(continued from carpet kidnapping – part 1)
— Back in the carpet cave… —
“Yes, my boyfriend’s a football player,” I said, immediately sensing how ridiculous and unpractical the statement was. Oh, so you have a huge boyfriend, what the hell is he going to do to save you when you’re in the middle of a medina in North fucking Africa so enormous and convoluted that locals can’t even find their way through?
Lokelani glanced over at just the right time, sensing the turn of events, and scooted over to my side. Looking me dead in the eye, both in complete understanding of what needed to happen next without uttering a single word, I gave Lokelani a quick nod just as all four men started closing in on the two of us.
“I think we’re done looking at carpets,” I said. And with that, I grabbed Lokelani’s hand, my backpack in the other, springing up from the carpet simultaneously and making a run for the door. We ducked with dexterity under the tiny cave-like entrance, arriving smack in the middle of the overwhelming, bustling Fez medina. Lokelani and I stood there for a split second, dumbfounded for a moment, unsure of which way to go.
“Where you going!?” Mohammad yelled, appearing beside us just outside the entrance. The other four men peeking their heads out of the cave opening.
Things got a little James bond at this point. (Cue action-movie music.) Lokelani and I looked at each other, committed to a direction, and then we ran. We knew not where. We ran as fast as our nineteen-year-old legs could carry us, which was luckily faster than Mohammad’s Moroccan sketch-ball legs could carry him, since he was running after us.
Lokelani and I darted through tiny passageways, dodging donkeys with carts, jumping over huge boxes of handicrafts, textiles, women in head scarves, and food that lay in the way of the tiny medina paths. Locals watched us as we bounded through the medina pathways, impending darkness making sight more and more difficult.
Out of breath five minutes later, we’d finally lost Mohammad. Lokelani and I stopped, panting, to catch our breath. I took a look around. We were definitely in the “locals only” section of the medina. There were no foreigners anywhere. To make things worse, the sun was setting. I was wearing shorts. All of the other women were wearing head scarves and long skirts. Men were throwing precarious looks our way.
“Shit, what the hell are we going to do now?” Lokelani said, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
I had no idea.
[ continued: Part 3]
- tramp goes west
- travel stories
- latin america
- stories from countries too obscure to categorize into a continent