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At the onboard passport desk, the immigration officer took my passport. "Ahhh! Irlandi!" he exclaimed and to satisfying thuds of his stamp, I had my first souvenir. Tired, I tried to sleep amid the hum of the motors. Africa waited. By the time my phone hummed with a welcome to Morocco message, the harbour of Tangiers enveloped my ferry. In the terminal, I was greeted for the first time by the image of their hallowed young king and a handful of opportunistic taxi drivers approached me and called me their friend. Hmm, A few dirhams in my pocket and I could have all of the friends I want and more… As I entered the old gates of the city, I thought: "I'm in a faraway land getting lost in the vain hope for a hotel for the night and I've just seen more rats in the last half hour that in all of my life". Men invited me into their shops, limbless beggars pleaded for money, little motorbikes whined, and a passing group of girls headscarves giggled as they saw me and then quickly all tapped my shoulder and ran off giggling. Infidels! Somehow… just… somehow… people with my red hair don't come around very often… I'm exotic. Dam. I came out onto the darkening cacophony of the streets and I began to follow a few signs to a safe sounding 'Hotel Continental'. As I entered the labyrinth of the old medina I was greeted with beckoning smiles and a few young boys followed me demanding to be my guides. However, at the time my paranoia and I were having none of it and I bulled my way forward ignoring everyone. I went there. Leaving my hotel for a forage, I wandered through the medina, where the night air wafted breezes of local hashish and turning heads as they eyed me amid there little mountains of mint leaves and vegetables. Unfortunately that night I attracted the attention of one of the 'Hello my friend!' people when looking at a city map. Tired, I acknowledged his existence. Before I knew it, he led me through the winding streets and explained why it is "oh so very good sir" that he be my guide. Said then mumbled that he was going to show me to a Berber 'museum' or shop... We entered the magnificent shop that was festooned from floor to ceiling with a miscellany of carpets, bangles, pipes, blankets, silverware and handicrafts. The Santa Claus like owner with a cuplike hat greeted me with a powerful bonhomie and he sat me down. "So where are you from, my friend?" "Ireland" "Ah! Great I love the Irish!" "Thank you, though I'm terribly sorry I don't want to offend you or anything… but I have to get this straight first. I'm afraid I can't buy any of your carpets….", I said meekly. Then with a huge smile, he tapped me around the back of the shoulders with his bonhomie and roared. "Haha! You don't worry my friend! This is just a place where you can learn about Berber culture! It would just be such a shame for you not to see all that we have on offer here even if you don't buy." Continuing with his, "It'd be a shame if you don't at least see these things" line, the parade of the finest began. Camel blankets got thrown into my arms and a multitude of hats and scarves adorned me as little by little my will began to break with the thought that I simply would never be able to get any of these things back home, took hold. As I had promised a crush of mine a bracelet I looked over his selection, where he then jumped on me going, The more I looked, the more desperate he seemed to become. He avoided my question about prices, with subtle diplomacy he asked, "Well, sir how much do you think that you'd pay for it?". The astute salesman, the Arab.