The Spy who Loved Me (Almost); Marrakech, Morocco July 2011

I felt like I was a character in a John Le Carre cold war novel.

Every time I entered the ancient souk that surrounds le Place Jmaa El Fna I had the sense that I was being followed.

I could have been Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, hell that’s just down the road! Or an undercover man, maybe even a double agent!

I was entering enemy territory. They knew. I knew it.

If I wasn’t cool, if I didn’t keep my wits about me they could capture and torture me, and draw every important piece of strategic information from me, and I would leave a broken man.

Broken and Broke.

I would probably have a large Berber carpet rug, 3 pairs of goats leather shoes with the toes pointed skywards, a sliver tea service set, a tagine or two, enough spices for the next decade, a camel leather bag to carry it all in, emerging back into the blinding midday sunlight looking like Demis Roussos in a long, white, hooded Arab Jelaba.

They would use underhanded tactics to confuse and entrap me.

Like suddenly a swarthy man would materialise next to me, and holding out his hand (for a handshake) say “bonjour Monsieur , comment ca’ va’? If I responded “ca’ va’ bien” he would say “ah francais” if I refused to speak or said something like “non parlez francais” he would say “Espana, Non, English?  “Where are you from” “Auslalia?” Welcome, to Maroc. Auslalia is beautiful, no?

And if I returned his handshake he would invite me to come and meet his family and take mint tea with them “as fliend” and watch a berber rug being made on a loom in the traditional way.

Then he would lead me into the darkened depths of the labyrinth, through archways and laneways, up stairs and down stairs, till we would come to a non-descript hole in the wall.

He was just the go-between, paid to deliver me to a team of super-salesmen in a Marrakech market megastore who were probably the direct descendants of Ali Baba’s forty thieves!

So, a strategy was needed.

Firstly, never shake their hand.

The swarthy sales man would get agitated and offended but I was not their “effendi” or friend. Their hand was usually pretty dirty anyway.

Secondly, have some fun with them.

Go round a corner and duck into the shadows of a deep, dark doorway, and watch the panic as they run after your ghost down the alley.

Or, when you are asked where you are from, just say “Siberia”.

“Sibeerlia, we love your country”!

Welcome to Morocco, Welcome to Marrakech.