Bazaar goings-on

I have just returned from Morocco, or Marrakech, to be precise; the rose-pink city with its hidden gardens and ancient, tiled palaces. This was against the advice of an American friend who protested vigorously when I announced my visit. ‘You can’t go there,’ she howled, ‘it’s an Islamic country. They’ll all be pro-Saddam and anti-Bush. They’ll probably tear you to pieces.’

I thought this highly unlikely as in my experience the Moroccans are a gentle people who are only likely to tear you to pieces if you refuse to buy one of their hideous carpets made by a tribe called the Berbers. Nevertheless, I expected the joint to be hotter than usual – politically that is. I packed a heavy scarf in case I came across any weapons of mass destruction. I am always on the look out for WMD, as a good patriot, and figured they might as well be in Muslim Morocco as anywhere else.