That night I dined in the Djemma again. The English-speakers that I attempted to talk to appeared rather disinclined to reciprocate (especially the young couples!), perhaps because there were so many others around and it was not deemed necessary to form a little commonwealth away from home.

A restauraunt tout began shouting at a couple of tourists who had ignored his sell or had been rude, followed by representative of a neighbouring stall shouting at him, presumably annoyed that he might disuade custom. Then several others became drawn in, holding back moving body parts in the swell, trying to moderate the pushing and shoving. A drinking glass was smashed. The tourists seated scattered immediately. My table was turned over. I retreated also, and a few volleys of drinking glasses glided over and tinkled down like bits of ice. Several gendarmes quickly came over from the nearby police station and tried pursuasively to calm matters down. But at least one of the restauranters was too upset to have lost his customers for the night and did not pull back, and was taken away.

I then visted a hammam, or bath, that evening. It was while the Marakeches were at prayer or beginning to break the fast and I was the only person in the very dark kiln at that time. I had asked for the full chiropractic works, involving being first washed and scrubbed, and then being trodden on in several places. Returning to the sqaure for some fresh orange juice the vendor found it necessary to enquire after my health. I spent some time lingering in different places, mainly in the square enjoying a hot cinnamon drink with chocolate cake sediment, watching the other tourists with alternate bouts of jeaslousy and sanctimony, before deciding to cut my losses and return to the riad.