Marrakech

I went to Marrakech last week. It's technically in Africa but it was quite hard to believe that sometimes.

I stayed in a lovely Riad (B&B) not far from the main market square where we were constantly accosted by people trying to sell us crap. Some of it was very good crap though - I bought one of the traditional Moroccan items of clothing, a jilaba. It's kind of like a long hoodie. Now I can dress up as a Jedi. Or a Dementor.*

The sales-patter of the people at the stalls was impressive... at first.
"I make you good price" from the older people, "Asda prices, isn't it" from the younger ones.

They expect tourists to barter so they ask for more than the items are worth; we expect them to put the prices up so we barter. We get the items for a few Dirhams less so we feel good about ourselves; they ask for 300 dirhams but reluctantly sell for 250, but they feel good because they're only worth 15 anyway. Everyone's a winner.

We ate at a stall one night run by "Mustapha Oliver - my mother is Nigella Lawson and my father is Gordon Ramsay".
(If this nightmare coupling was actually true, he didn't look like either of them.)
They love their mint tea over there. Hippiechick can't stand the stuff (it is approximately 240% sugar after all) so I drank hers when I finished mine; but then someone would come over and insist on topping up both our glasses.

Very friendly. Great hosts.
But my piss still smells like Polo mints...


*(mental note: must wear it next time I go to the supermarket)