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.

But it was at Gatwick airport, at the Royal Air Maroc check-in desk, that I encountered WMD. Weapons of Mass Dementia. For some reason nearly every passenger had a different flight time printed on their ticket. While this was all sorted out I quietly went mad in the departure lounge.

They were very nice at Marrakech airport, however. No one looked at me with hostility or suspicion. Indeed a huge sign, in English, read ‘Morocco has nothing to do with the war in the Middle East.’ Indubitably, in any real sense, but what were the blighters really thinking behind those welcoming smiles?

I decided that it was my duty to find out, and if the findings were of concern then I would have no choice but to liberate Marrakech myself. On the way to the hotel I saw no signs of anti-Americanism or increased fundamentalism.