Climbing down the steps of the bus, I hear a greeting: "Hello, hello - you want guide? I show you Berber market, souk. You come with me, I bring you back." We are unsure and want to sit down for a cup of tea while we decide. Little do we know the decision is already made. Kharim shows us to the cafe right on the square, and tells us he will wait.
The midday warmth in Taroudant is sultry - we are glad to be sitting in the shade of an orange tree, intertwined with the awning of the cafe. The mint tea is brought, and then we drift into food as well - a tomato and olive salad and kebabs. We are the only ones eating as it's Ramadan, a period of fasting for Muslims between dawn and dusk. Not even water is allowed. This doesn't stop the local menfolk from lounging around at the tables, however.
The imam calls from the mosque across the square, and Kharim rises to go to prayer. We think we are off the hook - but our persistent fisherman soon returns and approaches our table. There is no escape. We are going to be guided.
My friend has told Kharim that he wants to buy a kaftan - or more correctly a jellaba, so we are skilfully led past jewellery shops, leatherworkers, pottery shops and plastic shopping bag stalls to Mohammed's Emporium. It's plain that this is no second-rate establishment. Mohammed is the perfect salesman, twirling a turban around my friend's head, and declaring "Berber!" A blue jellaba is chosen, and a modest skullcap. Red babouches - leather slippers - with car tyre soles are produced, and the picture is complete. He looks great, and Mohammed holds up the mirror.
Then the haggling starts. The price is sky high; we make a low offer and Mohammed mimes tears rolling pantomime-like down his cheeks. But now we've started we are morally obliged to reach agreement - there seems to be no other way to leave the shop. It takes all my concentration with the help of a calculator to convert the prices and arrive at an affordable price. My brain feels as if it's about to burst with the strain. We seem to have been in the shop for hours when we are finally parted from our money and are allowed to leave.
We walk around the souk, passing metalworkers, spice merchants and a huge stall of dates with about 20 different varieties of dates. And all the time we are moving inexorably towards our next port of call.
"You want see Berber carpets? Just look. You no buy, they smile, be friends." But of course once we are in and taken to the depths of the lair, the magic starts all over again, and we are bewitched and gasping at the beauty of what is laid before us. An assistant is pulling out roll after roll of carpet from prayer mat to room size; as he shakes them out with a flourish our eyes are beguiled by a caravan of colour. It's so splendid and so exciting, that I am quite overcome.
Kharim asks if I take sugar in my tea. What does this imply, if I accept tea? Do I have to buy? I have already decided that I am not going to buy a carpet, haven't I? But I'd love some tea - to give me strength. So I give the word, and we are ushered to comfortable leather ringside seats.
And the show continues. This time I have to say "lah" if I don't like it, and "waha" if I do. Choosing by elimination. It's a great game, and I am cheered on for my increasing decisiveness, and complimented on my taste. Some are Berber silk and cotton, some are artificial dyes. We get the whole story as we sip the delicious tea. Of course the salesman quotes me a high price, and says he'll do a special deal for two. And there's no problem with travellers' cheques, even though I don't have my passport with me. We might even get a lift back to Agadir with the owner. Possibilities seem endless in this underground cavern.
We bargain hard and long, and finally agree on a - relatively - low price but I will have to slip an extra 100 Dhiram to the salesman in order to close the deal. Everything seems to be woven round with complexity - the conjuror's capacious sleeves. But I get the correct change from the owner, who smiles graciously as he shows me pictures of an Irishwoman smiling and sunbronzed - no doubt also a magic carpet client - and offers me Moroccan soup, harira, in the evening. The potential lift seems to have vanished in a puff of smoke: maybe I didn't spend enough. But now I must think about giving Kharim a tip and unlocking the enchantment.
Kharim, meanwhile, has our departure all worked out. We will go by horse carriage: "very cheap, 20 Dhiram," to the grand taxi rank outside the city walls. There we can get a shared taxi for only a little more than the bus fare. So he bundles us into the horse taxi, organising the payment as well, and I give him what I have left after I have separated the taxi fare.
It's a whirling, charming drive under our fringed and plant-wreathed canopy - and very practical way to travel in such narrow, tortuous streets. I am almost sorry to get out in the broad, dusty square where the ageing blue and green Mercedes are parked, waiting for fares. A young fellow approaches us, and propels us towards a car. We must wait for four more passengers, and I must leave the precious carpet in the boot.
As we leave the heady atmosphere of this ancient city, the snowy mountains of the High Atlas turn pink in the evening sun. The sky turns to a rich vermilion, and by the time we reach the outskirts of Agadir, it's nearly dark. We stagger back to our apartment, clutching our treasures. And in spite of myself, I can't help wondering where the next magic show will take place.
Getting There
I travelled with Sunway, whose inclusive holidays to Morocco are available over the winter. We flew by Royal Air Maroc on a Friday evening from Dublin to Agadir. During the winter season, apartment holidays start at around £250 per person for two sharing. At this time of year prices range from £329 per person sharing, for one week, and £399 for two weeks. Further details are available from Sunway Travel, telephone 01-288-6828.
