The Plan by John Francis Kinsella
It was Kennedy’s first visit to the Maghreb. Russia he had understood. In China, in spite of the vast cultural shock, he had discovered a mercantile spirit not unlike that of the British, at least the vestige of what he dimly recognised had once been the gung-ho winner take all attitude of those who had carved out an empire forged by raw capitalism. Marrakech compared to the rest was an incomparable cultural shock, a city torn between the Middle Ages and the world of Internet and iPhones, where jetsetters and tourists mixed with Bedouins, goat herders and snake charmers.
The theme of the conference was ‘Investing in the Arab World’. A contradiction in terms with the scene that greeted Pat’s eyes as the car made its way through the medina and Djemaa el-Fna its vast market place. It looked more like a Hollywood set built for a remake of ‘Sinbad the Sailor’ with Pat imagining Errol Flynn in the role of Sinbad, swashbuckling his way through the market and its exotic throng; a medieval potpourri of trickery and thievery, where naïve, awed, tourists were fleeced by swarms of trick-a-the-loop merchants and snake charmers of every species.
Though used to luxury Pat Kennedy marvelled at the opulence of his riad, it was worthy of its name, Dar es-sallam. A haven of peace situated in the heart of the medina and its narrow streets intended for the passage of hand carts and donkeys, where homes were hidden by their plain uninviting walls and small windows covered by wooden shutters. Within the forbidding walls Pat discovered a shaded courtyard; the silence interrupted by only by the trickling of water from a fountain set on its cool mosaic covered floor and a dove cooing between the potted palms and flowering shrubs. The sound of the odd passer-bye was shut out by the stout walls and heavy wood doors reinforced and decorated with solid brass rivets and embellishments. Directly above was the bright blue sky, but little direct sunlight filtered down into the courtyard where cool shadows reigned. The long gone builders of the Medina had designed its homes to keep the heat of the fierce Moroccan sun at bay.
The tranquillity of the setting was however an illusion as fear grasped at the hearts of those who had invested in property in the Alaouite Kingdom. Behind the appearance of normality in the red city, described as daughter of the desert, investors were in a state of near panic after property prices had dropped by up to forty percent over the preceding two years. The king proposed reforms, but his royal promises did little to allay the all-pervading fear.
Wary investors had backed away in the wake of the economic crisis and the permanent threat of instability in the Arab world. Would it be Morocco’s turn next? The experts tried to explain the Alaouite Kingdom was different, but the experts had been wrong in recent times.
As the crisis became a permanent fixture on the world’s economic landscape. Developers, such as Martínez, had left whole swaths of prime Mediterranean coastal sites looking like ghost towns after credit dried-up leaving investors struggling to make ends meet. As social tensions rose to the surface, observers feared the slightest incident could tip the Arab world, eaten by the lack of work, into chaos. A demonstration transformed into a riot, a bomb, or some other unimagined incident could spark a revolt and transform investor’s fears into a riot.
Kennedy’s recent visit to Cairo, Sharm el-Sheikh and the hotel resorts on Egypt’s Red Sea façade, had confirmed the boom was truly dead. The coastal resorts of Egypt resembled an all-in package tour version of Dubai: a surfeit of new hotels set against a desertic backdrop, the difference being the absence of oil and gas resources to finance its leaders’ ambitions. The urgency of East Asia was absent; the service was willing, but poor, the industrial potential zero. His stopover in Cairo simply confirmed the presence of teeming millions and nothing but hungry mouths to feed.
Autocrats had reigned North Africa for decades, from Suez to Marrakech. What the future held for them was anybody’s guess. For experienced orientalists the hope for democracy in the tradition bound Arab world was slim. Fifty years of independence, following a century or more of colonial rule, had certainly brought improvements, but galloping demographics had transformed the hopes of many of its inhabitants into bitter deception.
The Arab world was ready for a new experiment, but what kind of experiment? Democratically inspired capitalism, or radical Islam?
As Kennedy thumbed through his ‘Arabic for Dummies’, printed in Romanised script, the maid, who came with the riad, suddenly appeared, followed by a visitor.
‘Salem alekum,’ said Kennedy in his Irish brogue trying out the first words of the first lesson.
‘Alekum salem,’ replied his visitor smiling and politely amused at Kennedy’s linguistic effort.
It was Laurent David, an expatriate Frenchman, who had represented the interests of the Irish Netherlands Bank in Casablanca, Morocco’s business capital, for many years. Up to that point in time his main business with the bank had been limited to organising the occasional mortgage for better off Brits buying second homes.
David’s linguistic skills were one of his principal qualities. He spoke perfect English, be it with what could have been described as an almost theatrical French accent. However, it was his dialectal Arabic skills that had enabled him to become a successful middleman. David represented wealthy Moroccan families disposing of their traditional family homes in the medinas of Morocco’s Royal cities and more notably Marrakech, when a riad became a must for showbiz stars and other personalities. Before the crisis broke, landowners had, with the help of David, piled into the booming market, selling their ancient farming and grazing lands at hugely inflated prices for tourist developments, hotels, shopping malls and golf courses.
‘Ah Laurent, nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ the Frenchman replied extending his hand.
‘How’s the property market?’
‘Well, you know what Thomas Jefferson said about avaricious adventurers,’ said David, pausing to waiting for Kennedy’s reaction.
Pat Kennedy looked blank, he didn’t like puzzles.
‘Instead of employing their capital, if any they have, in manufactures, commerce, and other useful pursuits, make it an instrument to burden all the interchanges of property with their swindling profits, profits which are the price of no useful industry of theirs.’
‘Been swanning around again Pat?’ asked Fitzwilliams in a deliberately needling tone. ‘You could at least say Morocco was interesting.’
Kennedy shrugged.
‘Is that all?’
‘It’s not ready for us.’
‘I could have told you that before, saved you the trouble of sunning yourself under the palm trees.’
Kennedys pouted.
‘By the way did you see this Fitz?’ he said pointing to a newspaper, eager to change the subject. ‘They’re going to transform Sandacres pub into a Tesco!’
‘What!’
‘They’re turning our local into a Tesco.’
‘A pity, but it’s not as if the euro had collapsed,’ Fitzwilliams replied laughing.
The sandy peninsula of Sandbanks in Dorset was the home to a good many millionaires and one of the most expensive corners of the British Isles if not the world, and its well-heeled residents did not appreciate the idea their exclusive leisure sanctuary was about to be invaded by what they saw as a vulgar downmarket brand.
‘What did you think, they were going to open a branch of Harrods’s food store?’
‘Noo…but perhaps Waitrose would have been more in keeping with the tone of the place.’
‘You think Tesco’s an eyesore?’
‘Yesh,’ replied Kennedy wondering if Fitzwilliams was pulling his leg. ‘Looking over the harbour, yes.’
‘It seems they don’t need planning permission to convert a pub into shop.’
‘Well, if they’re not going to knock down the building then why not.’
Chapter 54 YET ANOTHER SCAM
The theme of the conference was ‘Investing in the Arab World’. A contradiction in terms with the scene that greeted Pat’s eyes as the car made its way through the medina and Djemaa el-Fna its vast market place. It looked more like a Hollywood set built for a remake of ‘Sinbad the Sailor’ with Pat imagining Errol Flynn in the role of Sinbad, swashbuckling his way through the market and its exotic throng; a medieval potpourri of trickery and thievery, where naïve, awed, tourists were fleeced by swarms of trick-a-the-loop merchants and snake charmers of every species.
Though used to luxury Pat Kennedy marvelled at the opulence of his riad, it was worthy of its name, Dar es-sallam. A haven of peace situated in the heart of the medina and its narrow streets intended for the passage of hand carts and donkeys, where homes were hidden by their plain uninviting walls and small windows covered by wooden shutters. Within the forbidding walls Pat discovered a shaded courtyard; the silence interrupted by only by the trickling of water from a fountain set on its cool mosaic covered floor and a dove cooing between the potted palms and flowering shrubs. The sound of the odd passer-bye was shut out by the stout walls and heavy wood doors reinforced and decorated with solid brass rivets and embellishments. Directly above was the bright blue sky, but little direct sunlight filtered down into the courtyard where cool shadows reigned. The long gone builders of the Medina had designed its homes to keep the heat of the fierce Moroccan sun at bay.
The tranquillity of the setting was however an illusion as fear grasped at the hearts of those who had invested in property in the Alaouite Kingdom. Behind the appearance of normality in the red city, described as daughter of the desert, investors were in a state of near panic after property prices had dropped by up to forty percent over the preceding two years. The king proposed reforms, but his royal promises did little to allay the all-pervading fear.
Wary investors had backed away in the wake of the economic crisis and the permanent threat of instability in the Arab world. Would it be Morocco’s turn next? The experts tried to explain the Alaouite Kingdom was different, but the experts had been wrong in recent times.
As the crisis became a permanent fixture on the world’s economic landscape. Developers, such as Martínez, had left whole swaths of prime Mediterranean coastal sites looking like ghost towns after credit dried-up leaving investors struggling to make ends meet. As social tensions rose to the surface, observers feared the slightest incident could tip the Arab world, eaten by the lack of work, into chaos. A demonstration transformed into a riot, a bomb, or some other unimagined incident could spark a revolt and transform investor’s fears into a riot.
Kennedy’s recent visit to Cairo, Sharm el-Sheikh and the hotel resorts on Egypt’s Red Sea façade, had confirmed the boom was truly dead. The coastal resorts of Egypt resembled an all-in package tour version of Dubai: a surfeit of new hotels set against a desertic backdrop, the difference being the absence of oil and gas resources to finance its leaders’ ambitions. The urgency of East Asia was absent; the service was willing, but poor, the industrial potential zero. His stopover in Cairo simply confirmed the presence of teeming millions and nothing but hungry mouths to feed.
Autocrats had reigned North Africa for decades, from Suez to Marrakech. What the future held for them was anybody’s guess. For experienced orientalists the hope for democracy in the tradition bound Arab world was slim. Fifty years of independence, following a century or more of colonial rule, had certainly brought improvements, but galloping demographics had transformed the hopes of many of its inhabitants into bitter deception.
The Arab world was ready for a new experiment, but what kind of experiment? Democratically inspired capitalism, or radical Islam?
As Kennedy thumbed through his ‘Arabic for Dummies’, printed in Romanised script, the maid, who came with the riad, suddenly appeared, followed by a visitor.
‘Salem alekum,’ said Kennedy in his Irish brogue trying out the first words of the first lesson.
‘Alekum salem,’ replied his visitor smiling and politely amused at Kennedy’s linguistic effort.
It was Laurent David, an expatriate Frenchman, who had represented the interests of the Irish Netherlands Bank in Casablanca, Morocco’s business capital, for many years. Up to that point in time his main business with the bank had been limited to organising the occasional mortgage for better off Brits buying second homes.
David’s linguistic skills were one of his principal qualities. He spoke perfect English, be it with what could have been described as an almost theatrical French accent. However, it was his dialectal Arabic skills that had enabled him to become a successful middleman. David represented wealthy Moroccan families disposing of their traditional family homes in the medinas of Morocco’s Royal cities and more notably Marrakech, when a riad became a must for showbiz stars and other personalities. Before the crisis broke, landowners had, with the help of David, piled into the booming market, selling their ancient farming and grazing lands at hugely inflated prices for tourist developments, hotels, shopping malls and golf courses.
‘Ah Laurent, nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ the Frenchman replied extending his hand.
‘How’s the property market?’
‘Well, you know what Thomas Jefferson said about avaricious adventurers,’ said David, pausing to waiting for Kennedy’s reaction.
Pat Kennedy looked blank, he didn’t like puzzles.
‘Instead of employing their capital, if any they have, in manufactures, commerce, and other useful pursuits, make it an instrument to burden all the interchanges of property with their swindling profits, profits which are the price of no useful industry of theirs.’
‘Been swanning around again Pat?’ asked Fitzwilliams in a deliberately needling tone. ‘You could at least say Morocco was interesting.’
Kennedy shrugged.
‘Is that all?’
‘It’s not ready for us.’
‘I could have told you that before, saved you the trouble of sunning yourself under the palm trees.’
Kennedys pouted.
‘By the way did you see this Fitz?’ he said pointing to a newspaper, eager to change the subject. ‘They’re going to transform Sandacres pub into a Tesco!’
‘What!’
‘They’re turning our local into a Tesco.’
‘A pity, but it’s not as if the euro had collapsed,’ Fitzwilliams replied laughing.
The sandy peninsula of Sandbanks in Dorset was the home to a good many millionaires and one of the most expensive corners of the British Isles if not the world, and its well-heeled residents did not appreciate the idea their exclusive leisure sanctuary was about to be invaded by what they saw as a vulgar downmarket brand.
‘What did you think, they were going to open a branch of Harrods’s food store?’
‘Noo…but perhaps Waitrose would have been more in keeping with the tone of the place.’
‘You think Tesco’s an eyesore?’
‘Yesh,’ replied Kennedy wondering if Fitzwilliams was pulling his leg. ‘Looking over the harbour, yes.’
‘It seems they don’t need planning permission to convert a pub into shop.’
‘Well, if they’re not going to knock down the building then why not.’
Chapter 54 YET ANOTHER SCAM