The Leather Market and My Telepathic Friend

by Jack Knowles (Ireland)

A leap into the unknown Morocco

Walking out into the streets of Marrakesh in Morocco for the first time Jem and I were greeted by an explosion of Arabic and French, motorbikes charging through the streets, and bent-backed women in hijabs bartering with the fruit sellers. The city’s phasers must have been set to stun because we were left frazzled. Jem and I knew each other since school although we only began to become close friends after. I was apprehensive about one thing. Last time we travelled together was four years earlier to Berlin which was a success, however, we’d been on our own travels since. I worried we’d developed different approaches to travelling during that time. That I might hold Jem back or worse we wouldn’t be as friends after the trip. Why Morocco? Well, Jem had said, ‘I booked a flight to Morocco… ya coming?’ After a week I had booked my flights. The only thing I knew was that I wanted to visit the photography museum I’d seen online and that there was meant to be a lot of scammers. The first morning we met a Moroccan in his mid-twenties standing beside a motorbike. He wore a black leather jacket and had a waxy smile that was enchanting. ‘First day in Morocco, my friends,’ he asked. ‘Yes!’ we had blurted in unison. ‘Mrehba is welcome in Arabic, mrehba my friends, welcome to Morocco. You should go leather market, all handmade.’ We thanked him and vaguely headed in the direction he’d suggested. The creamy orange walls only got tighter and tighter, as we wandered the medina, (the old city). It required sharp senses due to the motorbikes, donkeys and cyclists racing through, and the reverberations of talking, laughing and shouting trembling along the brick walls. ‘Hullo, my friends,' we saw our friend, pushing his motorbike and grinning. ‘You go leather market?’ We told him we were only wandering, he said he’d show us the way. It was then with our new friend did I take in Marrakesh with its sultry air; its sandy lanes; its raucous Arabic; and its carts of fresh mint that reminded me of toothpaste. Our new friend had a phone call and after it, he told us he was late for work and that we should all get on his bike to get there quicker. Jem and I had exchanged a glance. I felt as if Jem was eager and I didn't want to hold him back. ‘Let’s do it,’ I had said as I got on the bike. Jem joined me and seconds later we were whizzing through the streets. The weaving in and out of people was thrilling, it was like outrunning the police in Grand Theft Auto. But as we dodged little old Moroccan men a thought hit me in Jem's voice: Our new friend was going to scam us. To make matters worse Jem was falling off the motorbike, he said, ‘oh dodgy, I’m slipping off, Knowlesy.’ I panicked. Considering we were on the back of a motorbike in a foreign country where we spoke no Arabic and I, for the first time, was majorly regretting doing ordinary level French in school. Luckily, the bike stopped because of the sandy cluster of people blocking the laneway and god behold, shining like a sign from a higher power was the photography museum. Jem and I got off the bike. We told our scammer friend that we were going to check out the museum, he insisted that the leather market was near. We said that we were ok and after a while, we managed to get rid of him. By the end of the trip, besides mastering the art of outrunning anyone who suggested the leather market, my concern over my friendship with Jem was settled. Specifically, when we began to communicate without speech. This first occurred when we both telepathically realised that our new friend was scamming us and from there on out we were on the same frequency. In the end, we hadn’t become less of friends instead, Jem had become my telepathic friend.