks.”
Gracefully, he sat down on the low cushion opposite me.
“Really? I promise, it will instantly make you feel better,” he smiled and his kind eyes twinkled.
Don’t get dragged in Vicky I told myself, this is all part of their plan. I looked down at the floor.
“You look like you have come a long way. You are from England, yes?”
His musical voice was soothing and compelling and I had to keep telling myself not to trust him.
“If you don’t mind me saying,” he continued, “you seem very anxious. Is everything okay?”
Then he looked towards Mohammed and back at me with concerned large brown eyes and said
in a conspiratorial tone, “Has young Mohammed been treating you well?” There was something
about this man that made me want to bare my soul to him, perhaps against my better judgment. I
wanted to tell him that I was terrified, I didn’t trust Mohammed and I was sure I was about to be
drugged and sold as a sex-slave. But then, he was probably in on it.
“Oh, I’m fine just a bit cold and he’s…” I looked over towards Mohammed who looked
sheepish “… he’s treating me fine. Thank you.”
Which he was, so far.

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Regardless of the fact that I had not accepted the offer of tea, the young boy returned carrying a
tray of tall glasses in beautiful silver holders. Each glass was filled with green leaves and
steaming liquid. The boy placed one on the low wooden table in front of me and then served the
other two men. I stared longingly at the steaming glass. Don’t drink anything they give you, don’t
drink anything they give you. Jeff’s voice was on repeat in my head.
“It must be quite daunting visiting a new country. I can assure you, you are safe here.”
He took a sip of his tea.
“We shall take care of you, will we not Mohammed?”
He turned towards Mohammed who had his lips pursed ready to sip his tea but stopped and
replied subserviently, “Yes, sir.”
The white-robed man returned his gaze to me and smiled.
“And how do you like our carpets?”
I looked around me and then up at the high ceiling.
“They are the most beautiful carpets I have ever seen,” I said honestly.
This made the man smile and show his even white teeth.
“…But, I’m sorry I barely have enough money to last me a couple of weeks. I’m afraid I’m not
going to be a very good customer. I can’t afford to buy even the smallest rug here.”
The man chuckled. The sound was deep, resonant, dignified. He sat back.
“Well, that is, of course, a shame seeing as you find them to your liking. But your appreciation
is valued nonetheless.”
He nodded towards my untouched glass. I was still shivering.
“Have you tried Moroccan tea before?”
I shook my head. I felt my face flush, I knew what was coming.
“Then you must try it. It is one of our national specialities. I am sure you will love it.”
Both men looked at me expectantly. I took a deep breath. It’s okay, I told myself, just stay calm.
Take a very small sip, a small sip can’t hurt. I lifted the fine delicate silver handle and peered
into the steaming glass. Its warm minty smell reached my nostrils and I breathed it in. It smelt so
good. The men continued to watch me. Slowly, I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip. An
explosion of exquisite sweet mintiness filled my mouth. This had to be the nectar of the gods. It
was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.
“Well? Do you like it?” the white robbed man asked.
“It’s…” I tried to find the right words and couldn’t, “It’s really, really delicious.”

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Soaking up the warmth, I wrapped both hands around the glass.
“Ahh…you see. I knew you would like it. Drink up, it will get rid of your chills and make you
feel better.”
He turned away from me and began chatting in Arabic to Mohammed. His gentle voice spoke
quietly as if in a church or a hospital. I peered back down into the tea. The fresh mint leaves and
wisps of steam rising upwards were so inviting. I’ll just have one more tiny sip I thought, so that
I don’t seem rude. The men chatted on. Again, my mouth was in ecstasy. Trying to execute some
sense of will power, I placed the glass back on the table and stared at it. All I could think about
was having one more small mouthful of this sweet nectar. Okay, I said to myself, one more but
this is the last one. I took a sip and then another and then another until I had completely drained
the glass empty. I couldn’t help myself. All that was left were the leafy mint stalks. And then I
began to feel dizzy and sweaty. It’s happening, I thought, I’ve been drugged. My heart began
thumping in my chest and my breath quickened. Focus! I told myself. I looked up and tried to
concentrate but all I could see were carpet patterns swimming around in front of my eyes,
forward and back, merging into each other. Oh, Jesus, I’m hallucinating… now I’m truly fucked.

“Well, it’s has been a pleasure meeting you.” I jumped, the voice pulled me back from the brink
of a paranoid panic attack. I turned my attention from the swirling carpet patterns to the man in
the white robe. He was getting to his feet. I blinked several times trying to clear my vision. He
walked towards the doorway and as he did so the psychedelic madness in my brain began to
retreat back from whence it came. By the time he got to the door my vision was clear.
“I wish you a very pleasant rest of your journey. Mohammed will see you get fed and taken back
to your hotel.” And with that, he was gone. Bewildered, I managed to mutter, “Thank you.” But
he had already left.
Mohammed was on his feet and starting out of the room,
“Come, let us find some good Moroccan food.”
I took a deep breath and stood up carefully. I was a bit shaken but fine. I felt silly for allowing
myself to become so paranoid I actually started hallucinating. I followed Mohammed meekly out
of the room and back into the Medina.

The night was clear and the air fresh from the recent rains. Mohammed was chattering again as
he led me back through the dark maze. He told me he was taking me to his friend’s restaurants.

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The realisation that I had escaped the carpet shop without being drugged and/or abducted gave
me a renewed confidence and I now followed him gladly. Also, I was really hungry. His friend’s
restaurant was a grotty little place in a basement with a small black and white TV in the corner.
Several men sat around smoking and playing backgammon. A few of them eyed me as I walked
in. We sat at an empty round table and I watched the TV where there were two men in suits
discussing something passionately in Arabic. An over-weight greasy looking man came to our
table. He was wearing a stained white shirt and worn grey trousers. He and Mohammed spoke in
Arabic and he left. Mohammed turned to me and told me we were having soup. At this stage, I
didn’t care, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I was glad to have the TV to stare at, I felt out of place
in this smoky, male space. But the danger had passed and my main concern now was to not
spend too much money.

The waiter came and threw two plates of soup at our table, I looked up in surprise but he was
already walking away. The soup had beans and bits of meat floating in it. Iset to it greedily. He
came back with more mint tea. It was bitter and nothing like the tea I had tasted earlier. To my
relief, the meal was cheap. I paid the bill and we made our way back to the hotel. Mohammed
explained that the train going to Agadir would leave at around five in the afternoon the following
day and I groaned at the realisation I would have to spend most of the day in the city. As we
reached the hotel Mohammed asked me if I would like to smoke some hashish before I went to
bed. After such a nail-biting day something to help me relax sounded a good idea.
“Sure,” I said, “but just a small one.”

We climbed the stairs to my room. There was nowhere else to sit so Mohammed plonked himself
on the bed and began rolling a joint. I went to use the bathroom and by the time I re-entered the
room Mohammed had taken his shoes off and was sat with his feet up and his back against the
headboard. Mmm… I thought, I could see I might have a situation on my hands. I sat awkwardly
on the farthest corner of the bed and waited for him to pass me the joint. The effects of the strong
hashish kicked in after just a couple of drags and a stoned fog washed over me. I realised this
was not the best state to be in if I needed to eject a visitor intent on over-staying his welcome. I
passed the joint back to him and while he finished the rest of it I worked out a back-up plan in

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case Mohammed tried anything. As soon as he stubbed the finished joint out in the ashtray I
decided to act. I stood up, faced him and said assertively,
“Right. Mohammed, thank you for all your help today I really appreciate it but I would like to go
to bed now so, good night.”
“What?” he looked at his watch, “It’s only eleven o’clock, it’s early. Let’s have another smoke.”
He began pulling out the joint making kit from his pockets.
“No really, it is time for you to go, I need to go to sleep. I’m really tired. It’s been a really long
day.”
He smiled at me, “Come on,” he tapped the empty space on the bed beside him, “come, put your
feet up you need to relax a little.”
I tried one more time.
“Mohammed, I need you to go now please.”
“Sure, no problem” he looked up and smiled at me.
Thank God, I thought. Then he said, “I’ll just roll one small one and I’ll be gone. Come over
here and sit with me,” he tapped the empty space beside him again. I sighed heavily as I
instigated my backup plan. I walked around the bed grabbed his shoes, made my way to the
communal landing.
“LEAVE MY ROOM NOW OR I WILL SCREAM!” I shouted.
Looking mortified, he jumped off the bed and ran out of the room in his socks.
“Shhhhh!!! Don’t shout, you will wake everybody up!”
“I know I will wake everyone. That is the whole point” I said loudly. “If you don’t leave now I
will scream so everyone in this building wakes up and sees that it is you who is bothering me!”
“Please, please keep your voice down,” he looked positively panic-stricken. “Give me back my
shoes and I will leave.”
I handed him his shoes and remained on the landing while he hurriedly put his shoes on. He
grabbed his lump of hash from the bedroom table and said as he passed me, “I don’t understand,
this has NEVER happened before!”
Satisfied, I went back into my room, locked the door, lay on my bed and went straight to sleep.

I woke up with a start. My stomach lurched as I suddenly remembered that I had left almost all
of my clothes in Jeff’s boot.
“Arghhhhhhhh, shit.Fuck fuck.”

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I groaned at my stupidity and went through all the clothes that were now lost to me forever.
There were all my long clothes that would cover my body and protected me from prying eyes but
the most difficult to lose was my beautiful orange dress. Normally I was good at letting lost
things go, especially objects. It’s something you learn in the care system. Life can shift on its
axis at any moment and when it does nothing will ever be the same again. Everything you took
for granted, like your parents and your things, can disappear as if in a magic trick. I was ten years
old and in primary school when I was told to ‘collect my things and go straight home.’ I couldn’t
believe my luck! All morning I had been watching the snow fall through my classroom window
slowly turning the entire playground white. I was so excited to be one of the first to make
footprints in the virgin snow. My brother, who was also being sent home, met me outside the
gates and we laughed and threw snowballs all the way. When we got home Jeanette, our foster
mother, sat sobbing on a chair. Our foster father had been having an affair and had left her and
us. Within an hour a social worker was driving my brother and me to Brighton and Hove
children’s home where we were to live for the next year. We never saw our house or our toys,
books, photos ever again. We never saw Mr Miller, the man who had been our foster father for
the past eight years either, but then this was a blessing as he was a nasty little man. So even
though I was well versed in ‘letting go,’ losing most of my clothes was a blow. I had no money
to buy any more and was in a country where it was really useful to cover up. I was left with two
outfits; one was my bar uniform from Gibraltar, a white shirt and a pencil skirt, and the other a
baggy pair of trousers and a sleeveless vest. Neither were appropriate for the journey I was about
to undertake.

The Journey to Banana Village

I paid my hotel bill and walked down the hill towards the train station. The streets bustled with
activity. I didn’t know whether to believe Mohammed about the time of the train so I set off at
midday. I didn’t want to miss my train and get stuck in Tangiers for another night. The walk to
the station took forty minutes and I was on my own for less than five. I was accompanied by men
constantly. They would sidle up and proposition me for ten minutes and no sooner had one got
bored with being ignored and walked off another would take his place. My initial approach to
dealing with this level of unwanted attention was zero interaction. I assumed a hunched over
posture, as if I was trying to disappear into myself. I cast my eyes downward just ahead of me,

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set my face into neutral and focused hard on not shouting or hitting the men bugging the shit out
of me. It had partial success.

The train station was full of noise and people and it took me a while to locate the ticket office.
When I finally found it and told the man where I wanted to go he printed me out three separate
tickets and passed them to me whilst saying something I didn’t understand. I stared
uncomprehendingly at the pieces of paper he had handed me. I could feel the irritation of the
people behind me but I wasn’t leaving the kiosk until I understood why he had given me several
tickets and why one of them was from Casablanca and the other from Marrakesh. I tried to ask in
French why I had so many tickets but I did not understand his answer no matter how loud he
shouted. Eventually, an English-speaking Frenchman came to my rescue and said in an irritated
voice, like I was a two-year-old, “’e ‘as given you three tickets. First, you go to Casablanca on
the…” he looked down at one of the pieces of paper, “four-thirty train. Then you will ‘ave to
wait in Casablanca for a couple of hours before you take the train to Marakesh. From Marrakesh,
you take a bus to Agadir. Yes?”
I nodded, thanked him and handed over more money for the tickets than I wanted to. As I had
suspected, saying I could not get from Casablanca to Agadir had been a big fat lie. If I had not
been so gullible I’d have been in Agadir by now with all my clothes and a bit more money in my
pocket. My only consolation at this stage was that Mohammed didn’t get what he was expecting
when he sat on my bed last night.

I had a few hours to kill so I bought some food, found a corner to sit in and people watched. I
wasn’t bored for a second. There was so much to take in that was new to me. I was fascinated by
the women covered in cloth from their heads right down to the floor. I wondered how they
managed to get around without tripping over or if they were hot in all that material. Some
women had the lower half their face covered which drew attention to their eyes making them
seem powerful and intriguing. I noticed that there weren’t any women on their own like me.
They were either in groups of other women and children or accompanied by men. On the other
hand, lots of men could be seen sitting or wandering around on their own. Some walked hand-in-
hand with other men, something I had never seen in public before anywhere. Men approached
me and propositioned me in French and sometimes in English. I would do my turning to stone

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act and shut down until they left me alone. Sometimes it would take such a long time for them to
get the message that I didn’t want to go home with them.

Finally, my train arrived and I boarded it nervously. It was old fashioned with a narrow corridor
down its length with adjacent compartments. Each compartment seated about six people, three
on each side facing each other. By the time I boarded most were occupied by men. To my great
relief, near the end of the train, I found an empty carriage and made myself at home. I was happy
in my little compartment and on my own for a couple of hours until we stopped and I was joined
by a Moroccan man in a suit. He sat opposite. I ignored him and continued looking outside the
window hoping he wouldn’t start talking to me. The sun was setting leaving a golden glow over
the unfamiliar landscapes rushing past me. In the window’s reflection I could see he was reading
a large newspaper that almost entirely covered his head. At first, I thought I was seeing things
but no, every so often, as if in an old black and white spy movie, he lowered his paper and
peered at me over the top. I squashed myself tighter into my little corner trying to make myself
as small as possible. I had been warned about Morocco and here I was, in a carriage on my own
with a man who is staring at me over his newspaper. Each time the paper went down I averted
my eyes and then when it went back up again my eyes were drawn back, full of dread. I wished I
had my pen knife in my hand but it was in my rucksack stored in the rack above me and I daren’t
go for it in case it provoked him in some way. If this had been a spy movie, the jarring music
would be reaching a crescendo, the tension in the compartment reaching its peak and whatever
was going to happen was about to happen. My heart thumped and I held my breath.

He spoke. I jumped and turned to look at him, startled. Looking at him in the flesh, rather than
through the window-reflection, he didn’t look anywhere near as menacing. He had slightly
scruffy hair, big doe-eyes and a wide mouth with gappy teeth. He looked more comical than
sinister. I relaxed and let out my breath,
“Sorry?” I said in English, I didn’t want him to know I spoke any French, “I don’t understand.”
He repeated himself and smiled. His manner was curiously animated, almost clown-like. I felt
stupid for allowing myself to get so paranoid. It was obvious he was harmless. He repeated
himself and again, I shook my head and said in English “I don’t understand.” He may have been
harmless but he was becoming annoying. He wouldn’t give up and talked at me enthusiastically
for some time. Still, I had not a clue what he was talking about. Next, he pointed to a cartoon in

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his newspaper. I looked at it and nodded but I didn’t have the foggiest idea why he was showing
it to me or its relevance. Next, slightly more worryingly, he pulled out an envelope from his
briefcase and passed me professional photos of himself posing. He kept looking at me
expectantly, like an excited child. I didn’t have a clue what he wanted from me, I just wanted
him to leave me alone.

Eventually, he gave up and we both fell into an awkward silence. I was relieved when the train
finally pulled into Casablanca station. I wondered if Jeff was still here in the city somewhere and
wished I could call him and tell him about my adventures in Tangiers, and get my clothes back. I
had another long wait so I made my way to the waiting area and found an empty seat. It was one
of those moulded plastic chairs bolted to an iron frame. It was late at night and there were no
women around. I felt very conspicuous and was bombarded by a stream of men approaching me.
Each bent down, peering into my face, trying to make eye contact as they talked to me. Most of
the time I didn’t understand what they were saying but their intention was clear. By the fourth
man I had worked myself into a state of high agitation. The ‘silent treatment’ approach wasn’t
working and the man had been muttering into my face for ten minutes. He reached out to touch
my arm and to my surprise and everyone else’s in the station, I screamed, “Laisse moi!” right
into his puffy little face. It was like pausing a movie. Everything stopped and then in slow
motion, everyone turned to look at me. The man smirked and slithered away. I retreated further
into myself, hugging my rucksack closer to me, head bent and eyes lowered.

By the time the train to Marrakesh pulled in I was a nervous wreck. I watched as a handful of
men dashed for the train. I decided to take my time so I could be careful about where I sat. Big
mistake. I stepped up into the first carriage and I thought I was in a psychological thriller. There
were no individual compartments like the previous train. Instead, it was one large carriage and
a hundred pairs of male eyes looked straight at me. They were all dressed in all green woollen
djellabas with tall green pointy hoods. I felt like a lamb to the slaughter at some weird green
pointy hooded cult gathering. Desperate to get away from them I hurried forward down the
narrow walkway to the next carriage awkwardly stepping over feet and bags clutching my
rucksack. Their dark eyes followed me. I was terrified they were all going to pounce at any
moment. To my dismay, the next carriage was exactly the same, another fifty hoods and a
hundred pairs of eyes staring at the young girl travelling unaccompanied. What had I been

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thinking? I must be mad. I rushed to the next carriage it was the same, and the next. Ten
carriages later I spotted the only free seat on the train. It was the last in a row of four and was
next to the window. Three soldiers had to get up to let me shuffle over and sit down. Clutching
my rucksack close to me I was rigid with fear that at any minute these men would turn on me.
With every muscle in my body tense I squeezed myself as close as I could to the cold
windowpane and shut my eyes to block out my reality. I just wanted to disappear.

I came to with a start. The man next to me was touching my arm and I snatched my arm away
aggressively. I kept my eyes shut not wanting a direct confrontation with him. Hoping he would
just leave me alone, I pressed myself harder into the side of the train. He touched my arm again.
This time I opened my eyes and rounded on him.
“Get off me!” I shouted in English.
He was standing over me with an amused look on his face. He pointed out the window. I
followed the direction of his finger and saw through the darkness a line of men in green pointy
hoods marching along the platform. To my embarrassment I realised that we had arrived and that
everyone had got off the train. I must have fallen asleep. The soldier had only been trying to
wake me to get off the train before I ended up travelling back to Casablanca.

Outside of the station was mayhem. I was met by a wall of people and noise right in my face.
Everyone was trying to pull me one way or the other. It wasn’t yet light but the place teemed
with people, animals, cars, bikes, trucks and buses. I tried to walk ahead with purpose as if I
knew where I was going. I had three men talking to me at once while another young boy pulled
at my sleeve. A man came right up close to my face and shouted, “Taxi?” I shook my head and
showed him my bus ticket and he pointed towards several busses on the other side of the
terminal. I found the right bus and was bundled into it along with more people, goats, chickens
and children than should feasibly fit on a bus of that size. I had a window seat and two men filled
the seats next to me. I turned away and tried to make myself small and invisible. The bus set off
through the city and I viewed a scene before me more rich and alien than anything I had ever
witnessed. For a teenager from Hebden Bridge it was a profound culture shock. The sun had just
begun to rise casting long morning shadows. It bathed everything in an orange glow accentuating
all that was beautiful about this unfamiliar land. Tall palms lined busy roads that were filled with
horses and carts, open back trucks, mopeds and lorries all precariously jostling for space.

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Mysterious looking men wrapped in layers of blue fabric covering their entire bodies save their
black lashed eyes rode elegant stallions. Tired looking donkeys, weighed down by great sacks
strapped to their backs, picked their way slowly forward. Women, proud and graceful, dressed in
brightly coloured silky fabrics that danced around their bodies glided through the sandy earth
while children darted in and out of all the available spaces left for them by adults, animals and
palm trees. As we drove out of Marrakesh, the urban scene turned to a desert landscape and
planes of red and yellow earth stretched out as far as the eye could see. Meanwhile, the bus was
filled with layers of noise; people talking in Arabic, a loud radio playing unfamiliar music,
children crying, chickens clucking and goats bleating. I was far from home.

An hour into our journey the bus pulled over. The man sitting next me said something I didn’t
understand and I just shook my head to indicate that I didn’t want to talk. Everyone got off the
bus except me. I sat there like a frightened child clutching my rucksack. Twenty minutes later
everyone piled back onto the bus and the man sitting next to me passed me a yoghurt drink and
some bread. I looked at the food in his hands and then back at his old thin unshaven face set with
deep wrinkles. Was he offering me this food? He smiled at me revealing a single front tooth
stained yellow. He motioned again for me to take the food items. This time I did.
“Merci, merci beaucoup.”.
He smiled wider revealing more gums. I could have cried I was so grateful, not only for the food
but for one man’s kindness.

With this the tension I had been carrying since Tangiers began to leave my body. Staring out of
the dirty window at the baked desert landscape my mind turned to the people I hoped soon to
meet. I pulled out the piece of paper containing the address of my destination from my pocket;
Taghazout Village Campsite and then in brackets take the bus from Agadir. It had been folded
and unfolded so many times the paper was starting to tear along its creased ridges. I marvelled at
the effect this grubby, harmless-looking piece was having on my life. It was the key to the
gateway of this exotic land and the next part of my journey. It was already beyond anything I
could have imagined. As I thought about arriving at the destination written on the paper two
different scenes played out in my mind. The first involved a happy reunion with my friends that
included hugs and screams of excitement topped off with a healthy helping of admiration from
them that I had stuck to my word and travelled a thousand miles on my own to see them. The

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second, and worst-case scenario, was that my three friends would not be there. I tried not to
dwell on this possibility, I didn’t have a back-up plan.

Friendships Gone Bad and the Tattooists’ Bus

Agadir was a sprawling desert metropolis of modern buildings and lacked the charm and beauty
of Marrakesh. I found the bus to Taghazout and boarded it. There were several European looking
people on board and I asked one young blond couple if they knew where the campsite was. They
did. The girl said in a Germanic accent she’d tell me when to get off. My stomach lurched and I
sat down and took a deep breath. We drove north away from the modern city and along the
coastal road. On my left the blue sea twinkled in the sunlight under a cloudless sky and a rocky
sandy sprawl of hills made a steady climb up on my right. We passed through a village and soon
after the girl tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Next stop.”

I stood up and hoisted my rucksack onto my back. I could see the campsite from the road. The
bus screeched to a halt and I jumped off. The air was warmer than Gibraltar or Tangiers and
smelled of salt. I walked towards the sandy field where dozens of tents and even more
campervans were dotted around. I scanned the field and, unable to see Siobhan’s van, I started
walking around looking for her, Adam or Joshua. I was beginning to lose hope when I saw the
silhouette of two skinny guys appear on one of the sand dunes far off in the distance. I couldn’t
be sure because their frame was similar to most teenage boys I knew, but there was something
familiar about their walk. I headed towards them and watched as they disappeared into a camp
on the far right of the field. I heard Adam’s voice shouting to Joshua. I smiled broadly. I had
arrived.

“Where did you put it?” Adam shouted irritably.

“I told you it’s in there” Joshua replied impatiently.
“Hi guys,” I entered a little camp that consisted of two tents, a windbreaker, some tattered
bunting and a little charcoal burner. Joshua was sat crossed-legged on the ground with joint-
making paraphernalia on his lap. All I could see of Adam was his backside the other half of him
rummaging inside the tent. Joshua looked up and stared at me.
“Wow, Vicky is that you? Fuck mate, you made it! How you doing?” The words were the right
ones but the way they were said didn’t quite feel right. They were hollow, empty of substance,

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something was wrong. He smiled up at me but didn’t get up. This version of the reunion hadn’t
occurred to me.
“Yeah, good,” I felt self-conscious and shy.
“Got it,” shouted Adam triumphantly. He emerged out of the tent holding something in his hand
and blinked a couple of times when he saw me. “Vicky? Bloody hell, I can’t believe it you made
it. How’s it going?”
He came over and gave me an awkward hug.
“Good,” I repeated.
“How are you guys? What have you been up to since I saw you? And where’s Siobhan?” I
looked around. Adam passed Joshua a lump of dope. I saw a look pass between them.
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah, the bitch is okay,” Joshua said bitterly, bending his head down to heat and crumble a line
of hash into the joint.
“We fell out,” interjected Adam, “She did a runner with a guy she met soon after we got here.
Leaving us in the shit.”

I sat on the sandy floor and listened as Adam and Joshua recounted the story. They passed me
the joint and I breathed in its oily smoke and began to feel the sensation of my body being
weighed down. Turned out their biggest axe to grind was that Siobhan had been the one with the
money. It had been her idea to travel to Morocco, her campervan, and she had been the one
paying for everything.
“She comes from a family who are totally fucking loaded. She was the one who promised us all
this,” he made a sweeping gesture with his arm, “and a lift home and what does she do? She just
leaves us here. We were supposed to stay here all winter and now we’re gonna have to go home
in a few weeks unless we think up some way of making money.”
His voice was full of the injustice of it all.
“Oh shit, I’m really sorry,” I said feeling sorrier for myself and my own situation than theirs.
What about the money they were going to lend to me? How was I going to get home?
“But, anyway,” Adam said brightly, “It’s pretty cool here. Do you wanna go for a walk? I’ll
show you around.”
“Sure, let’s go.”
Now, I decided, was not the time to worry about my situation.

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Adam whistled over to the people in the adjacent camp and gestured towards our things.
“You can’t leave your stuff without someone watching out for it,” Adam explained taking my
rucksack off me and stashing it in his tent.
“It’s not safe.
“Right,” I looked over at the hippy-looking couple sat crossed-legged at the next camp. One of
them had a guitar.

We walked through a rocky terrace and descended onto a wide beach. To our north was a small
fishing village of white, blue and earth-coloured houses built into the side of the hill which
tumbled down to the sea’s edge. A lone white turret stood tall and proud among the flat-topped
buildings. The village was framed by a green rocky slope which climbed for several metres on its
east side.
“That’s Taghazout, not much goes on there but you can eat cheap at Hassan’s cafe. Down this
way...”
We turned south, the strong breeze now behind us whipped at my hair sending it into my eyes
and mouth. Adam pointed towards the furthest point. The expansive coast curved around in a
huge semicircle until it reached a rocky headland a few miles away,
“… is a bigger town called Tamraght Oufella. There you can buy a good meal and visit the
baths.”
I have arrived in paradise, I thought as I took off my flipflops and rolled up my trousers. I closed
my eyes feeling the warm sand between my toes. We walked along the water’s edge, the waves
washed over our feet. The Atlantic water was cold. All along, set back from the beach were
natural coves made of rock and sand. We could see brightly coloured hippy vehicles were parked
up inside some of them as we continued south. Joshua warned me against venturing into the
empty coves explaining, “They are covered in human shit. There’s no public toilets here. Most
people don’t have running water in their houses so men come here to do their business.”
“Yuck.” I said hoping we wouldn’t come across anyone doing a dump as we walked along.
I eyed the various types of mobile living vehicles parked up enviously. There were VW campers,
converted lorries and buses of various shapes and sizes. Many were brightly coloured and strewn
with Indian clothes and CND stickers. And then, just coming into sight, glinting in the sunlight,
was a bus in a wholly different class.

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“That,” Joshua said. “is the tattooist’s bus. His name is Wolfgang. He lives there with his
girlfriend Olga.”
I stared in amazement. It was straight out of an old movie. Although its shape and design were
old, everything else, the paintwork, body, alloy wheels, all looked brand new. It was the most
beautiful bus I had ever seen. The top half was turquoise and a dark blue curvaceous
asymmetrical design covered the bottom half, following the shape of the wheel arches, windows
and doors. There were no sharp corners or hard edges to this perfectly formed vehicle. I was in
love.

All I could say was, “Wow.”

“You should see it on the inside,” said Adam, “It will blow your mind.”
“What, you know those guys?”
“Sure, we’ve been around a few times. They’re really cool.”
“What and they do tattoos on the bus?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
This was the epitome of cool.
“How much does it cost?” I was already fantasizing about getting my own tattoo.
“What the bus?” Joshua replied confused.
“No, you know, a tattoo?”
“I’ve no idea, quite a lot I think. But I heard that if a tattooist uses one of your designs they’ll
give you a free one. So, I’ve been thinking of doing some drawing for him to see if they’d use it
and give me a free tattoo.”
“Do you draw?” I felt envy pricking at me.
“Nope,” said Joshua, “but I’m thinking of starting. Anyway, there’s not much else to do around
here.”
We were getting close and I could see two slender shapes pottering around outside.
“Hey Wolfgang!” Adam shouted waving as we approached.
The man turned towards us and squinted into the sun. He raised a hand and then disappeared
inside the bus. We approached the bus and a woman, who I assumed was Olga, sat cross-legged
on a large Indian cloth spread out on the ground. She had a book on meditation on her lap. She
looked up.
“Hi, Joshua, Adam, how are you? And…” she trailed off.

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“This is Vicky,” said Adam.
“Hello, Vicky. You are English also?”
“ ’fraid so,” I giggling awkwardly.

She was beautiful. Her eyes were the lightest blue with long auburn hair down to her waist. She
wore a green sarong tied around her neck that draped around her slender body revealing pale
freckly legs, arms and shoulders that were covered in blue and black ink. All sorts of images
depicting different scenarios climbed up her legs and thighs. The harsh lines contrasted with her
soft pink skin. She looked about the same age as me but from a different world entirely.
“Have a seat,” she gestured to the cloth on the floor. “Did you arrive from England today?”
She had a strong German accent and spoke in such a lazy, laid back manner you could never be
quite sure she was going to make it to the end of the sentence.
I told her I had been travelling for a while and gave her a condensed version of my journey so
far. I was hoping she would be impressed. I wanted to impress her. Her blue eyes stared at me as
I spoke but they remained expressionless and I had no idea whether she was bored or enthralled
by my narration.
“Hullo.”
I looked up to see the male version of Olga climb out of the bus. Except Wolfgang had more hair
and even more tattoos. His long red hair was tied back in a ponytail he had a long bushy red
beard and was wearing a pair of cut-off-jeans that hung low on his narrow hips. I could see a thin
line of red pubic hair travelling up to just below his belly button. Apart from his nose, lips and a
small area around his eyes, there was not an inch of skin untouched by tattoos. He was a moving
abstract sculpture of messy blue-black lines and ginger hair and I was finding it difficult not to
stare. His limbs folded neatly underneath him as he came and sat next to Olga.
“This is Vicky, she arrived today. She has been living in… Gibraltar was it you said?”
Olga’s piercing eyes were on me again.
“Er, yeah.” I didn’t like the sound of my voice. It sounded sharp and tense.
Wolfgang looked up.
“Why did you go to Gibraltar?”
He too had piercing blue eyes.
“Oh, I needed work and a passport,” uncomfortable under his gaze.

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He continued to stare as if expecting me to say more. I wanted to tell him about my journey to
Agadir, about hallucinating in the carpet shop, about kicking Mohammed out of my bedroom,
about being terrified by a man with a the newspaper on one train and then by hundreds of
soldiers wearing pointy green hoods on another, about the kindness of the soldier who woke me
so I didn’t end up going back the way I had just come and about the generosity of a one-toothed
stranger who gave me food on the bus but I didn’t. Instead I said, “Your bus… it’s amazing.”

Olga explained they come to Morocco to escape the German winters. They bought second-hand
furniture which they took back to sell in Germany.
“We usually make enough money to last us the year.” She said just a little smugly.
“So, you’re not tattooists anymore?” I asked disappointed.
“We will always be tattooists,” Wolfgang replied without looking up.
“Right,” I felt relieved without knowing why.
He had stuffed a chillum, a conical-shaped tube that he stuffed with soft brown tobacco and
green marijuana. He held the chillum upright and clasping one hand around its base tightly, he
tilted his head off to one side as he put a match to its end and began sucking. The oxygen
brought the chillum to life. Its end glowed an angry orange and clouds of smoke billowed around
Wolfgang making him look like an apparition. We all watched deeply impressed. I didn’t want to
get any more stoned but it was like being offered a cup of tea when you visit someone’s house, it
was rude to refuse. I took a long drag. I expected it to blow my head off and it did but not in the
way I expected. It was as smooth on the throat as on the mind. With this high everything became
velvety. All the edges and corners were taken off life. My voice sounded more rounded, more
resonant. I was fascinated by Olga and Wolfgang, this striking couple, intriguing and
intimidating, were only a few years older than me and yet they seemed to have their life perfectly
in order.

Wolfgang showed me inside the bus. The walls were panels of wood and chrome. They had a
raised bed, a dining area and a kitchen at the front of the bus. Everything was beautifully made,
from the cupboards, table and chairs, to the lamps, rugs and curtains. I was in awe. He showed
me their work area with its boxes of inks and pens and rows of photo albums filled with tattoo
designs. I looked through them. Many of the smaller designs were not that dissimilar to the kinds

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of things I drew all the time. I began to form a plan. I was so engrossed I didn’t realise how
much time had passed. Joshua poked his head in and said we should probably get back.

Back at the campsite Joshua pulled a stash of bananas and dates from his tent which we ate for
dinner. The two boys helped me erect my tent and I went off to take a shower. With no
electricity, I had to take a candle with me. There was one cold water tap in a wet room. By the
time I had splashed myself with cold water and soap I was freezing. The daytimes were warm
but the nights were very cold. I rushed back to our camp and crawled into my warm sleeping bag
and fell straight to sleep.

Meeting the Locals

We stayed at the campsite for a couple of weeks in which time I got to explore the area.
Although the place looked like paradise it was not designed for young, single, female travellers.
The moment I was on my own I would be propositioned by local men who would mutter to me
in English, French or Arabic. Regardless of the language, they all pretty much said the same
thing. “Pretty lady, how are you? Where you from? I can show you a nice place. Come with me
let show you my … (anything from) banana trees, mother, leather handbags, finest tagine pots,
big cock. You will really like them/her/it.” I didn’t feel particularly threatened by these mostly
young men but their persistent hustling and the way their eyes undressed me when they spoke
made me self-conscious and constantly on guard. I wished I had long flowing dresses that
covered my entire body. I took to pulling my black polyester pencil skirt down as low as I could
to cover as much of my bare legs as possible and then covering my bare midriff with a loose
shirt. I bought three metres of mustard coloured muslin to cover my head and or shoulders. It
made little difference.

My savings eventually ran out and initially I survived by becoming the local hairdresser. I wasn’t
a very good one but I was better than anyone else. Adam had a reasonable pair of scissors in his
kit and I had a bit of experience from a Saturday job in a hairdressers since the age of fourteen. I
had watched so many heads of hair being cut I could at least mimic the part. I had the arm
movements and approach and confidently snipped away at the overgrown heads of hair without
really having a clue what I was doing. The results were not often what I intended but word soon
got out that I could cut hair. The next thing I knew I had a queue of people all wanting their long
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unruly locks cut shorter. The trouble was that once I had sheared the local tourist population it
would be three months or more before they would want another haircut. It was not a sustainable
business model.

Despite my troubles with the local male population, I made two good friends. The first was
Hassan, a softly spoken young man who ran a cafe for tourists in Taghazout. I spent most of my
mornings at his place eating bread, yoghurt, bananas and dates for the price of a cup of tea back
home. Hassan was also the local dope seller and he introduced me to smoking kief, which he
explained was the best high because it is unrefined. I took his word for it and gladly accepted the
long thin pipe he passed me whenever I was there. Stoned, I spent hours at his place watching
locals and tourists come and go. When the cafe was quiet, Hassan would sit and talk with me.
had lived and worked in the village for four years running the cafe for his uncle who lived some
of the time in Marrakesh and some of the time with his second wife just around the corner.
Hassan’s dream was to leave the village and travel to Europe before his family made him marry
a young woman he didn’t love.

The second was Amir. Fat, middle aged and gay, he owned a restaurant in Tamraght Oufella
about eight miles south of the campsite. Emir’s restaurant became a regular eating place. It was
Maleek, a boy of about fifteen, who seemed to do most of the cooking and cleaning while Emir
served the tables and took the money. I liked Emir but I didn’t like the way he spoke to the boy
who looked constantly sad. Amir was camp, overdramatic and turned absolutely everything into
a sexual innuendo. He loved to flirt with Adam and Joshua. When we’d arrive in the evening, he
acted like a jilted lover demanding to know why they had left him for so long and saying how
cruel they were. Save a slight twinkle in his eye, you could never quite tell if he was serious or
not. Adam and Joshua would look coy but you could tell they liked the attention he lavished on
them. It also came with benefits; Amir plied us with free tea and food. Whenever we attempted
to leave he would beg us to stay longer telling us we were good for business because he always
got more customers when we were around.
“The gay men come for the boys,” he winked at me and looked over at Adam and Joshua, “and
the straight men come for you darling.” He smiled revealing a mouthful of jumbled teeth all
vying for space. The other more lucrative business asset in Amir favour was that he was the only
cafe for miles with a TV, which stayed on the whole time the restaurant was open. Despite what

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he said, it was probably this that guaranteed the steady stream of local men, especially on
football match days.

The Tagine Bake-off & Getting a Job

One evening at the restaurant, Amir placed a large terracotta chicken tagine on the table and with
a flourish lifted the conical lid releasing a gush of steam into the air.
“Eat!” he demanded and stood back watching Joshua, Adam and myself tuck in. “Is it not simply
the best food you have ever eaten?” He looked at us expectantly.
We were hungry and appreciated the food but the best food I’ve ever eaten? No, definitely not.
The boys being too well-mannered nodded politely. I on the other hand, could not bring myself
to tell such a barefaced lie so I cocked my head to one side and said, “Amir, it is really nice but
I’m afraid it’s not the best food I have ever tasted.”
“What!” he looked outraged. Oh shit I thought, now I’ve upset him and he was not the kind of
person you wanted to upset. He could be quite vicious to people who got on the wrong side of
him.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?” he demanded.
“Well,” I tried to choose my words carefully, “for a start there’s too much salt and well, too
much oil, and a few too many onions and it would be better if there was a bit more sauce, that’s
all.”
He looked to the boys to see if they agreed. They looked down into their laps and avoided eye
contact. Amir tutted and tore off a chunk of bread, stabbed it into the tagine and ate it. With his
mouth full he continued, “You young people, you criticise when you know nothing, nothing at
all, nothing about cooking food and nothing about cooking a tagine!”
He chewed the bread and though he still looked offended I could tell that he agreed. It didn’t
taste good. I’m not sure what came over me, it was completely out of character but I said, “I do
know how to cook Amir and I bet you I could make a better tagine than this.”
He banged the table making us all jump.
“What? I challenge you to make a better tagine than this and…and,” he stuttered he was so
emotional, “if you do I…I…I will offer you a job in my kitchen and in exchange you can…you
can live and eat for free. How about that? But,” and he wagged his index finger from side to side,
“let me tell you it is an impossible challenge. You cannot possibly win because foreigners cannot
make our food.”

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He put his hands on his hips and stared at me as if that settled the matter. I was excited by his
challenge but there was one concern.
“Amir, what about Maleek? If, against the odds,” I said to placate him, “I was to win what would
happen to him? I don’t want to put anyone out of a job” Emir shook his head, “You will both
work here together, I usually have two kitchen workers but I lost my last boy a few weeks ago. I
caught him stealing from me,” his face screwed up and he spat out some Arabic. I was pretty
sure he was swearing.
“So, I’ve been meaning to find someone else anyway. Impress me and you get the job.”

Growing up, I had to cook for a family of seven and from a young age learned the basic
principles of making food tasty, regardless of the dish or what the food was cooked in, or so I
hoped. And by now I had eaten tagines of varying quality in several places. Generally, I knew
what it was that made it good or bad; too much grease, too much salt, not enough of this or that
etc. But I had never before cooked using a clay tagine or used the unfamiliar spices of Moroccan
food. I might have set myself up for an impossible task but I had nothing to lose and everything
to gain. Standing up I put my hand out.
“I accept your challenge Amir.”
We shook hands and agreed the challenge would take place the next afternoon. Amir would
supply all the ingredients and Maleek would help me find anything else I needed in the kitchen.
Adam asked whether, seeing as I was kind of with them, if I won the offer of a place to stay was
extended to him and Joshua also. Amir pursed his lips and said coquettishly, “Of course, you can
both stay as well. You know there is always a warm bed for you here.”
I laughed as they bothed flush red. On the walk back to the campsite the boys quizzed me about
how I was going to learn how to cook a Moroccan chicken tagine by tomorrow afternoon. I had
no idea.

I started the day as usual at Hassan’s cafe. Bob Marley was playing loud and distorted through
the sound system. “One love, one heart, let’s get together and feel alright.” Hassan sang along as
he served the customers. I had never seen Hassan cook anything – I think the food at his cafe was
cooked and brought in by his uncles’ wife – but I was banking on him to tell me how to make a
good chicken tagine. When he came over to serve my table I told him about the challenge and he
got very excited.

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“Vicky, you are going to win this. All you have to do is listen to me very carefully.”
He sat down and with his wide brown eyes staring at me intensely, he explained step by step how
to make the traditional Moroccan tagine dish. My eyes were drawn to the adolescent layer of
dark fuzz above his lips and around his chin. He was trying to grow a beard.
“But what I have told you so far is what everybody does, so this will not win you the
competition. What will win you the competition …” he paused for effect and lowered his voice,
“are the secret ingredients.” He got up and disappeared into the shop for a few minutes and came
back out with a jar of liquid filled with dried apricots and a stick of cinnamon. “If you do as I
say,” he looked for the right expression and in an English accent said, “you will blow Amir’s
mind.” I laughed out loud at the phrase he must have picked up from some traveller. He looked
pleased with himself.
“These apricots are from my mother’s house, and they are the best in the whole of Morocco.
They are now soaking in honey water, leave them until you are ready to cook.”
I looked at the wrinkly fruits bobbing around in the yellowy liquid, they did not look particularly
appetising.
“While the chicken is cooking,” Hassan went on “put everything in the pan and bring to the boil
and simmer for fifteen minutes together with the cinnamon. When the chicken is nearly cooked
add everything to your tagine apart from the cinnamon. Cook for another five minutes and serve.
Easy. Have you got it?”
I repeated back all the steps I remembered and each time I got something right he clapped his
hands in excitement. He reminded me of a couple of small details and when I got to the end we
grinned at each other like we’d invented a way of becoming millionaires.
“With my recipe, I promise you have nothing to worry about.” He said walking off to serve a
customer. I clasped the jar of soaking apricots like it was a golden egg.

It wasn’t remembering the recipe that was difficult, it was navigating an industrial Moroccan
kitchen with a young boy who didn’t understand English or my French. Maleek watched me with
curious amused fascination as I crashed around the unfamiliar space. He seemed glad to have
some company in the kitchen and I saw him smile more in those two hours of mayhem in the
kitchen than I had in all the time I had been at the restaurant. He seemed to find it very funny
every time I swore loudly in English, which I did a lot. All the knives were blunt which made it
almost impossible to cut up a whole chicken. I couldn’t remember the French for garlic or

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coriander, two vital ingredients and in a panic tried miming a garlic bulb to Maleek sending him
off into a fits of giggles again. I had to ransack every corner of the kitchen and eventually found
a stash in a grubby fridge in a corridor between the restaurant and kitchen. Then I had to
negotiate the cooker that seems to have only two settings, high or off. Maybe this is why
Maleek’s tagine had been so dry. As the gas raged I tried to stop the chicken from burning or the
liquid drying up entirely underneath the earthen pot. I was sweating and not feeling at all good
about the dish. Then I added the plump apricots and honey water and waited as they mixed in
with the chicken juices. I lifted the ceramic lid and tasted the sauce. It was good. Really good. I
gave Maleek a taste and he smiled and nodded.

He cut up some bread and we served the table where Amir, Joshua and Adam sat waiting. We
stood back in anticipation, watching their reaction. Amir lifted the ceramic top of the tagine and
again steam billowed out filling the air with a deliciously spicy aroma. The sauce was still gently
bubbling around large pieces of browned chicken. He inhaled, cocked his head to one side and
looked at me suspiciously but said nothing. He spooned the chicken, vegetables and sauce onto
his plate and took some bread. I held my breath. He dabbed some bread in the sauce, stuffed it
into his mouth and chewed slowly. He swallowed. Some of the sauce had splashed onto his chin.
Then he took a chicken drumstick and began pulling the meat from the bone. Another mouthful
and a slight nod of the head. Finally, he said, “I cannot believe it. How is this possible? Where
did you learn to make food like this? This is very good. Okay, okay you win. Tomorrow you
move in and on Monday you start work with Maleek. Okay?” I smiled broadly and Maleek
started clapping his hands. Grinning, I nodded. “Now both of you, come and join us.” Maleek
and I sat down at the table and Joshua and Adam cheered. At that moment I couldn’t have felt
happier.

A Blood Bath

Seeing as he didn’t have any other guests staying for the next month Amir told the two boys they
could stay above the restaurant for a discounted rate that was only a fraction more than the
campsite. It was obvious he fancied them both and I wondered whether the whole cooking
challenge was an elaborate plan to get to them closer to his bedroom. The next morning I went to
tell Hassan’s about my success. I wanted to hug him but it wasn’t appropriate for a woman to
hug a man unless he was her husband and even then not in public. Instead, I recounted the whole

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experience and paid particular attention to describing Amir’s raptured expression when he first
tasted the sauce.
“You see? Didn’t I tell you Mother’s apricots were special? They can melt any man’s heart.”
He smiled and left to collect coffee cups from the empty tables leaving me to my breakfast of
yoghurt and bread. The call to prayer rang out and I looked out across the square at locals getting
on with their daily life. Women carried bags, buckets of water and children from one place to
another while men pushed wheelbarrows of bananas, fish or rice up and down the narrow
passageways of the village.

I still couldn’t quite believe Amir was going to let a foreign woman work in his cafe. A
restaurant was considered a man’s space. I never saw a woman go near Hassan’s place. I
wondered if he asked me to work there as a publicity stunt, so that locals could stare at me at
close quarters like an animal in the zoo. I didn’t care. I needed food and a place to stay. The
building had three floors. The restaurant took up the first floor and my room was on the second
floor next to Maleek’s. There was also a wet room with a tap and a toilet. Amir waved Joshua
and Adam up the second flight of stairs to the third floor where there were two more rooms.
Their room was next to Amir’s. Crafty, I thought. My room was bare but spacious. It was the
largest room I had slept in since I had left England. There was a hard, thin mattress on the floor
and a small bedside table with a candle holder, some candles and a small box of matches. There
was no electricity. The electric lights and TV in the restaurant ran off a generator which Amir
shut down at 9.30 each evening. One of Maleek’s jobs was to go around and light the candles in
each of the rooms and replace the burnt-out ones.

The next morning after a cold shower I decided to visit the local Hammam where I would find
community baths with hot water. I had heard about them but never been. I don’t know how long
it had been since I’d washed in hot water. Today was women’s day so following Amir’s
directions, I knocked on the heavy wooden door. A small shutter opened revealing a woman’s
face. She must have been at least a hundred years old. I greeted her in Arabic, the shutter closed
abruptly and the door opened. I walked into a dark room to be greeted by the ancient woman
naked from the waist up. Her shrivelled breasts hung down to her belly button and her wrinkled
skin hung in thin layers over her protruding bones. I had never seen an old person naked before.
She was completely toothless. She barked something at me on Arabic. I didn’t understand but

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another Moroccan woman, who was getting dressed, told me in French that I should pay her five
dirhams.

Feeling self-conscious I undressed leaving just my knickers on. The old woman grabbed a mop
and bucket and motioned for me to follow. She opened a big wooden door to reveal a scene like
something out of a horror movie. Inside the dark steamy low-ceilinged room, about thirty semi-
naked women and children sat bathing in blood. I stood dumbfounded, too frightened to follow,
to shocked to turn back. The old woman barked at me again. All the women stopped and turned
to look at me for merely a moment and, uninterested in the pale lanky European that stood frozen
to the spot, soon went back to chatting and scrubbing the children sat between their knees. I
looked around, no one seemed injured and they all looked happy. Were they all on their period at
the same time? The old woman grabbed my arm and tugged me forward. She had a vice-like grip
and she pulled me through the bloody water. Disgusted, I tiptoed as I was pulled into a side room
which thankfully was blood-free. In the dark room were three open tanks of water, which gushed
freely with water lapping over the edges. I was given a bucket with a plastic cup, a scratchy cloth
and some black soap. With her wooden mop, the ancient woman began pushing the water
towards the little drainage plugs around the floor. I stood for a while with my bucket unsure what
to do. I watched as several women collected a bucket of water and using the plastic cup poured
water over their heads, scrubbed themselves with the black soap and rinsed themselves off with
more scoops of clear water from their buckets. I copied them squatting gingerly. And then the
realisation slowly dawned, it wasn’t blood but the henna that women were mixing into a paste
and smearing on their long-wet hair that was causing rivulets of red liquid to run down their
bodies and gather in dark red pools around them. I laughed in relief at my ignorance and sat
down on the tiled floor happy to pour cup after cup of hot water over me until I started to look
like one of Hassan’s mother’s wrinkled apricots.

The Return of the Man on the Train

Work began at seven-thirty on Monday morning and I still wasn’t sure what the job entailed. I
didn’t think I was capable of cooking industrial quantities of chicken tagine for the local
population but I soon realised that hardly any locals ate at the restaurant. The only people
ordering food were the odd passing tourist and they were few and far between. My main duties
were washing up, serving the fresh mint tea to tables of Moroccan men, collecting empty glasses,

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cleaning tables and mopping the floor. The only busy time was football night. I had been
working for about a week when I experienced this, when every man in the neighbourhood
squeezed into Amir’s place and crowded around the TV to watch the match. I had never seen the
restaurant so busy. From my spot in the kitchen all I could hear was shouting like there was a big
argument going on, but when I went walked into the restaurant with a tray of glasses and teapots
it was just forty men talking passionately about football. When they saw me enter the place went
quiet. I looked at Amir and he pointed to a table in the corner. All eyes in the room followed me
as I walked across the floor towards a table of five men. I put my head down as I served the tea
avoiding eye contact. My face was burning red. I hurried back to the safety of the kitchen as
quickly as my legs would carry me. I tried to persuade Maleek to take out the next tray but he
was too busy making tea. When the next tray of tea was ready I braced myself, took a deep
breath and forced myself to walk out onto the restaurant floor again. The second time was a little
better. Most still stared at the strange sight of a foreign white woman serving them but they
carried on talking. And then once the football match started they were so engrossed in the match
they didn’t notice me at all.

The first half ended and I was returning a tray of clean empty glasses to the counter where Amir
was stood when I heard the room erupt into raucous laughter. It was such a wonderful sound I
turned to look at what was making them all laugh. They were all staring at the TV and at a man
in a suit sat backwards on a donkey holding an umbrella against a backdrop of blue sky and
sunshine. I looked at the man’s face… wait a minute, I thought, that’s not…no it couldn’t be,
could it? I took a step closer. Oh my God, it was. It was the same man, the man on the train from
Tangiers to Casablanca. The one who kept staring at me over his newspaper and kept trying to
tell me something I didn’t understand.
“Amir,” I said pointing at the TV excitedly, “You see that man? I know him. I met him on a
train.”
“What?” he asked incredulously. “You met Abdul Abbouda?”
“Yes,” I said laughing “but I didn’t know who he was. He spent an hour trying to tell me who he
was but at the time I just thought he was a weirdo!” I couldn’t stop laughing.
“Abdul Abbouda is a national celebrity,” Amir said proudly. “In this country to be a weather
forecaster you have to have a very good sense of humour because imagine, every day it is
sunny!” he chuckled, “Imagine how boring it could get. But Abdul Abbouda, he can always find

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a way to make us laugh and look how handsome he is.” He looked up at Abdul Abbouda
adoringly and added, “I would cut off my right arm to meet him. You are so lucky!”
I went back to the kitchen smiling and began washing up the huge stack of dirty plates and cups
that had accumulated in the sink.

I was finding increasingly frustrating that I couldn’t go out without a male chaperone, but one
evening I had an idea. I asked Amir to lend me one of his djellabas similar to the ones I had seen
the soldiers wearing on the train from Casablanca to Agadir. I would try going for a night walk
disguised as a local man. Amir thought the idea hilarious and went off to bring a selection of
robes to choose from. I picked one that was like many I had seen in the village. It was brown, a
bit worn and very big. Amir was fat and it hung loosely on my scrawny frame. I pulled the
pointy hood over my head and immediately it felt good. Every bit of me was covered apart from
the lower part of my face. Maleek and Amir stood back giggling hysterically at my changed
form.
“This is perfect,” I said giving a twirl, “no one will know I am a woman. I will try it out tonight!”
They instructed me how to walk and how to hold myself.
“Don’t bounce, “Amir said. Bow your head a little. Make your strides a little shorter.Yes…that’s
it. Now you look like a Moroccan man!”
Their excitement was infectious. Amir advised me to only walk for a short period and to change
my route each night. He told me not to speak. If I was spoken to I should only nod my head and
keep walking. On the first night they waited for me in the restaurant while I set off into the town
disguised as a man. It worked. It was like magic. I was ignored by everyone and it was liberating.
My nightly walks wrapped in Amir’s djellaba became the favourite part of my day.

The Secret Hand Holder & Drug Deal Gone Bad

I worked six days a week with Sundays off which was when I would walk up the beach to visit
Wolfgang and Olga and then Hassan in the village. It was during one of my visits to the
tatooists’ bus that after yet another chillum I asked Wolfgang if they had a pen and paper so I
could do some stoned pen and ink doodling. I was in my element and after a couple of hours,
Wolfgang peered over my shoulder at my spidery drawings.
“I like these,” he said picking one up. “Hey, can I use them?”

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On the inside I was screaming, Oh my God he just asked to use my design, yes, yes, yes!! On the
outside, I said coolly, “Sure, no problem.” I waited for him to say, great and in return, I’ll give
you a free tattoo, but he didn’t.

It didn’t take long working at the restaurant for things to begin to sour. Amir stopped being so
playful or good-natured and became frosty towards Joshua and Adam. I wondered if something
had happened between them that I didn’t know about. I felt uneasy. Then I woke up one night to
find Maleek asleep next to me holding my hand. I absolutely screamed the house down. Maleek
scarpered and Amir, Joshua and Adam came running into my room convinced someone was
trying to murder me. I told them what had happened and Adam ran into Maleek’s room but he
wasn’t there.
“But how did he get into your room?” Amir demanded.
“I don’t know. It’s always locked when I go to sleep. He must have a key.”
“Impossible! No one has a key except you and me.”
Amir looked at the door hinges to see if there was any sign of a break-in but there was none.
“Maybe he’s good at picking locks?” I said.
“When I see him I will beat his behind, the little rat. Now, can we please all get some sleep?”
Amir said crossly and left the room. Adam and Joshua asked if I was okay. I was fine just
shocked. I was not frightened of Maleek in the slightest but, fucking hell, waking up to him
laying there just made me scream. They traipsed back upstairs to bed and I closed and locked my
bedroom door, probably a waste of time. I sat on my bed feeling angry with Maleek but a little
sorry for him at the same time. I wondered if it was the first time he had come into my room
when I was sleeping. A shiver passed through me when I thought that he might have been
coming every night and I’d not woken up. I pushed the bedside table up against the door. At the
very least the noise of someone trying to get in might wake me. I took my Swiss Army knife out
of my rucksack, opened the blade and placed it next to my bed. I lay awake until morning. We
didn’t see Maleek for two days and when he came back he wouldn’t speak to me, not even to say
sorry. We were still working together in that confined kitchen.

A few nights later Adam and Joshua grabbed me on my way to my room. They needed to speak
with me. I ushered them in and we all sat on the bed. They told me they had a plan that was
going to make them some money. Ok, always worth hearing. They were going to pool all their

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money, buy as much hash as they could and take it back to England to sell. You and every other
tourist, I thought. Furthermore, they had met a French guy who was driving back to Paris in three
days and he was willing to take one of them and didn’t want any money.
“So we tossed a coin and Joshua is going to take the stash back to sell. I’m staying here,” Adam
said seriously.
“Right,” I said not knowing what to say. After I pause I asked, “Does the Frenchman know you
are going to be smuggling hash?”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Joshua said irritably.
“Oh,” I was quite shocked by this but didn’t want to seem uncool. I asked, “When are you going
to buy the hash?” Adam looked to Joshua
“We have met a dealer and I think it’s going to be tomorrow night.”
I wondered how much money they had and how Joshua was going to smuggle the drugs across
all those borders. It sounded risky and I was glad I was broke, because I wouldn’t have wanted to
pool in my money, but I didn’t say anything.

I was uptight and on edge the whole of the next day. It was quiet in the restaurant and Amir shut
early, so by nine I was in my room pacing the floor wondering where the boys were and if they
were alright. At ten-thirty someone knocked on my door. I rushed to open it and saw Adam and
Joshua standing there. They looked ill.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
Without saying a word they entered the bedroom and sat on the mattress with their heads in their
hands.
“Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“We’ve lost everything,” Adam said.
“What?... What do you mean? What happened?”
“It was a setup,” this time Joshua spoke. “We met them at the meeting place and they said we
had to give them the money before they could give us the hash.” I groaned, I knew what was
coming. “They said that was how they did business. ‘No money, no hash’ the guy had said. We
didn’t know what to do. We gave them our money and they were gone.”
IDIOTS! I screamed silently inside, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. This is awful. What are you
going to do?”

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“The thing is,” Adam went on, “we don’t have any money to pay our rent and someone has
already told Amir we tried to buy hash and lost all our money.”
“Wait, what?” My stomach tightened. Adam continued miserably, “Everyone in the town knows.
When they ran off we tried to run after them shouting for them to stop and for someone to help
us. People came out of their houses. Honestly, it felt like everyone was in on the plan. Amir is
furious and has said we can’t stay here anymore because we have brought disrespect on the
restaurant and that we all have to leave by tomorrow.” His head slumped forward onto his
drawn-up knees. “We’re fucked.”
“What do mean we all have to leave? I…I wasn’t part of this. You did tell him I wasn’t part of
this plan didn’t you?”
I got up off the bed and looked down at the two boys. They looked so pitiful. “Did you tell him I
wasn’t involved? Adam? Joshua?”
“We did,” Joshua looked up at me with his puppy dog eyes, “but he didn’t listen. He just kept
shouting he wanted us all out, that we were bad for business and he should have known not to
help foreigners.”
I was pacing.
“So, let me get this straight. None of us has any money and as from tomorrow none of us will
have a place to stay?”
They didn’t answer. I stopped walking
“I think you’d better go,” I said.
They got up without protest and left.

I didn’t bother turning up for work the next day. What was the point? Adam and Joshua went out
one last time to see if they could recognise the person who had taken all their money.
“Even if you do happen to spot him he’s never going to give you back your money, you’re
wasting your time.” I said as they were leaving.
But they didn’t listen. They just didn’t know what else to do, they were in a daze. Amir flounced
into my room and said exactly what the boys had said the night before. I pleaded with him saying
I had nothing to do with it but it was clear he had made up his mind. Coming on top of the
Maleek incident it was obvious he wanted me out as well. I sat moping in my room unable to
come up with a plan. It was five in the afternoon by the time the boys returned looking
completely dejected. I didn’t even bother asking them if they had found anything.

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“So, what are we going to do now? It’s already five o’clock and Amir wants us out tonight. It
will be dark in an hour or so.”
I was really pissed off with them both and I was beginning to feel a familiar drilling sensation in
my temple. I was almost certainly heading for a migraine. This was not a good time, so I ignored
it.
“We’ve got a plan,” Adam said.

Letting Sleeping Dogs Lie

“We find a cove and sleep there on the beach until we can sort ourselves out.”
They both watched me think this through. Adam continued, “The plan is that one of us stays here
with the gear to keep it safe while the other two go off on a recce. We find a beach cove that isn’t
covered in shit and is suitable for the tents. Then we come back and all the three of us head up
with the gear.”
My mind was busy making calculations.
“Can you get to the beach from this side?” I asked.
“We think so, but we’ll have to climb over the headland. We think the coves on the south side
are empty.”
I really couldn’t think of a better plan right now and the throb in my right temple was
intensifying. I said, “Right, who's going and who is staying?”
Adam and Joshua looked at each other.
“Dunno, we could toss a coin?” said Joshua looking at Adam, who shrugged and said, “Fine by
me.”
“Me too,” I said.
Option one was making an unchartered journey across a rocky headland and grovelling around in
sandy cove to see if there were any evidence of human faeces. Option two involved being left
behind for hours but only having to make the one trip in the dark. I thought about telling them
about the onset of my migraine but I knew it would sound like a lame excuse. The coin decided
that Joshua and I would go first.
“Okay,” I said resigned, “If we’re going to do this we ought to get on with it.”

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It was already twilight outside. Without saying goodbye to Amir or Maleek, Joshua and I set off
carrying a few bits including a water bottle and sleeping bags which we could leave at the cove
so on the second trip so we’d have slightly less to carry.

With my migraine coming in fast we set off in silence, giving me time for reflection on the last
twenty-four hours. I entered into a well of self-pity. The more I walked, the angrier I felt. It was
those two fucking idiots who had put me in this predicament. The angrier I got the more my head
hurt. We picked our way towards the coast across a rocky terrain and towards the headland. It
was about three miles and the uneven rocks and crevices made it a precarious journey and we
made our way carefully. It was almost dark and we hadn’t even reached the headland yet and I
kept tripping and stumbling in my flipflops. And then I fell, catching myself hard before I
slipped any further. I snapped, “Look, I think we should turn back it’s too dark, I can’t see where
I’m treading.”
Joshua was in front of me and without stopping or turning around he said impatiently, “We’ve
already walked a long way it is not so far now. We need to keep going.”
He spoke to me like I was three years old.
“Yes, I know, but it’s dangerous, I can’t see where I’m walking and we still have to climb over
that,” I said pointing to the dark headland looming ahead of us. “What if one of us breaks
something? I can’t see and we’re not even half-way there. Joshua!”
He stopped and turned.
“For Christ sakes, just follow me. Now is not the time to bottle out. We have to keep going.”
And without waiting for an answer he turned back around and walked on. It was pure bloody-
minded anger that got me up and over those rocks. I had so much rage in me I could have almost
flown over, but it took its toll. By the time we made it down the other side onto the beach the
pain in my head was searing and I was using everything I had to stop myself throwing up.

We reached the first sandy cove and I had gone as far as I could.
“Joshua, I don’t feel good. I’ve got a really bad headache and I feel sick. I don’t think I’m going
to be able to go back. I need to lie down.”
Joshua turned on me,
“You’re not really going to pull this on me now, are you? You have got to be fucking joking.”
He was seething. “Just pull yourself together? What about Adam, do you expect me to just leave

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him? He will be worried sick. I’m sorry if your head hurts but we are in a bit of a fucking
situation here and it’s really not the time to lay on a ‘poor me’!”
His words washed through me along with the nausea and the pain. It was too much. I sank into
the sand and put my head between my knees. I didn’t care anymore; about the man shouting at
me, about the human shit on the beach. I just needed to lie down and close my eyes.
“Selfish bitch,” was the last thing I heard him say.
I pulled my sleeping bag out of its cover and got in pulling the hood over my head and the
toggles down to close the fabric around my face so that only a small slit was left for air. I curled
up into a foetal position, closed my eyes and went inwards to meet the pain. Like a small boat in
the eye of a storm I was pulled up to the crest of the pain and then plunged back into a dark
throbbing nauseating abyss. I felt like I was on the brink of my existence. I was locked into this
undulating rhythm for what felt like hours until eventually sleep came.

When I awoke my migraine and nausea were completely gone. I had no idea how long I had
been asleep or what time it was. Without the accompaniment of pain, I became acutely aware of
how alone I was. Waves were crashing close by. It was a moonless night and all I could see was
eternity above me. A gazillion stars studded the black sky. So immense and endless I had a sense
of vertigo. The cold air seeped into my sleeping bag and I shivered. Images of Joshua shouting at
me flashed back at me. I tried to push them away. I didn’t want to think about him. Then I heard
something off in the darkness. I held my breath alert. It’s nothing, I told myself, just the wind,
but there it was again. Something was definitely moving beyond the darkness. Keep still and
quiet, I told myself. My heartbeat began pulsing in my ears. The noise got closer but still I could
see nothing. Had someone spotted me? I dared not move in case I drew attention to myself but I
was completely vulnerable with all my limbs zipped up in my sleeping bag which now felt like a
straightjacket. Slowly, carefully I manoeuvred my arms, searched for the zip and began pulling it
down to free my arms. There it was again. Just as I freed one of my arms I felt something push
into my side. I jumped and a yelp escaped out of my mouth. Sitting bolt upright with my heart
hammering in my chest, I began peeling the sleeping bag down over my knees, ready to run. All
the while snapping my head one way then the other trying to a glimpse what or who it was that
was standing off in the darkness beyond. Then a dark shape appeared in front of me, I froze. Just
inches from my face, sniffing the air, was a dog’s snout. I held my breath as we stared at each
other through the darkness. Breaking off the stare it turned and disappeared, the black night

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swallowing it up. I sat there motionless hoping it would just go away. Even though I was
terrified of dogs especially stray dogs that might have rabies and/or a vendetta against humans, I
was relieved it was a dog and not a man.

I heard the dog close by making snuffling noises around me. It returned to the same spot as
before and stared at me again. Nervously, I put out my hand. Sniffing the air slowly it edged
towards my hand. Just before it made contact it skittered away. By now my breathing had begun
to regulate and my shoulders relax. The dog soon returned, again I held out my hand. This time it
came closer. Its nose made contact with my hand, it was dry and warm. Dogs were supposed to
have wet noses, I thought, maybe it’s not very well. When I lifted my hand to stroke its head it
ran off again only to return a minute later. This game went on for some time. I started to feel the
cold again so I wriggled back into my sleeping bag and lay down.

Lying down seemed to be the signal because no sooner had I lay horizontal than several tiny
puppies appeared and began sniffing and licking me. I sat up again. “Hello,” I said laughing as I
picked them up one by one and caressed them. They nibbled my fingers with their sharp little
teeth. I counted seven of them but I couldn’t be sure. The bitch stood at a distance watching and
sniffing the sand around her. Eventually, cold and tired, I lay back down and curled up in a
foetus position. I felt the puppies burrow under my sleeping bag in search of warmth. I could feel
the heat of their little bodies penetrating the fabric of the sleeping bag and I smiled. The bitch
paced around for a while looking for a comfortable position until eventually she curled up next to
us. The puppies stopped wriggling underneath me and no sooner had we settled into stillness
than I heard the bitch growl low and deep in her throat. She could hear or smell something out
there in the darkness. Her growl intensified and I felt the puppies begin squirming around
underneath me again. The growl turned into a ferocious barking and then in a flash she ran off
into the darkness snarling at something. A few minutes later, once the danger had passed, she
returned, assumed her position alongside me and went to sleep. In my darkest hour this little
family had adopted me, given me company, warmth and protection and I lay there filled with
profound wonder.

I woke when the first rays of light began pushing away the darkness. I could make out six not
seven cute sandy coloured puppies with patches of white. Their mother, who was still sleeping,

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was not cute, she was mostly bald with oversized nipples suggesting that this was not her first
litter. I stroked the puppies as they woke up and chatted to them like they were old friends. I
wished I had some food or water for them but I had nothing. The bitch eventually stood up stiffly
and stretching her front paws forward, arched her back and yawned. She walked over towards
me and I looked into her tired hazel eyes.
“Thank you,” I said to her.
She sniffed a scent on the air, turned and walked off, her puppies’ moments later followed her. I
watched them walk along then beach, the bitch trundled ahead her nipples swaying from side to
side in search of their next meal. Her puppies skittered around behind her trying to keep up,
explore and play all at the same time. I watched them until they were out sight. As I recounted
everything that had passed the night before, the mist evaporated as the rays of warmth from the
rising sun melted away the night revealing a huge mass of inky blue sea before me. Waves
pitched forward crashing just metres away. It was a beautiful morning.

It was thirst that made me get up and I walked up the beach towards the tattooists’ bus. They
were still asleep and I waited outside in my sleeping bag until they woke up. I didn’t have to wait
long before Olga opened the door and saw me.
“My God, what happened to you?”
She took me inside and gave me warm tea while they both listened to my story. I didn’t tell them
about the dogs, this was something I wanted to keep for myself. They were kind, offering me
breakfast and a morning chillum. I refused the latter but ate the breakfast. Wolfgang came and
sat next to me and showed me a picture of a Japanese waterfall.
“What do you think?” he asked, passing me the image.
“It’s really beautiful,” I wondered why he was showing it to me. He said, “Do you think you
could turn this into a back tattoo?” He stroked his long ginger beard.
I looked again at the image. It had been cut from a magazine, a waterfall cascading through
rocky terraces where several magnolia shaped trees grew out of barren rock. One stalk flew
overhead while another stood motionless perched on a precipice. The lines in the image were
bold and black but the rest of the colours were subtle greens, greys and blues.
“In exchange I will give you a tattoo of your choice.”
I looked at him wide-eyed.
“Really?” He chuckled at my childish excitement.

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“Yes, really. Do you think you can do it?”
I looked again at the image. I had never done anything like it before.
“To be honest, I don’t know but I’ll give it a go.”
“Great,” he looked pleased. “We leave in three weeks so it will need to be done by then. You
may come around whenever you are free to draw.”
“Amazing, thank you.” I puffed up with pride.

Adam turned up at the bus looking very sheepish.

“Hi guys,” he said. Olga and Wolfgang returned his greeting but I just stared at him. “Hi Vicky,”
he said directly to me. “Are you okay?” He looked uncomfortable.
I couldn’t speak. I wasn’t ready.
“Look, Joshua says he is really sorry for what happened last night. He feels terrible. I think he
was under a lot of pressure and well…you know, didn’t deal with things very well. He really
feels bad. I’ve been looking for you all morning.” I still said nothing. “Anyway, the good news is
we’ve made a couple of friends. Two Moroccan men who live close to Amir’s place. They heard
what happened, it’s all over the town that we got ripped off, that Amir kicked us out and we have
no money and nowhere to go. Well, the thing is they came to say that we could stay at their
place.”
That got my attention. I looked up at him.
“What…you mean stay at theirs for…,” I paused, “…for free?”
He nodded.
“Yes. We’ve already taken all the stuff there and …well…they are very nice but…,”
“But what?” I said sensing a catch.
“It’s a bit basic. Actually it’s very basic but it’ll be better and safer than sleeping out in the open.
And they are really nice.”
I relaxed a bit.
“I have no problem with basic.” I thanked the tattooists for their hospitality and we set off in
silence back towards the town. Now in the daylight, I could see a much easier route back to the
town than the one we had taken the night before.

The Water Sellers

“It’s not much further,” Adam reassured me.

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We were walking along a network of sandy irrigation pathways through a banana plantation. The
tall trees surrounded us making it difficult to see where we were in relation to Amir’s place
which was in the centre of town. I guessed we were about four miles north but I was still sulking,
asking Adam wasn’t an option. When we arrived, our hosts were out. It gave me time to take in
the place without being under scrutiny. The walls were made of mud; rough and dark with a
continuous surface The door and roof were made of corrugated iron. There was one small
window which had a corrugated iron shutter over it. Inside it was dark but holes in the roof
allowed strong shards of daylight that cut through gloomy interior. It provided enough light for
me to make out a flat large metal disk with a handle lying flat in the middle of the floor. In one
corner stood a charcoal stove and a couple of blackened pots. The only furniture was two low
squatting stools. A grubby threadbare piece of cloth attached to a makeshift clothes line
separated off what looked like a sleeping area. Behind was a double mattress made out of old
rice sacks. There was no sheet and no other furniture. Resting against the wall were our three
colourful backpacks along with my red sparkling bongos, their garish glossy red sparkles
refusing to blend in with the earthy colours around them. They looked so full of promise and yet
so desperately out of place.

“They’re water sellers,” Adam said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I looked at him with a question mark on my face but didn’t really register what he was saying.
“Each morning they pull up water from over there,” he pointed at the metal disk in the middle of
the floor, “That’s how they make their money.” I stared at where he was pointing.
“That’s a well in the middle of the floor?”
“Yeah, pretty cool eh?”
I asked, “Where are they now?”
“Dunno, water selling, I guess. They left early this morning and I think they said they would be
back this afternoon. Only one of them speaks a bit of French so it’s not always easy to
understand what they’re saying. Joshua’s gone into town to send a message to his family to ask
for money so we can get home. I’m going to try my Mum tomorrow.” He sounded less that
excited by the prospect. I sat on the edge of the mattress suddenly feeling exhausted. Three
Europeans being given hospitality by two poverty-stricken Moroccans, this is what it has come
to, I thought. Adam said, “You look tired. Why don’t you rest? I’ll be just outside.”

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I nodded and took my headscarf out of my backpack and lay it on top of the scratchy mattress
before lying down.

I awoke to the sound of hushed voices and heavy objects being moved from one place to another.
Whoever they belonged to, they were hidden by cloth in front of me hanging from the
clothesline. I listened carefully, two different voices speaking quietly in Arabic. One of the
voices sounded like a child. I lay there for some time shy about introducing myself. I felt
ashamed we were in their house taking up their room but I couldn’t hide behind the fabric
forever. I got up and pulled the cloth to one side.
“As-salāmu ʿalaykum,” I said as I entered the space.
I looked down and saw a man and a boy squatting on the little stools. The boy was making tea
over the charcoal. The man was rolling a cigarette.
“Wa ʿalaykumu s-salām,” they both responded in unison smiling up at me. The older man rushed
up to offer me his stool. “Welcome, welcome,” he said in French.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Er…Yes please, thank you.”
He squatted down on his haunches and continued rolling his cigarette. I watched the boy making
tea and realised it wasn’t a boy at all. I wasn’t sure what he was. He looked like both a child and
an old man at the same time. His size, frame and features were that of a ten-year-old but his skin
was red and wrinkly like an old man and he was virtually bald. I had never seen someone who
looked like this before. I wondered what was wrong with him.

I watched as he made an elaborate show of pouring the tea into the glasses from a great height. A
single jet of hot water poured from the spout filling the glasses with hot frothy liquid. Smiling,
he passed me a glass of tea.
“Shukran,” I said. They looked at each other and laughed encouragingly.
“Very good,” said the older man, “you speak Arabic… very good.” He was a short and stocky in
his late thirties with dark hair and skin. He had lost three front teeth but he had a youthful sparkle
in his eyes. I had used up the extent of my Arabic and had to resort back to French.
“My name is Vicky. What’s yours?”
“My name is Mustafa,” said the older man, “and this is Khalid,” he said pointing to the tea maker
who smiled up at me. He also only had a few teeth.

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“Thank you for letting us stay here,” I said, “It’s really very kind.” Mustafa threw his hands up
as if dismissing this and said sagely,
“Some men here are very bad… but not all.”
I nodded emphatically. Khalid rummaged in a bag and pulled out a chunk of bread and a couple
of the small sweet local bananas and gave them to me. I thanked them again and they began
busying themselves. Feeling slightly awkward I asked if there was anything I could do to help
but they politely declined my offer. I took my stool and sat outside, watching the sun slowly sink
behind the banana trees and take with it the last of the day’s warmth. How is it possible that
those with so little can give so much.

Once the sun had set I went back inside. When I asked Mustafa where the toilet was he pointed
to a little hut made of corrugated iron twenty meters away. Before opening the door, I took a
deep breath. The toilet was just a hole in the earth and there was no toilet paper to speak of, just a
bucket if water with a plastic cup in it. The smell coming from the open cess-pit was
overpowering and I had to cover my nose and mouth with my t-shirt. I was glad it was dark
enough that I couldn’t see into the hole. I had a piss and got out as soon as I could. By the time I
got back, Adam and Joshua had turned up. My two hosts were making some food and the little
charcoal burner gave enough heat to take the chill out of the air. I felt guilty that we had nothing
to contribute. It suddenly seemed quite crowded inside the little room. Mustafa pulled the cloth
to one side to allow Adam and Joshua to sit on the mattress. Once the pleasantries were out of
the way the room fell silent apart from Mustafa and Khalid passing the odd comment between
themselves as they prepared the food.
“Er…look Vicky…” Joshua said quietly.
I turned to look at him trying to maintain a blank expression,
“I’m really sorry for what happened last night ok? I was just really stressed with everything and
well…I just wasn’t thinking right and I didn’t know what to do and reacted badly. I’m sorry.”
I felt nothing and knew there was nothing he could say to me that could undo what he had done.
I just said, “Don’t worry about it,” and turned away coldly.

Adam tried to brighten things up.

“Joshua’s got through to his mum. She’s going to buy him a plane ticket and send some money
over, it should be here in a few days.”

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“Great,” I said and without thinking heard myself say, “Tomorrow I’ll go into town and ring my
mum too, see if she can help me get back to the UK.”
I heard the words come out of my mouth and then had to think about their meaning. Was this it?
Was I going to go home now? For the first time in six months, I’m thinking about going home
but only because I had to.
“I’ll come with you,” Adam said, “we can hitch in together.”
At least that would save me from a day of being followed by Moroccan men.
“Cool,” I said watching Khalid approach me with a bowl of steaming soup and bread. I took it
gratefully. Mustafa brought over another bowl for Joshua and then said to Adam with a smile,
“When they finish it’s your turn, ok?”
They only had two bowls and two spoons. Another wave of guilt washed over me. Burning my
mouth, I tried to eat the soup as quickly as possible.

When it was time to sleep Mustafa and Khalid tried to give me their mattress. This was too
much, I put my foot down and insisted I was fine sleeping on my roll-mat with my sleeping bag.
To give me some privacy they rearranged the piece of cloth so that I was hidden behind the cloth
in a small corner of the room. Although it was probably very early, I was grateful when the room
was plunged into darkness and I could take a moment to collect my thoughts. I wondered about
Mustafa and Khalid. Were they friends or lovers? How had they come to live here together on
the edge of town in such poverty? And how is it possible that they so graciously share what little
they have with strangers? I was so sceptical when Adam first told me that two Moroccan men
had offered to put us up I was sure there was an ulterior motive. Within minutes of meeting them
my scepticism melted away. Something about their expressions, the way they held themselves,
their shyness and open smiles, invited trust and their kindness and generosity helped rebalance
my opinion of Moroccan men and of men generally. I heard dogs barking off in the distance and
I remembered my companions from the night before. I wondered where they were right now and
hoped they were okay. Against the odds, somehow, I was being taken care off.

I became aware of an unusual repetition of sounds inside the hut. It felt like the middle of the
night. Still heavy with sleep, I forced my eyes open. A candle was lit candle and a small shadow
moved oddly behind the curtain, I assumed it was Khalid. What’s he doing? Finally, my curiosity
got the better of me and I carefully pulled the fabric to one side and peeked through. The metal

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disk in the middle of the floor had been moved to one side revealing a dark hole. Khalid was
lowering a plastic container tied to a thin rope down into the well. Once the container had
reached the bottom he made a flipping action with his wrists to tip the container on its side so it
would fill with water rather than sit on the water’s surface. Once it was full he pulled it to the
surface using elaborate rhythmic arm movements that reminded me of a spider walking up a
strand of web. He then tipped the small plastic vessel of water into a much larger container. I
watched as he repeated this action for about an hour slowly filling several large containers. It
was just starting to get light. When all the large containers were full he replaced the metal disk
over the hole and loaded them precariously one by one onto a wheelbarrow and set off into the
dawn.

Learning the Art of Begging and Deceit

When we got up, Mustafa gave us some tea and bread before Adam and I set off for Agadir. It
seemed a lifetime ago that I had caught the bus from Agadir to the campsite but it was less than
two months. Agadir was a culture shock. It was teeming with tourists and street hustlers. We
walked down the main street.
“Look!” I said, pointing at the window of a tourist cafe. A sign had been hung reading Merry
Christmas.
“What’s the date?” Adam asked looking confused.
“I have no idea.”
Concerned, Adam said, “Do you think we’ve missed it?”
“Let’s find out.”
I saw a blond middle-aged couple coming out of the cafe,
“Excuse me,” I said politely, “could you tell me what date it is?”
The couple looked at each other and laughed. The man looked at his watch, “It’s the nineteenth.”
We looked at him blankly, “the nineteenth of …December.” He looked at the woman he was
with as if to say we’ve got a right pair of idiots here.
“Thank you,” I said and looked at Adam in amazement. “It will be Christmas in a few days and
we didn’t even know!”
“Ah…who cares,” he said, walking on.
To my surprise, I realised I cared. I was going to be away for Christmas. I had forgotten all about
it but now I knew I was missing it… What was I going to do here?

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We looked for the office Joshua had said would do reverse charge calls. When we eventually
found it there was a long queue. I looked around at the assortment of young foreigners waiting
their turn and wondered how many of them were in trouble and calling their parents for help. As
I got closer to the front I started to feel nervous about speaking to my mother. I had no idea what
her reaction would be; firstly, at having to pay for the call and then at being asked for money. I
dialled the number and heard a series of clicking sounds followed by an unfamiliar ringing tone.
Had I got the wrong number? It rang for a few minutes but no one picked up. I tried again. Still
nothing. Shit, I thought, what now? I tried ringing my mother’s friend but when the operator
asked her if she would accept a long-distance reverse charge call she put the phone down.
“Shit,” I said, out loud this time.
I met Adam outside. He looked pale.
“You okay,” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You?”
“Mmm…I couldn’t get through. I’m going to have to hang around and try again in a little while.
You can go back if you like,” I said not meaning it.
To my relief he said, “Nah... I’ll hang here with you for a bit. It’s quite nice to get out of the
village for once.”

We walked around the town for a couple of hours before returning to the office again. I tried my
mum’s number but there was still no answer. Again I tried to make a reverse charge call to her
friend Louise, but again she did not accept the call. Adam was waiting for me outside the shop.
“Still nothing?” He could tell the answer from my expression. “We could come back tomorrow?”
he said optimistically.
“Yes, but it’d be better if I could get through today. If I had enough money I could leave a
message with her friend.” Then I had an idea.
“Wait there.”
I walked off towards a group of five tourists walking towards us that looked English. I addressed
myself to one of the women; in her fifties with bright pink lipstick and blue eye shadow.
“Excuse me,” I said politely, “I don’t know if you can help me but I’ve had all my money stolen,
I’m trying to get back to England and need to make a call to my parents. You couldn’t spare a
couple of dirhams, could you? So I could phone home.”

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“Oh, you poor thing.” She turned to the rest of the group, “You ‘ear that. The poor girl’s ‘ad all
‘er money stolen. Can’t get ‘ome. Steven, you got some change we can give ‘er so she can ring
‘er mum?”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. They all started rummaging in their pockets and wallets.
“’ere ya go,” the man called Steven passed me a handful of money. Everyone did the same.
“Your poor mum, I bet she’s worried sick, make sure you ring ‘er as soon as you can,” she said.
She clearly didn’t know my mother. I reassured her that thanks to them I would be able to ring
her straight away. They smiled, looking please with themselves.

I looked back at Adam who was watching me with his mouth wide open.
“Careful,” I said brightly; my mood had lifted considerably, you’ll catch a fly. His mouth
snapped shut.
“Have you done that before?”
“Never,” I said opening up my two hands to reveal a pile of money.
We counted it out and reckoned that If I didn’t spend too long on the phone to my Mum’s friend
or if I could catch my mum in, we might have enough money to last a couple of days. I prepared
my speech carefully so as to spend as little time on the call as possible. I had all the information
ready and concise.
“I was fine… blablabla… I was trying to get home… blablabla…I had run into a bit a
difficulty…please pass on a message to my mum that I need some money to get home as soon as
possible.”
I had the name of the bank where she could make a postal order written on a piece of paper. I
knew I was going to have to spell it out which would take time and cost me even more money. I
tried once more to call my Mum. Still no answer, so I went to the man at the reception and told
him I wanted to make a paid call. I gave him the number and he sent me over to the phone. I
picked up the receiver and watched him as he punched the number into a switchboard in front of
him. The phone connected.
“Hello?” I recognised her voice. “Louise, it’s me, Vicky.” It took me just under four minutes to
get all the information across to her and to reassure her that I was okay. It had cost much more
than I had hoped and most of the money was gone.

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We stood outside looking at the little change left from the expensive phone call. Typical, I
thought annoyed at Louise.
“If someone tried to make a collect call to me three times in a row, never fucking mind who it
was, I would accept it,” I said bristling.
“Why don’t you try it again?” Adam said.
“Try what?”
“Telling stories to tourists to get money.”
“Why me? Why don’t you do it?”
“Because you’re really good at it,” he said trying to flatter me.
“It’s not that I’m good at it, it’s that I was telling the truth and didn’t have much choice. If I did it
again I’d be lying and it wouldn’t be the same.”
Adam lifted his shoulders and spread his arms out, his palms facing skyward as if to say, no
harm in trying.

We walked along a busy road full of tourists and I eyed a middle-aged couple walking towards
me.
“Okay, here goes.”
I approached the couple and said pretty much the same as before. It worked. They didn’t give me
as much as the last lot but it worked. I persuaded Adam to have ago but he would only do it on
the condition I went with him.
“The presence of a girl would help people feel sorry for us.”
“God that’s fucked up,” I said annoyed, knowing he was right.
We were on a roll and nearly everyone we asked gave us something. One couple said they were
sorry they had no change on them but gave us coupons to go and eat at their hotel. They had an
all-inclusive package and weren’t going to eat at the hotel that day.
“Just give them to the man at the counter and you can eat as much as you like.”
Our eyes were as big as saucers at the idea of eating as much as we liked in a four-star hotel. We
had made enough money to last us for a few days so we set off to find the hotel and fill our
bellies.

The doorman eyed us suspiciously as we walked into the plush modern white hotel. I
straightened up, holding my head up high trying to act like we were staying there. At the

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restaurant I passed the two tickets to the waiter standing at the entrance. I was sure he was going
to send us away. He looked at the tickets and then up at us.
“Welcome, please follow me,” he strode off at pace and showed us to a table. He pulled out a
chair, “Mademoiselle?” I took the chair. “Monsieur?” he pulled out the next chair. We were in a
daze. “A waiter will come and take your drinks order. In the meantime please help yourself to
the buffet.” He made a wide sweeping gesture towards the counters stacked with an incredible
array of foods. He bowed and left. We held it in just long enough for the waiter to be out of
earshot before with we began snorting with laughter. Once we’d calmed down and stopped
acting like over-excited children we approached the buffet and worked out a strategy for eating
and stealing as much food as was humanly possible.

The choice was overwhelming and I didn’t know where to start. There were breakfast foods
available including fruits that I had not seen for months; peaches, grapes, mangoes and
pineapples. There were pastries: pan au chocolate, pan au raisin and croissants not to mention
yoghurt, cereals and an array of loaves of bread and spreads. They even had marmite. There was
a full English cooked breakfast available as well as various cheeses and cold meats. On another
counter they had the option of various Moroccan dishes including tagines, stews and kebabs. I
gravitated towards the English breakfast and pastries and it was only by my third helping that I
began to feel ill from eating too much too quickly. Then we started to discreetly pack our bags
with food items. We concentrated on pastries, exotic fruits, bread, and as many little jam pots
and butter portions as we could cram in our pockets, oh and two bowls and two spoons. High on
indulgence and fear of being found out we kept breaking out into fits of giggles. By the time we
finished, our table was stacked with empty plates, bowls, cups and glasses. We were enjoying
out fifth cup of English breakfast tea with milk and sugar and I took a moment to look around me
at the other guests in the restaurant. I was shocked to at how bored and disinterested they seemed
to be in the abundance around them and I felt sorry for them.

It felt so good to have our hunger satiated and bags full of food offerings for the house. We did
not dwell on how we had acquired our good fortune but instead got busy planning the next
begging trip into town in a few days time. I even caught myself thinking, if I could make this
much money, perhaps there’s no need to go home. It was late by the time we arrived back at the
hut and the food gifts were received gratefully by our hosts. I was glad communication was so

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limited and no one asked how we’d come about them, especially the new bowls. I wasn’t proud
of myself. I knew Adam would tell Joshua at some point and I didn’t mind that but I didn’t want
Mustafa and Khalid to think of us as beggars and liars. We maintained that we had eaten and
didn’t need feeding but Mustafa insisted we share what they had prepared. That night we all
went to bed stuffed with food.

I spent the next few days at the tattooist’s bus working on the waterfall design. On Christmas
Day I decided to go and visit my friend Hassan who I hadn’t seen since all the trouble at Amir’s.
“Where have you been?” he said as he saw me walking towards the cafe. “I was worried about
you.”
I sat down at a little table outside. There were no other customers. He brought me a coffee and
joined me, his handsome face staring at me earnestly, while I caught him up on everything that
had happened. When I had finished he threw his hands in the air, “I thought you were my sister
and you tell me this now! Why did not come to see your friend Hassan before? I could have
helped you.”
I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it again. I hadn’t expected this. I tried to think of
how to explain.
“Hassan, I have nothing. I didn’t want to come to you because I would only be a burden.”
“Uhuh…I see, so you can take charity from two strangers, even a dog but not me?”
I was shocked to see he was genuinely upset with me.
“Well…I …I don’t know what to say. I’m really sorry.”
I was so moved by his declaration of friendship and concern for me my eyes filled with tears
which plopped down onto the table. Embarrassed, I wiped them away quickly. He softened his
voice, “Look, Vicky, I have a room above this café. There is nobody there, it is vacant. I wish it
wasn’t. Can someone tell me where are all the hippies this year?”
I laughed.
“But seeing that it is empty you can stay in it. Then you won’t have to sleep in a room with four
other men. Unless you actually like sleeping in a room with four men?”
He looked at me in mock disapproval. I smiled. He went on, “It does not have running water. If
you need to do your business you do it in a bucket. It is ok,” he said, seeing my reaction, “my
uncle’s wife and their daughter come once a day to empty it. Each day she will bring two buckets
of water, one to use to for the toilet business and the other to wash in. It is basic but not as basic

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as where you are staying now. Soon your mother will send you some money and when she does,
if you can spare some, you will give me a little, if you cannot no problem.”
I wanted to hug him but I couldn’t. Instead, I said somewhat ineptly, “Thank you, Hassan, thank
you for your friendship. Where does the water come from? Maybe I can collect it? I feel bad
someone getting my water for me and worse taking my toilet business,” I said using his phrase,
“Show me where and I will empty it each day.”
Hassan explained there was a lot of politics to do with water and sewage in the village and it was
just simpler all around if I didn’t get involved. We arranged that I would come with my things in
two days. This gave me time to go back to Agadir to check if my Mother had sent me some
money. I also planned to do some more begging but I didn’t tell Hassan about my new source of
income. I said goodbye and walked off down the road. Just as I was about to turn a corner I heard
Hassan shout, “Vicky!” I turned thinking I must have left something, “I forgot to say… Merry
Christmas!”
I smiled the entire eight mile walk back along the beach to the hut.

When I got back I told them all that I would be leaving to live in Banana Village in a couple of
days. Mustafa and Khalid looked disappointed and I promised I would come back and visit them.
Joshua looked relieved. It hadn’t been easy sharing a confined space with him these last few
days. I still could not bring myself to speak to him and we mostly avoided each other.

The following day all three of us were up and out early to go into Agadir. Joshua had received
the money from his parents and needed to visit the travel agency to get a plane ticket to go home.
Adam and I needed to check if we’d received anything from our parents and then we planned to
go begging again. Adam and I went to the bank to check but still nothing. Disappointed, we
reluctantly went back out onto the streets to start begging. We soon realised it wasn’t the same as
a few days earlier. For some reason people were suspicious and didn’t believe our story
anymore. Some people even ignored us, which made me want to slap them. I don’t know what it
was about us, our story or how we told it, but they knew we were on the game and we had to
work twice as hard to get half as much. Neither did we score any ‘eat as much as you like’ buffet
tickets. When we met up with Joshua he was in high spirits because he had brought his plane
ticket and was leaving for the UK in four days. He would be home to celebrate New Year's Eve
with his family. Adam looked a bit panicky and said he hoped to get his money in time to get on

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the same plane as Joshua. I didn’t think he would cope with being left on his own in Morocco. I
had a bad feeling about receiving any money from my Mum. I didn’t think it was ever going to
arrive. I wondered how much longer I could stay and what I would do if it never came. Adam
began sharing out the money we had collected that day. We put some aside to give Mustafa and
Khalid. There was only enough for a couple of days so we would have to return soon and start
hustling again. Begging had by now lost its appeal. In place of the thrill of a few days ago it now
made me feel poor, dirty and invisible.

Go and Pray to Allah!

I moved up to Banana Village to live above Hassan’s cafe. The room had its own entrance at the
side of the cafe. He showed me up a narrow staircase to a sizeable room which had two large
windows overlooking the cafe outdoor seating area and the square. It was empty apart from a
dirty mattress in the corner. I wondered whether Hassan would have covered the stains if I had
been a paying guest. There was a small wet room off to the side that contained three buckets and
a plastic multi coloured teapot. The teapot with its long spout was for accurate bum washing. No
one seemed to use toilet paper in Morocco and I had grown accustomed to using my left hand to
wash when I went to the toilet. I couldn’t now imagine going back to using paper which seemed
unclean in comparison. Two of the buckets were full with water and one had a lid on it. I
assumed this was the toilet. There was no electricity and no running water but I was grateful to
have my own space. Hassan lived with his uncle a few doors away. It would take some getting
used to being in the building on my own at night but at least the cafe stayed open until late,
though there were never many customers in the evening. I looked at the lock and hinges on the
front door and hoped they were robust enough that I wouldn’t wake up to find any unwanted
visitors sleeping next to me in the night. Hassan told me that I was always welcome to eat with
him. I thanked him but vowed to myself that I would only eat breakfast. I already felt bad enough
that I was living rent-free without eating all his food as well.

Two days later I went back to the mud hut to say hello to Mustafa and Khalid and to meet Adam
for another trip to Agadir. At the bank the money from Adam’s parents was there waiting for him
but there was still nothing for me. He went off to try and get a ticket for the same flight as Joshua
and I went begging on my own. I had lost my nerves in approaching people but I hated every
minute of it. Each time I felt like a bit of me disappeared, I was becoming invisible. what was
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left was weak and transparent. I met with Adam and by the smile on his face I could tell he had
got his ticket. We caught the bus home together and said our goodbyes as he jumped of the bus a
few stops before me. I never saw him or Joshua again.

New Years’ Eve came and went unmarked. I settled into a routine of having breakfast with
Hassan and then walking down to the tattooists’ bus to work on my design. Every four days,
when I was out of money I would hitch a lift from a tourist into Agadir. That was how I met
Howard. Howard gave me a lift in his lovely turquoise VW campervan. He was in his late forties
and had one of the kindest faces I ever saw. He had chestnut hair, what was left of it, a full beard
and large brown eyes. A school teacher who was, “Taking a break away from all the madness,”
he told me with a kind smile.
He was on his way to Marrakesh but would be back in a few days. He told me where he parked
up on the edge of a little rocky peninsular in Banana Village along with a load of surfers and said
that if I was still around at the end of the week I should come and visit him for dinner. I said I
almost certainly would. He dropped me off and I went to the bank to check if any money had
come.

By now I knew the bank and everyone in it well. They all looked at me pitifully when they saw
me come in. I’m sure one of them had seen me begging. Still no money had arrived so I went
back out to beg. It was much harder on my own because I too was getting hustled by Moroccan
men propositioning me to go here or there with them. I had grown a thick skin by now and was
weary of expending too much energy shooing them away. I wasn’t scared but they were
annoying, always trying to touch me or say disgusting things to me. I spent hours trying to think
up inventive and creative ways of repelling them. It occurred to me if I could speak Arabic and
incite the will of Allah in some way I could get them to leave me alone. I made a mental note to
myself to ask Hassan so he could teach me a phrase. On the crowded bus home a man tried
touching my arse while standing behind me. I didn’t have the energy to make a scene so I just
pushed myself away from him and stood next to a family with two small children and prayed
they wouldn’t get off the bus before me.

I told Wolfgang and Olga I had changed my mind about getting a tattoo. With only days
remaining before they left, I didn’t want to rush something as important or as permanent as

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getting a tattoo. I was obsessed with finishing and doing a good job on my design before they
left. They had been very kind to me and I had smoked a lot of their hash, which I saw as a fair
exchange for the work I had done. The day before they left I arrived early to work on and finish
the waterfall tattoo. I worked all day without a break. Both Wolfgang and Olga passed me a
steady supply of food, drink and chillums to keep me going. At ten in the evening I finished and
showed them the drawing. First, I passed it to Wolfgang. He nodded his head and smiled passing
it to Olga. She nodded and smiled.
“It is very beautiful.”
I filled with so much pride.
Wolfgang took the picture back and looked at me earnestly.
“So listen, we will be back in four weeks, if you change your mind about having your tattoo and
you are still here, come back and see us okay?”
“Definitely. But I won’t be here. I will have left by then. I have to go home.”
We hugged and said our goodbyes and just as I was about to leave Wolfgang said, “Hey, you
gonna be okay going back at this time on your own?”
“Sure,” I said confidently. I was still glowing from their adoration of my picture.

I walked down the steps of that beautiful bus and strolled into the night. The chilled air woke me
up from my loved-up stoned haze and the thought of now trying to get to the village on my own
soon brought me up to face reality. I stood for a while trying to work out what to do. I had two
choices; to walk along the beach, but it was much further than the road, completely dark and if I
had any trouble there would be no one around to help. Or take the road where there was the
possibility of getting a lift from a tourist back to the village. For a moment I thought about going
back to the bus and asking for their help but I didn’t want to bother them. I decided on the road
option. There was a full moon and that would give me enough light to see where I was going.

Twenty minutes later I arrived at the main road. I could see a smattering of houses built into a
sloping hill on the other side of the road and the faint glow of candles lit up several of the
windows. I needed to pass the little village as I headed north, without being noticed or I was sure
I would be followed. In an attempt to not be seen I stayed on the opposite side of the road from
the houses walking against the oncoming traffic. There were few vehicles at this time of night. I
pulled my black nylon pencil skirt down low on to my hips to cover my ankles and rearranged

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my scarf around my head. Hoping not to stand out as I passed the houses. I tried to assume the
walk of a local woman, proud and with a lilting stride. I looked ridiculous. Once past the little
cluster of houses, I crossed the road in hope of hitching a lift. I heard an engine in the distance
and as it came closer I turned towards it looking for a foreign number plate and trying to see who
was in the vehicle. I knew it would not be safe to travel with Moroccan men. The dazzling
headlights meant I couldn’t see anything until it passed me by which time it was too late. Shit,
what am I going to do? It really was too risky to hitch at this time of night, so I decided to walk.

I was working out how long the journey would take when someone behind me said in French,
“Hey lady, you looking for something?”
I turned and saw a man in his mid-twenties dressed in a long, embroidered smock.
“No, go away,” I said the words hard and slow in English. I was irritated by him but not afraid.
He followed a few steps behind me murmuring continuously to my back. I didn’t understand
everything but I caught snippets,
“Nice lady, come here… I have something for you… come with me…Let me show you
something… I have what you want.”
He would soon get bored and leave me alone.

Then another man appeared riding a bike towards me on the other side of the road. The mutterer
behind me whistled. As if they had been planning the attack for weeks, without exchanging a
single word, the man on the bike crossed over, threw his bike down and lunged at me. He
wrapped both his arms around my upper body, pinning my arms to my side, and began wrestling
me down the slope towards the bushes at the side of the road. The mutterer went to grab my legs
but only managed to get hold of one of them. I found myself doing a one-legged hopping and
kicking tango with the two men as I tried to free myself from their grip. I was not a small
woman, nor was I weak. I had never been one for going to the gym but a childhood obsession
with walking on my hands meant that without intending to, I had developed considerable upper
body strength. I discovered this at the age of fifteen when I ended up, quite by chance, taking
part in an arm-wrestling competition in a biker’s pub near Halifax. Much to everyone’s surprise
including my own, I beat every last woman and man in the competition. So, carrying a six-foot
writhing arm wrestling champion into the bushes was no easy task and the two men were not
having an easy time of it. I tried desperately to break free and kick the murmurer hard in the face

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but my stupid pencil skirt restricted my legs and I couldn’t get enough space or momentum
behind a kick. Their grip tightened. We were inching towards the dark bushes. I knew what was
coming and despair spread inside me like a disease. Why hadn’t I stayed with Wolfgang and
Olga? Why was I in Morocco? What the fuck was I doing. I was losing the fight.

Then, as if we were all in a film, someone hit the slow-motion button. As our writhing mass of
bodies reached the bottom of the slope I managed to free one of my arms. With every bit of my
strength I elbowed bike man hard in the ribs. He cried out in pain and instinctively let go of me
as he gasped for air. At the same time my captured leg escaped from the mutterer’s hands It was
all I needed and as he grabbed at it again I managed to kick him in the face with all the force my
nylon pencil skirt and flipflop would allow. It was enough to topple him over. Momentarily free
from their grip, I hitched up my skirt and ran as fast as I could. I had entered a time warp where a
second lasted a minute. I heard the thudding rhythm of the men’s footsteps close behind me and
the dark road stretched out in front of me. I was never going to be able to out-run them. It was at
least another four miles to the village and I had never so much as run half a mile in my life let
alone four miles. Besides, I was wearing a stupid pencil skirt and flipflops. I had an epiphany:
Running was not going to save me so I stopped. I turned to face my attackers who, surprised by
this sudden change of tactic, came to a halt a couple of meters away from me. They stood ready
to pounce, like animals of prey lingering over the last and inevitable part of the kill. And then
came the rage. Beautiful in its fearlessness, in its defiance and most of all in its power to induce
fear. The rage rose from the earth and surged through me filling every muscle, every bone, every
sinew, and as it did I grew and expanded until I was towering over the two… not men, but small
boys. Like an apparition, I raised my arm and pointed behind them back towards their village and
from a booming voice that was not of this world came the words, “GO AND PRAY TO
ALLAH!”

The effect was instantaneous. Like a curtain coming down, I watched their aggression turn to
fear, their mouths formed an ‘O’ shape and their eyes widened in terror. Without taking those
wide-eyes off me they reached down to grab rocks and stones which they began throwing. I
turned around slowly and began walking once again towards the village. Their missiles
continued to fly past my head but not one of them found their target. Eventually, the debris
stopped falling around me. They had gone.

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I began to shake violently and I walked forward staring at the road. I still had at least four miles
to go. I heard an engine coming up behind me. It sounded like a lorry. I wanted to look to see if I
could make out who was driving but I knew it was pointless. What to do? The noise got louder. I
couldn’t do it. I couldn’t trust myself to make a decision so I passed the responsibility to my
thumb.
“Look thumb,” I said quietly, the rumble of the engine growing closer, “It’s up to you. If it’s
safe, go out. If not, stay where you are.”
I don’t know if my thumb went out or not but a bus roared past me with no intention of stopping.
I whimpered in agony as I watched the only chance of a safe lift home speed past me. I had no
idea the buses ran this late. I sunk to the floor waiting for a pit of despair to swallow me up when
suddenly, as if someone had just stepped in front of the bus, it slammed on its brakes and
screeched and skidded to a stop. I gasped, scrabbled to my feet and once again I was sprinting
down the road in my stupid pencil skirt and flipflops screaming,
“I’m coming! I’m coming! Please don’t go!”

I tumbled on to the back of the brightly lit bus breathless.

“Thank you,” I said, to no one in particular.
There was hardly anyone on it. The bus lurched forward and I fell backwards nearly losing my
balance. I regained my composure and I saw the ticket man, stood in his little metal booth staring
at me, devoid of emotion.
“Oh shit,” I said patting down my pockets. I had no money. Not a cent. I looked around the bus
desperately and apart from a couple of old Moroccan men sat at the front of the bus the only
other people I could ask for money were a Spanish looking couple sat halfway down the bus. The
boy had his tanned arm around the girl’s shoulders.
“Excuse me,” they both looked up at me in surprise. “I’m sorry, I really needed to get the bus
home but I don’t have any money. Could you pay for my ticket?”
They stared at me blankly for a moment and then the girl said,
“Sure,” and rummaged around in her pockets.
She passed me a couple of coins. I thanked them and paid for my ticket. I went and sat at the
back of the bus where it was empty and dark. My body was still shaking. I grasped the bus rail in
front of me tight as the tears streamed down my face.

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What Goes In…

The next morning, I got up and had breakfast with Hassan. I had intended to tell him about what
had happened the night before but for some reason, I couldn’t find the right moment. Instead, I
sat quietly listening to an over-tanned, blond-haired English guy in his forties called Tony brag
about his perfect life to Hassan and another blond over-tanned man who I had not seen before.
“It’s about being careful you see? But you’ve gotta take risks,” he said in a strong Essex accent.
His open shirt revealed a heavy gold chain that glinted on top of a bed of brown chest hair and
sunburnt skin. He also wore two chunky gold rings on his fingers.
“That’s what I’ve done. I’ve made calculated risks and guess what? They’ve paid off. If I’d ‘ave
played it safe, well…” he chuckled, “I definitely wouldn’t be here now.”
The other man asked, “So what’s your turnover?” Tony leaned in towards him, “Forty grand last
year and we’ve just opened another farm. We’re expecting to double that within two years.”
“Wow,” said the other man looking impressed “That’s a lot of grass.”

I had seen Tony in the cafe several times over the last week and presumed he had arrived only
recently. I had taken an instant dislike to him and tried to stay out of his way. That didn’t stop me
envying him though. His confidence, his money, his ease with the world. He was one of those
people who loved the sound of his voice and insisted on telling people what he thought
regardless of whether they wanted to hear it or not. I got up and said goodbye to Hassan. Tony
not wanting to be left out said, “You off somewhere nice then?” It was the first time he had
spoken to me.
“No,” my voice was hardly audible, and didn’t sound like me at all. I cleared my throat and tried
again.
“No, I’m not. I’m going to Agadir to see if my mother has bothered to send me any money. I’m
trying to get back to the UK.”
“Had enough of the sunshine then?”
I nodded, not wanting to explain myself.
“What a shame,” Tony said, “a couple of mates left for Brighton in a lovely converted truck only
a few days ago. If I’d ‘ave known you needed a lift home I’d ‘ave set you up.”
“I have a plane ticket to London I’m selling if you’re interested?”

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It was the second blond, tanned man that spoke, his accent possibly from New Zealand. “It
leaves a week today I’m selling it for forty pounds.”
“Wow, that’s cheap, thanks I’ll bear that in mind.” Then I added, “Can you do that? Just sell
your ticket to someone else?”
They both nodded their heads.
“I’ve done it loads of times.,” said Tony, “that’s how come I went to Spain last month. My
father-in-law’s bruver got taken into hospital with a suspected stroke and couldn’t go on his
holidays, so he sold it to me for next to nuffin.” He looked very pleased with himself.
“Are you staying close by?” I asked the kiwi.
“Yeah, you can find me down by the peninsular along with the other surfers. I have a blue
converted minibus. I’m Connor.”
“If my money has arrived I’ll come and see you.” I hooked my bag over my shoulder and began
to walk away.
“See ya later then,” Tony said, “…and good luck!”

I didn’t have it in me to hitch or go begging that day. I would visit the bank and if there was no
money for me I would use the last bit of change I had to catch the bus home. I was still shaky
from the night before and wasn’t myself. I walked into the bank and the cashier with the thin
goatee smiled at me.
“It has arrived,” he said and passed me a piece of paper with lots of printed information on it. In
a small little box the number 80 was written next to a pound sign. My mother had sent me £80.
“Yes!” I said kissing the piece of paper. “This is very good news,” I smiled up at him. He
nodded, made the currency calculations and counted out my money in dirhams. I looked at the
neat pile. It was more money than I had seen in a long time.

I left the bank and decided I would treat myself and chose a cafe that still had Merry Christmas
written on the window, despite it being mid-January. I ordered a coffee and a tagine. It didn’t
taste anywhere near as good as the one I had made that day for Amir but I enjoyed the luxury of
eating out. I smiled at the memory of that night, it seemed like a long time ago now. I kept
checking the pocket with the money to make sure it was still there. I was reassured to feel the
notes inside all rolled up. That’s it, I thought, I’m going home. I couldn’t believe it was actually
happening. I could be home for my nineteenth birthday, in two weeks time. I decided to go and

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see Connor the next day. If I bought the ticket for forty, with the money I had left I could pay
some to Hassan, Mustafa and Khalid and still live quite well for the next week. My spirits lifted.

When I got back to the cafe it was quiet and Hassan came and sat with me.
“Well? Any news?”
“Yup, it came.”
“Praise be to Allah!”
His phrase reminded me of what I had shouted at the two men the night before. Misreading my
expression he said with concern, “You don’t want to go home?”
I couldn’t answer at first. Then looking down into my cup I said, “Yes and no.”
“What do you mean yes and no?”
“I have to go home because I have no money, not because I want to go home. I mean it is
difficult for me here, you know, but some things are amazing and even taking into account all the
difficult things, I’d still rather be here than there. But I can’t. I have no money and it’s not right
for me to live off people like you and Mustafa and Khalid.”
Hassan looked at me and then came to a decision. He looked from left to right and leaned in
towards me.
“I have an idea. I know of a way you could stay for longer.”
I stared at him and could see golden flecks in his dark brown irises. “It is your choice but let me
tell you my offer.” I nodded without saying anything. He was so close to me now I could smell
the coffee on his breath. “I will give you a kilo of hashish. You take it to England, sell it and you
will make so much money you can come back repay me and live here for a year if you want.”
He leaned back still staring at me waiting for my reaction. My mind was racing. “What…You’d
just give me a kilo of hash and trust that I would come back with your money?” I whispered.
“Vicky, I would trust you with my life.”
I laughed at his melodramatic comment but I was touched.
“I know plenty of people who have done this,” he said.
I could feel the pull, not only of the gains I could make but also the chance to prove to him that I
was trustworthy. An image of Spencer swallowing eighty hash pellets in the grubby hotel flashed
up in my mind.
“Do I have to swallow it?” I asked.
“It is up to you my sister but they tell me this is the best way.”

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We sat in silence for a while and eventually I said, “Hassan, thank you for your offer. Look I’m
going to have to think about it and see if the ticket is still available.”
“No problem, take your time, it is up to you.”
The idea of going home only for a little while and then being able to return with lots of money,
being able to live above Hassan’s cafe and sit at the cafe eating and drinking what I liked, was
enough for me to take the offer seriously. Lying in bed that night I made myself go over all the
details of how Spencer swallowed a kilo of hash. I imagined wrapping the pellets and
remembered how he swallowed them with lots of water. I was sure I could do it too. Why not?
Everyone around me was doing it.

The next day I went to see Connor and en route I bumped into Howard the teacher back from his
trip. We sat chatting for a while and I realised I was beginning to feel quite at home with all
these friends dotted around the village. I found Connor’s blue campervan and paid him forty
pounds for the ticket. There it was. In bold lettering it said British Airways: Agadir to London:
16th January 1986, 11:00 am. I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket.
“Thanks,” I said and went back to hang out with Howard.
We sat watching the sunset and all the beautiful tanned young men and women come and go
carrying their surfboards. They looked so complete and happy. Then I spotted the couple who
had paid for my bus ticket the night I got attacked.
“Hey,” I shouted over to them. The guy was in a wet suit and the girl was wearing a bikini top
and cut off shorts. I ran over to them and they both smiled at me.
“Look, I just wanted to say thank you again for paying for my ticket. You have no idea how
grateful I am because I had just been attacked by these two men who were trying to drag me into
the side of the road to…but I managed to…well… scare them away and then I didn’t know how
to get home and I heard a noise behind me but I didn’t know if it was a bus because well anyway
I didn’t know whether to put my thumb out and in the end I don’t know if I put my thumb out or
not but it just went past me and I didn’t think it was going to stop and…” I stopped, out of
breath. “Sorry, I’m really sorry I’m rambling. Anyway, here take this.” I gave them the money
for the ticket.
They both looked at me, shocked.
“You were attacked by two men?” The girl spoke English with a thick Spanish accent.
“Uhuh,” I nodded as if they were asking me if I ate a banana that morning.

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“Dios mio, are you okay?” she said and there was something about the softness and alarm in her
voice that made a lump form in my throat.
“Yes,” I said just a bit too brightly. Looking down at my body I said, “luckily I’m still in one
piece.”
She put her arms around me. She was smaller than me and her head was level with my chest. I
felt awkward but she held me tight and didn’t let go. There was something about the warmth of
her body, the kind touch of another human and the intensity of her embrace that made me start
crying. I broke away. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“That must have been awful for you. Please…” she held out her hand, “take this back, we don’t
need it. If we had known we would have accompanied you back to where you were staying.”
Her sympathy was making huge tears roll down my cheeks.
“It’s okay,” I said laughing, embarrassed and wiping my tears and snot away. “I’m fine. Really, I
just haven’t had the chance to tell anyone about it since it happened.”
They invited me to come by and see them again and I said I would but just to be polite. I knew I
had no intention of visiting them. There was something about their beauty and completeness that
made me feel pathetic. I did not belong to their tribe.

Tony was at the cafe again the following day, chatting to a Frenchman. He greeted me warmly
like we were old friends.
“Alright Vic? How’d it go the other day? Any news from ya mum?”
I took a seat at his table and Hassan brought me some bread, yoghurt and coffee.
“Yes it came, she sent me some money. Looks like I’m going home next Thursday. I brought the
the ticket Connor was selling.”
“Good for you,” he said smiling “glad to hear it. I bet she’s been worried sick about you.”
“Mmm…no I don’t think so, she’s not like that,” I said sipping my coffee.
Both men said goodbye and left the cafe. Hassan came and sat at my table.
“Well? Did you come to a decision?”
“Yes, I’m going to do it.”
He nodded seriously.
“Do you know how to wrap?”
“Yes, I’ve done it once before… but I’ve never… you know…swallowed them before. Where do
I get cling film from?”

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“Don’t worry,” he said looking more serious than I had ever seen him, “I will get everything you
need and I will bring it to you on Wednesday afternoon.”
I handed over a bunch of rolled-up notes.
“Thank you Hassan, for everything. I’m sorry it is not more.” He un-rolled the notes and counted
them. “Shukran ala wajib,” he said as he tucked them away in a little pocket in his robe.

My last few days were spent hanging out with Hassan, Howard and Tony who was kind of
growing on me. I made one last trip to give Mustafa and Khalid some money and say goodbye.
Then it was Wednesday and I was nervous about what was ahead of me. I was in my room,
Hassan knocked on the door. He came in with a large bag and began taking items out one by one.
He placed them on the floor naming each item and its use as he did so.
“Water,” he said putting a five-litre bottle of water down. “Make sure you swallow each piece
with plenty of water. Cling film…I suggest you wrap each one three times.”
I nodded reassured we had the same information.
“Lighter, make sure you seal each wrap but don’t burn the plastic. Please leave this here when
you’ve finished it will be very useful. And here is your …” he pulled out a brick covered in
brown paper, “ticket back to Morocco,” he smiled.
I could smell its oily odour. “This is one kilo. Do you think you can take all this?”
It looked so big.
“I…I don’t know. I guess I just try right?”
“Of course, of course,” he said matter-of-factly as if I was going to eat a chicken tagine. “Well,”
he said, “I have work to do so I will leave you. I will be here in the morning of course. I will see
you then.”
He got up and left me staring at the objects on the floor.

I repeated exactly what Spencer had done the night in Tangiers all those months ago, right down
to the timings of things. I felt like I was in a dream. Working by candlelight I wrapped eighty-
one pellets. I wished I had someone to talk to. I stopped at seventy-three pellets. My body
refused any more, gagging each time I tried to swallow. When Hassan came to open the cafe at
seven in the morning I was already waiting for him with my rucksack packed. He looked at me.
“You okay? Everything go alright?”

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“Yes.” I was in a daze, a sensation of leaving my body. I was on the outside of me looking in. I
gave him back his bag and heard myself say, “I couldn’t…well…I couldn’t get all of them down
me. So this is what’s leftover along with the lighter and clingfilm.”
He looked in the bag.
“Don’t worry,” he said seriously, “everyone is different. Now, what time is your taxi?”
“Seven-thirty,” was the reply I heard as if coming from someone else.
“Good then let me make you some coffee.”
The taxi came and I watched the girl shake Hassan’s hand firmly.
“My sister, I will see you very soon.”

I had never flown in an aeroplane before and at the airport I had no idea where to go or what to
do. People and bags were moving from desk to desk. I was overwhelmed. Eventually, I found
someone who spoke English who could help me. He asked me where I was flying to and when I
said the UK he pointed over to a desk where there were two blond women wearing dark blue
uniforms with little pillbox hats, immaculate hair and matching bright red lipstick. I joined the
queue. When it was my turn I stood in front of the kiosk and waited for assistant to finish doing
something. Finally, looking up she fixed me with her blue eyes and said, “Now, how can I help
you?”
“Er… could you please tell me where I go for the eleven o’clock plane to London?”
“Can I see your ticket please?” she had a posh voice and she made me feel shabby. I took the
ticket out of my pocket and unfolded it passing it to her. She looked at it and her perfectly
manicured eyebrows began to furrow, squeezing towards each other forming two mirrored
question marks. I felt the heat rising to my face. She looked up, “Can I see your passport
please?”
“Yes…yes of course,” I rummaged around in several pockets looking for it. As I passed it to her
I knew something wasn’t right, “Is everything okay?” I asked nervously. She opened the passport
and flipped through the pages.
“Do you have another ticket?” she looked at me squarely. “Er…no why?” I said in a whisper.
What was wrong with my voice? It sounded so feeble, it didn’t sound like it was me talking.
“I’m sorry but you can’t use this ticket. It does not match the name on your passport.”

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“No…I know…but…but I thought… I was told that it didn’t matter. That you can exchange
tickets. I…I paid for this ticket, he told me it was okay, the man, I mean”. I felt like someone had
their hands around my throat and was squeezing the air out of me. My face was burning.
“I am sorry but we no longer accept ticket exchanges. There was a company policy change
months ago. You will have to go back to the person who sold you this ticket and see if you can
get your money back.”
“But… but I can’t… please,” a sob broke out of my mouth and I stifled it putting my hand over
my mouth. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath trying to regain some composure. “You see I
really, really have to go home.” Another sob escaped.
“I’m very sorry miss but the airline is very clear about this, we simply do not accept exchanged
tickets. We can sell you another ticket to London for a hundred and fifty pounds but you will
have to hurry as the flight is due to take off shortly.”
I sat with my hand over my mouth afraid to take it away because of what might come out.
“If there is nothing else I can help you with, I really have to see to the other customers now.” I
stepped back and moved out of the way.

…Has to Come Out

I don’t remember how I got back to the village but I do remember the surprise on Hassan’s face
when he saw me turn up at the cafe. I had told him what had happened.
“I’m afraid this is not a good day for you, the Frenchman has moved into the room upstairs.”
I looked at him in horror.
“Where am I going to go?” I was speaking but my voice wasn’t mine any more. I didn’t
recognise it.
“Listen, don’t worry. I will think of something. I have some cloth I will come and divide the
room in two but I can’t kick him out any more than I can kick you out so, you will have to share.
I will try and get him out of the way tomorrow so you have the room to yourself so you can
…er…you know. I will make sure there are plenty of buckets of water for you …it will be fine.”

I did not leave the room for twenty-four hours. When I saw the Frenchman I pretended he didn’t
exist. Finally all seventy-three hash pellets passed through me. I washed and unwrapped them
and placed them in a bag, dressed and went to the cafe. I sat at my usual table and everything
was as it had been for the last four months, the smell of coffee, the call to prayer echoing around

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the village, elderly Moroccan women shuffling down the dusty streets with bags of shopping,
Hassan bustling around the cafe serving coffee and breakfast to a colourful array of tourists but
something was missing. I was surveying the scene from above my body. I had become detached.
I could see myself the way other people saw me from the outside. I looked down at a pale young
girl with hunched shoulders. Her head hung down and her long unkempt hair fell about her face
like dirty tattered curtains, she was scraping dirt from under her chewed fingernails. This stupid
grubby girl. I wanted to tell her to sit up and go and brush her hair. I watched Hassan came over
to her.
“Hey, how are you doing? Oh, you don’t look good. Are you okay?”
The girl didn’t answer she just nodded and passed him a bag. Hassan took the bag.
“Let me bring you some coffee.”

By the time Hassan returned the girl had left. I followed her as she started walking towards the
beach. Then she broke into a run, then a sprint. She stumbled and as fell several times as she
pounded the sandy floor that gave way underneath her. She was in a blind panic; a volcano had
begun erupting inside her. On and on she ran desperate to out run the overwhelming pain that
was spewing up from deep within her. It filled her chest her throat. It was suffocating her.
Finally, when she could run no more she collapsed in a sand dune surrendering to wave upon
wave of dry heaving sobs that shook her entire body. Two young boys approach her and ask if
she was okay. She couldn’t answer, she was still vomiting up a lifetime of pent up pain and
sorrow. Disturbed by her distress, the boys left her alone. The sun set and rose, set and rose and
slowly the volcano subsided. She lay there silent and unmoving, half-submerged in the sand.

It was Howard who found her. I watched him lumber up the dune. It was a cold morning. He sat
her up and lay a blanket over her. She opened her eyes, saw him and started crying again. He put
his arms around her and hugged her tight. I could hear him whispering to her over and over, “It’s
okay, everything is going to be okay.”
He got her to her feet and took her back to his van. He made her hot chocolate and put a bowl of
hot water at her feet, a flannel some soap and a hairbrush. He placed a pile of clothes on the little
table next to her. He said, “They’re not the latest in beachwear fashion but they are clean and
sand-free. I’m going to the shops, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Make yourself at home.”

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As he zipped up the outside awning. Slowly, the girl began peeling off her clothes and washing
her body. The clean clothes felt good against her skin. She did not bother with her hair. He
returned and dumped his groceries in the front. Turning to her he said, “I think you should stay
with me today so I can keep an eye on you. I’ll make you up a bed and we’ll keep the awning
closed so you can have some privacy, okay?”
She just stared ahead. He finished making up a little bed inside the awning and she lay down and
fell asleep.

I woke up disorientated. Howard passed me some coffee and bread.

“You’ve been asleep for two days.” He sounded impressed.
I took the steaming cup and bread and said thank you, my voice was croaky but at least it was
mine. He opened the awning and let the sunlight in and we sat looking out at the horizon. It was
quiet, the other campers around us where all off somewhere, surfing probably. I was trying to
piece together what had happened when Howard said, “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I said, “thanks to you.”
Throughout the day, I told Howard my story, snippets of what led me to the sand dune. I told him
how I’d met English people in Spain who had invited me to Morocco and how it had all gone
wrong. I told him about the night with the dogs and begging in Agadir. I told him how I was
attacked by two men after leaving the tattooists’ bus and then how finally, after weeks of waiting
for some money to come from my mother I spent it buying a ticket I couldn’t use. I told him
about my family and that I was back where I had started, with no money and no way of getting
home. I didn’t tell him about swallowing nearly a kilo of hash that I intended to smuggle home
or about having to shit seventy-three pellets into a bucket which I then had to clean. I wasn’t
ready to face that truth yet. We sat in silence still staring out to sea.
“You know, it’s not over yet,” he said. “Here’s what I think you should do. I think you should try
asking every single person camped here if they know of anyone heading north. I bet there will be
someone who can give you a lift.” I thought about it for a while. He was right, the story isn’t
over yet.
“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll start tomorrow.” We chinked our coffee mugs.

Wolf and Ginger

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I stayed another night with Howard before setting off the next morning to see Hassan. He fussed
over me, asking where I had been and if I was alright. Ignoring the first question I reassured him
that I was fine and told him my plan. He thought it was a good idea and said he would also ask
his customers. I set off on my mission of asking for a lift from every camper around the site. By
midday I had asked dozens and dozens of people and although none could help, I met so many
interesting people I was filled again with optimism. I was offered food and drink and stories
from different kinds of people from all over the world. I realised I loved having a reason to talk
to them all. I set off down the beach to ask in all the trucks parked up in the coves when I saw
that beautiful curvaceous turquoise and deep blue bus. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was so
excited to see them. I ran over and panting, I hugged them both.
“You’re here!” I said letting go of Olga.
Wolfgang smiled at me, “We had trouble with the engine and we had to come back. We’re
waiting for a part. You’re still here too?”
“I know, it’s a long story.”
We sat on the familiar Indian sheet spread outside the bus and Wolfgang put together a chillum.
He passed it to me but I declined, I needed to keep my head together.
“So, when are you coming for your tattoo?”
I looked at him. Did I want one? Everything that had happened over the last few weeks flashed
before me. A tattoo, I decided, was the perfect end to all the madness. It would be the only thing
I would have to show for my journey.
“Er…How about tomorrow?” I said. He laughed and said, “Okay, let’s do it.” Wolfgang took me
inside the bus and left me to look through the designs. I wanted a small one on my shoulder but I
couldn’t find anything I liked and asked if he would mind if I drew my own.
“Sure,” he said fetching me a piece of paper and a pen.
I drew a picture about three inches in diameter, a sun peeking through the clouds. It was simple
and hopeful.

The next morning I made my usual rounds. First visiting Howard, then the campsite and then
park-up places along the beach to ask if anyone was heading orth. Still no sign of a lift but I was
meeting people and making friends. I made my way to the bus feeling anxious and excited.
When I got there Wolfgang had everything ready and for once he wasn’t stoned. He sat me on a
chair facing the sea and I watched the sky merge into the darker blue of the sea as he placed the

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burning needle on my skin. I didn’t flinch, having my skin marked permanently at this time on
this bus with these people felt like exactly the right thing to be doing. A couple of few hours
passed and it was done. He got two mirrors and gave me one to hold and placed the other behind
me. My skin was red and raised and it was hard to make out the design. “Don’t worry, your skin
will settle down in a day or two and the colours will come out.”
I realised I didn’t care what it looked like, the experience and everything that had led to this
moment was what was relevant. He put some plastic over it and told me to keep it on for the rest
of the day. I left the bus feeling complete.

As I passed through the campsite to get back to the village a German girl I had met the previous
day shouted over . I walked over to her camp. She told me that she had met two guys who were
heading back to Germany in a couple of days. She explained that she had told them I was
desperate for a lift home and they had said I should go and see them when they got back
tomorrow around midday.
“They have a silver Mercedes van and they are called Wolf and Ginger. When you see them you
will know why.” She smiled.
I thanked her and went off to show Howard my tattoo and to tell him the news!

I met Wolf and Ginger the following day. Sure enough Wolf was wolfish, thick-set with a long
thick mane of brown hair, a beard and piercing blue eyes. Ginger was tall, thin and pale-skinned
with a big thick afro of red hair. They were both a few years older than me. When I explained I
was trying to get home Ginger said casually, “Come with us. No problem. We’re leaving
tomorrow though.”
“Tomorrow? Wow, okay, right…” I said a bit taken aback.
“Ya, we set off at seven in the evening and drive through the night. You will have to sit or lie in
the back, we only have two seats.” He pointed up at the long silver van. “That’s fine, er…thank
you…Um…the thing is… I… I don’t have any money to pay you anything.”
“We know,” said Ginger, “the girl already told us. Look we’re going that way anyway so we’re
cool.”
“Thank you, great so I’ll come here at 6.30 tomorrow. See you then.”

I raced back to tell Howard. He gave me a big hug and said “See? I knew it would all work out.”

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We arranged to meet and say goodbye the next day. When I got to the cafe to see Hassan he was
sat at the table with Tony and the Frenchman. I sensed something was wrong, they looked like
someone had died. I instinctively knew not to say anything and just quietly pulled up a chair.
Hassan quietly acknowledge my arrival. Tony had his head in his hands and was shaking his
head from side to side,
“I just can’t believe it. All of it. It’s all gone. Just like that. I can’t even go home. They’d put me
in jail and throw away the key.”
Despite how tanned his face was, he looked pale and withdrawn. It transpired that the day before
his marijuana business had been raided and his close friend and wife had been arrested and put
into prison. His life, he informed us, was never going to be the same again.

When I told Hassan my news he looked happy and relieved, not surprising seeing as I had been
living off him for a long time. We spent one last evening together sat outside the cafe promising
to write to each other and laughing at one mad story after another, of tourists who visited him or
stayed at his place. I wondered whether my story would now be added to his repertoire. The next
day we said goodbye. Hassan gave me two things; the first was a parcel wrapped in brown paper.
I knew what it was straight away, its weight and oily smell. It was half a kilo of hash.
“Listen,” he said quietly, “don’t worry about paying me back. Just take it. You can smoke it or
sell it.”
I looked down at it and wondered if it was the same stuff that had recently gone through my
digestive system. I wanted to give it him back but I didn’t want to be ungrateful.
“Thank you,” I said instead. Then he passed me an old beaten up man’s leather jacket. Bits of
leather was peeling away and breaking off and the lining was ripped.
“Try it on, it was my uncle’s and he was going to throw out.” He looked at my face. “You do
know northern Europe is covered in snow right now?”
I looked at him blankly for a moment and blinked. I hadn’t thought about that. I had no warm
clothes whatsoever. I would freeze to death. I put the coat on and did a twirl, it was far too big
for me and had a funny smell.
“What do you think?” I said.
Hassan laughed, “You look like a man!”
I had only one thing I could give Hassan. I untied them from my rucksack.

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“Here, I know you don’t play but you could always learn. Maybe form a band! And if not, they’ll
look good in your cafe.”
We both laughed. He took the red-sparkling bongos from me.
“They are beautiful, I will keep them here for when you return. May God go with you.”

Chapter VI – The Journey Home

Heading North and the Lone Flea

I told Wolf and Ginger that Hassan had given me a huge lump of hash and I wasn’t sure what to
do with it.
“Hey man, that’s so cool,” Ginger nodding his huge ginger afro backwards and forwards, “if you
don’t smoke it all before you get to Germany, you could sell it. You can make good money there.
That way you’ll be able to buy a ticket home.”
“Right, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“We have a little stash of our own. It’s a long drive it will keep us company, so we’d better get
going.”
He slid open the side door of the van and I peered inside. It was piled high with bundles of
camping equipment.
“We thought you could hang out there,” he pointed behind the driver’s and passenger’s seats at
the mound of sleeping bags, mats, cushions, pillows and topped with a Moroccan carpets that
had all been arranged like a children’s soft play area.
“We tried to make it comfortable for you, I’m sorry there’s no seat.”
“This is great,” I said enthusiastically, climbing up into the van and sitting among all the soft
camping gear. Wolf slid the door shut and he and Ginger climbed into the front cab. Wolf was
driving. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred. I pulled out my sleeping bag
from my backpack and made myself comfortable as we set off north.

My farewell to Morocco was underwhelming. It was dark and with no windows in the back of
the van, all I could see of the outside world was a bit of the inky night sky through a layer of
dirty windscreen the bit where the wipers couldn’t reach. I spent most of my time staring at the

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back of the driver and passenger seats and the heads that gently bobbed as we passed over
potholes. I had no idea of time or how long it took to drive from one place to another. My only
distraction was smoking copious amounts of hash, eating my own body weight in crisps and
biscuits and thinking about the adventures I had had over the last seven months. I was not the
same Vicky that had left the UK. Was this the change I had been looking for? I didn’t know for
sure but I felt liberated from an enormous weight I had been carrying around on my shoulders. I
had gone into the void and returned. If I could do that maybe I could do anything. I felt lighter
and capable of dealing with anything, which was lucky…

It was getting light when Ginger announced we were a few kilometres away from the Tangiers
ferry terminal.
“Er…what shall we do with our hash? Shall we throw it away before we get to the Spanish
border?”
I spoke for the first time since we had left Banana Village. The dangers of getting caught
smuggling hash to Germany seemed daunting and scary, especially as I was extremely stoned.
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Wolf said confidently, “Take it with you. We’ve carried hashish
across the border many times without a problem. The important point is to clean the van so there
is no indication we are smokers.”
You can clean the van as much as you like I thought, one look at us and it’s obvious we were
hippy dope smokers. I thought about all the preparations I had gone to previously to move hash
across borders. It seemed ridiculous that I could just casually stuff it in a pocket and pass through
the border. But Wolf and Ginger were convinced. They were much older and more experienced
and were also carrying through a good amount of hash; it tipped the balance. I wrapped my block
in its paper and put it at the very bottom of my rucksack, relieved to not be swallowing it.

We drove off the ferry and waited in line with the engine running, waiting to pass through
customs. I was beginning to regret my decision and all the consequences flashed before me; but
it was too late. There was nowhere to throw it away now. We pulled up to the customs and
immigration and I sat quietly in the back holding my breath while Wolf spoke to the officer
through the window. There was a short exchange. And then Wolf put the engine into gear and
drove off. I exhaled a long sigh of relief. It was exhilarating. The first thing we did on Spanish

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soil to celebrate was to roll a joint. I’d crossed one border successfully, how difficult could the
rest be?. Drug smuggling was much easier than I thought.

We headed north and the temperature plummeted. After months in the sun the cold dug down
into me. But it was nothing compared to discovering I had a flea living on me. Flea rather than
fleas as I only ever got four or five new itchy lumps each day, all on different parts of my body.
For some people having a flea would be no big deal, for me it was my own personal Stephen
King horror story. With too much time and too much dope, I became obsessed with this flea. I
imagined it breeding and multiplying until there were millions of them, and when I was asleep, I
imagined them attacking me and feasting on my body until there was nothing left. Wolf and
Ginger would turn around and see only a white skeleton stripped of all its flesh. I didn’t say
anything. I couldn’t admit that I had brought about a flea infestation. I thought about throwing
the coat away but as far as I could tell, the upwardly mobile flea was living on me already. All
that was left for me to do was to spend hours slapping myself in hope of squashing it. It didn’t
work.

We spent over three days driving north and in all that time we hardly spoke, just the minimal
communication needed to pass a joint, get food or drink and go to the toilet. I was cut off from
them. The engine was so loud I would have had to shout to be heard. And in turn they were
friendly but distant. I was hardly aware of passing through the Spanish/French and then
French/Swiss border, I was so stoned.

Ginger informed me we would soon be arriving at the Swiss/German border, the last border of our
journey. I woke up and came up with an idea. I wanted to do something nice, as a way of thanking
them for taking driving me across Europe. I offered to take Ginger and Wolf’s hash supply over
the border for them. My thinking was that, in the unlikely event we were searched, the authorities
would be more lenient with me because I was not German. Not surprisingly they agreed the plan
was a good one. We pulled over into a layby and I stood up in the back of the truck while they
handed over their now depleted lumps of hash. Through the windscreen I saw a picture-postcard
landscape; mountains completely covered with think snow, I was missing all this sat in the back. I
felt like I had arrived on another planet entirely. It was beautiful.

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Their dope, together with mine, filled both my hands, probably about three-quarters of a kilo in
three separate lumps. I wrapped the lumps of hash in toilet paper – pink toilet paper, as that was
the colour we had – and stuffed them into my shirt breast pockets. I had picked up several
second-hand garments from travellers offloading before I left. Just to try and keep warm I was
wearing every item of clothing I now possessed. My shirt-pockets, holding the hash lumps, was
layer number four of five. Hassan’s beaten-up leather jacket was the final outer layer. Buttoning
up the big brown button, my bulging breast pockets made me look much more well-endowed
than I was. As we pulled up to the immigration and customs bay at the German/Swiss border I
felt completely relaxed. Ginger was driving and there was nothing unusual about the sequence of
events that took place. He rolled down his window, spoke to the official and passed all our
passports over for inspection. It wasn’t until the customs officer had been gone for some time
that Ginger turned and said, “I think we may have a problem.”
What Ginger had failed to tell us was that he had a criminal record. He explained ever so calmly,
that it probably meant they had rung through their details to the criminal records bureau. In
which case they would find out that he had been a junkie and had done time for possession of
heroin, which would mean without question, we would be searched. I could have dropped all the
hash into the van, tried to hide it, but I didn’t. I was relaxed and had an unshakeable self-
confidence that everything would be fine; I wasn’t going to get caught.

If You Run We Will Shoot

When the customs officer finally came back to the van he asked us all to step outside the vehicle.
We emerged dishevelled and blurry-eyed into the sunshine and the bright light made us blink and
squint. Looking around me, there was no evidence to contradict my previous suspicion that
instead of travelling north we had driven to an alternative reality entirely, possibly one from the
future. We were surrounded by a sci-fi monochromatic tableau of gleaming, brilliant white – the
buildings, the little customs booths, the clipboards and the snow covering everything. Against
which dark shapes moved stiffly dressed head-to-toe in polished black leather. We waited
shivering outside the van while three officers spoke in a small huddle in front of us. The female
officer took a step towards me and barked, “Follow me.”
I shot a look at Wolf and Ginger.
“See you in a bit,” I said lightly as I followed her.
They didn’t reply, their expressions were masks of cold abject misery.

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She led me into a white building and in to a white room containing several white plastic chairs.
She told me to sit down and left. There was no door handle on the inside of the room. I sat for a
few minutes trying to think of a way out and then the door opened and a different female
customs officer, clad in black leather, asked me to follow her. We walked to another building
and down a long corridor until we reached door number 15 on our right. She unlocked it and
entered. It looked like a doctor’s examination room, small and clinical. There was a sink, several
boxes of latex gloves and a couple of chairs. The officer turned to me and explained that she
needed to search me and that I was to remove all of my clothes. She had a kind face and I felt
calm and convinced that if I was clever I could still get away without her noticing the huge
lumps of hash wrapped in tissue paper in my pockets. I made idle chatter as I began removing
my clothes.
“It’s so cold here, how do you cope?” I asked her.
She smiled, “Thermal underwear is the answer,” I laughed.
“Of course! I forgot to bring mine.”
I told her that I was wearing every item of clothing I owned in an attempt to keep warm. She
smiled sympathetically.
“Would you mind if I put the clothes back on once you’ve checked them?” I asked camly.
“No, go ahead.”
I continued my chatter, telling her about Morocco. I could tell she was beginning to relax. I
instigated my master plan. While the officer was distracted checking another item of clothing, I
moved one lump of hash from my right shirt pocket and concealed it in my hand while picking
up a sock from the checked clothes pile. I stashed the lump into my sock as I put it on. One
down, two to go. I palmed the second lump. Everything was going to plan until it slipped and
skidded onto the floor. The officer wasn’t alarmed. She’d thought I’d dropped a wodge of tissue
paper. She bent down to pick it up for me and was just about to give it me back when she felt the
hardness of the hash underneath. The friendliness on her face evaporated. I felt bad like I had
betrayed her. Before I could say anything, she left the room, fumbling with the doorknob
momentarily in her haste. I was left alone.

A couple of minutes later she returned with an angry-looking man. He stepped inside the room
filling it with his large frame, she standing a little way behind him.

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“We believe you are carrying illegal substances. Hand over everything you have or we will do a
complete and thorough strip search,” the male officer said coldly.
I stood there with one sock on one sock off. I reached down and pulled out the remaining two
lumps of hash, still wrapped in pink toilet paper, and gave them to him. He held them in his
hands, each between thumb and index fingers as if the innocuous parcels were contaminated. The
female officer picked up a little tray next to the sink and he dropped the offending objects into it
with a thud. She pulled out my passport, opened it at the page holding my photo and held it out
for the male officer. He looked down and read, “Victoria Rosemary Salisbury.” He looked up at
me expressionless, “you are under arrest for possession of an illegal substance. We need to
inform you that if you run we will shoot. Do you understand?”
I looked at him. Was this real? Did he really just say ‘If you run we will shoot?’
“Do you understand?” he said again, louder.
“Yes, yes, I understand.”
“Follow us.”
He turned and the female officer stepped aside to let him out of the door. I fell into step behind
him as she followed behind.

I was taken to another immaculate white building with a waiting area and two offices with
frosted glass windows. I expected to be handcuffed and locked up in a windowless cell but here I
was in another doctor’s waiting room. Strangely, I still felt calm and against the odds I was
unperturbed by the situation. What had happened to me? I had never felt like this before, cool
and self-assured in the face of adversity. I could hardly recognise myself. I passed the time
watching the coloured blobs shapeshift across behind the obscured glass, like watching a mobile
abstract painting. The clock on the wall said three o’clock. I resigned myself to the fact that I was
probably going to prison. I thought about all the things I could do there; read, study, learn a craft.
I imagined it to be like the TV series, Prisoner: Cell Block H where incarcerated women pottered
about doing menial tasks, bitching about one another and occasionally attempting to escape. It
can’t be that bad I thought, they didn’t have to make any decisions or think about paying bills or
getting a job. I was almost looking forward to it.

The hours slowly passed and eventually a small bony faced-man with a goatee, in a pink shirt
with a white collar and cuffs, emerged out of one of the frosted glass offices. He was small and

167
unassuming and not at all whom I had imagined was working in there. I had pictured a big burly
police officer with a thick square jaw and blue eyes, not this small man who brought me a cup of
water and asked if I was okay. He had a high and nasal voice. I nodded and he asked me to
accompany him to his office. I was so relieved to have a change of scene. Subjecting arrestees to
hours of tedium must be part of the punishment. He told me to sit. On his desk was a thin brown
folder. He opened it up and proceeded to ask me an endless list of questions. I pitied him. I
wondered what his life was like having to ask such boring questions and listening to boring lies
and half-truths. I even began to like him, even when he said I was looking at serving time for
drug smuggling. This declaration did not get the reaction in me he was looking for and when it
was obvious he wasn’t going to get the answers he sat drumming his fingers on his desk.

They decided not to prosecute me and would let me go if I paid a 300 deutsche mark fine. I
explained that I didn’t have any money and nor did my family and the little man in the pink shirt
said that was a shame and in that case I would be sent to a local prison. Being offered freedom,
only to have it snatched away again, broke my cool. I wasn’t as strong as I thought I was and I
began to cry. I was sent back into the waiting room only to be called back to his office moments
later. Defeated, I slumped down into the chair and awaited my sentence. He put several sheets of
paper in front of me and explained that Stefan Herrmann, aka Wolf, had written a cheque to
cover the fine. My tear lined face lit up.
“The problem is,” he continued, my heart sank, “you do not have permission to enter Germany.
Switzerland do not want you either. So, we have a situation on our hands, which we are currently
trying to resolve. In the meantime, you will sign these documents for your release. We hope we
can negotiate with Swiss authorities to allow you to stay one night. Then you will leave for the
UK tomorrow.”
He gave me a pen and I signed all the places he had placed a little x. I scribbled my spidery
signature several times on each piece of paper. Once finished, he returned me to the waiting
room where I sat praying that the Swiss would let me stay on their soil for one lousy night.

It was past midnight when the man in the pink shirt returned one last time to tell me that I was
being released but the conditions of my release had to be adhered to otherwise I could be re-
arrested. I would be taken to a house in Switzerland for one night and was to be put on the first
train to London the following morning.

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“Okay,” I said, finally smiling, “thank you. Thanks for your help.”
He didn’t say anything but he smiled and his eyes told me he was happy for me. Two police
officers came and escorted me to a car that already had its engine running. They motioned for me
to get in the back. When I got in, Wolf was in the driver’s seat and another man, not in uniform,
was in the passenger seat. I shut the door and we sped off. I was too overwhelmed to say
anything but once we were safely away from the immigration centre Wolf asked me if I was
okay.
“Yes, I’m fine. Where are we going?”
He explained that to negotiate my release he had had to find a friend in Switzerland willing to
put me up for a night.
“This is Karl.”
The man in the passenger seat looked my way. He was a good-looking neatly dressed man with
glasses. He didn’t smile.
“You will be staying with him and his girlfriend Sabine tonight.”
“Hi and thank you,”
The man didn’t look around a second time. Wolf continued, “It’s a good job you have to leave by
tomorrow because the cheque I wrote to pay your fine will bounce. If you are not out of the
country by the time this happens you may get re-arrested again.”
“Oh…Okay.”
We drove silently through the night for an hour. When we arrived at the house the lights were on.
A woman, presumably Karl’s girlfriend, met us at the door. She did not look happy. Wolf
introduced us but she could hardly look at me. Anyone would have thought I had killed someone.
They gestured me into the house and I stood self-consciously in the hallway. Wolf hung back, he
was not coming in. I turned to him and he passed me some euro notes.
“Here, take this. You will need it to get home. It should be enough. Tomorrow morning Karl will
drive you to the train station where you can get a train to Paris. From Paris you can get a train to
the ferry.”
I took the money and looked up at him.
“Er…Thanks Wolf, thank you for getting me out… and Ginger…is he okay?”
“I don’t know and frankly, right now I do not care. Good luck getting home.” He looked passed
me, nodded towards his friends and left.

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The Adventures of Wim

My hosts were frosty as they showed me my room but gave me some bread and tea before going
to bed. I slept deeply after three nights in a van. Karl woke me at six and it felt like the middle of
the night. Groggy and disorientated it took me a while to figure out where I was. Memories of
the day before flashed before me. I realised I wasn’t cut out to be a drug smuggler. Lying in a
stranger’s bed somewhere in Switzerland I vowed never to attempt it again, not from feelings of
guilt or morality, just a realisation that I wasn’t very good at it and next time I might not be so
lucky.

We got into the car drove through the countryside in silence. It was still dark and all I could see
was the tarmacked road and snow-lined ridges. There was very little traffic on the road. Karl
didn’t speak and we sat with only the noise of the engine to fill the silence. Gradually, houses
and street lights appeared until they took over and we were driving through a bustling city. I
looked around for clues as to where we were. Karl pulled over and pointed to a large entrance,
“There is the train station. There will be a train leaving for Paris in an hour.”
I thanked him for his help, relieved to get out of the car and see him drive off.

I crossed the road and walked into the busy train terminal. I was in Zurich. Everything was
immaculate and gleaming, even the people. In comparison, I was dishevelled, shabby, and oddly
dressed. I didn’t care; I was not sat in a German prison cell and I was free to go home. I had
escaped and against the odds, I was in one piece. I bought my passage to London, including the
ferry. I had a few coins left and knew exactly what I wanted to spend them on, a book. I hadn’t
read a single book in over seven months. I had an overwhelming longing to read, to escape my
reality and delve into someone else’s story. I still had a long journey ahead of me and I was
hungrier to read than to eat. I saw a kiosk selling cigarettes and snacks and outside, on a rotating
stand, were several books for sale. I took my time, scanning the back of every book written in
English but there wasn’t much on offer. I chose the best of a bad bunch and paid for it. I had
twenty minutes before my train left and decided to go and wash in the public toilets. On my way
I spotted another kiosk, it was tucked away from the main drag and had another rotating stand of
books outside. I knew before I arrived that I was going to find the book I wanted. Sure enough,
the first book I picked up was a book called Adventures of Wim by Luke Rhinehart. I read the
back cover.

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There was no question I had to have this book. I didn’t have enough money so I ran back to the
first kiosk and panting, explained to the shop assistant how I had accidentally brought the wrong
book, how important it was that I purchase a book I had just seen at the other kiosk and seeing as
I didn’t have the money for both, could I please have a refund? The tall pale bespectacled man
looked down at me.
“We don’t give refunds.”
I stared at him and suppressed the urge to punch him in his sanctimonious face. Walking back
towards the second kiosk I knew what I had to do. I knew it was risky if I got caught, especially
considering the cheque which paid for my release may have bounced by now, but I decided it
was worth it. I loitered at the bookstand for a moment and then I placed myself in between the
shop assistant and the stand. I spun the stand around so the book I wanted was facing me and in
one swift movement with one hand I picked up Adventures of Wim and with the other hand, I
replaced it with the book I had bought at kiosk number one. Fair swap I thought, as I walked
away casually with my prize, praying I would not suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder.

I boarded the plush train, which had plenty of spare seats, took a seat by the window. I watched
the station disappear as we pulled out. My body began to relax. I opened my stolen book and
began to read.

The End

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