21/01/2025
Lock, Croc & Two Smoking Barrels
I was deep in thought as I left the flea market and headed back to my riad near the ancient gate of Bab Doukkala. “That was Marrakech in a nutshell,” I’d decided. A solitary Croc shoe and a one-legged man – it didn’t get more poetic than that. Marrakech, the city where lost soles and seekers find each other.
Moments earlier, I had witnessed the most heartwarming and bizarre transaction of my life. A one-legged man had spotted that forlorn right-footed Croc, tried it on, and, in a moment of cosmic alignment, walked away (more of a hobble) with the ultimate prize. It was a perfect metaphor for this city. Marrakech doesn’t hand you what you’re looking for; it delivers something you didn’t even know you needed – like a single Croc, or, as I would soon discover, a death-defying ride on a moped.
When I reached my riad, the sun was settling into its morning shift, turning the city a gradient of blood orange and apricot. Outside, a man lounged on his doorstep, smoking a Sebsi pipe while firing another up for a friend. “English?” he asked. It wasn’t so much a question as an inevitability. I paused, debating the wisdom of engaging. But before I knew it, I was clutching the back of his moped like a man trying to hold on to his dignity as he scythed through the souk like a brain surgeon with a chainsaw.
My captor was a Berber carpet salesman’s goffer moonlighting as a stunt rider, and I, his willing accomplice, was off to “Adil’s Berber shop of curiosities.” When we’d arrived, Adil greeted me warmly, as all carpet merchants do when they spot an easy mark.
Within minutes, I was seated inside his shop, cradling a cup of mint tea and stroking a carpet as if it were my childhood Labrador. Adil’s pitch was flawless. “This carpet, Mr. Alex, is not just a carpet. It is a story, a life, a legacy.”
I tried to explain, politely, that I wasn’t in the market for a carpet, least of all one I couldn’t squeeze into my luggage. “Ah, but we ship,” Adil countered as if he’d anticipated my every move. “Very cheap.”
As I plotted my escape, Adil played his trump card. “This carpet was made by my cousin. He lives in High Atlas. He is blind.”
Of course, he is. Because in Marrakech, the emotional stakes are never low. I nodded gravely. “He must be very talented,” I offered weakly, searching for a polite way to extricate myself without buying a floor covering large enough to resurface Heathrow’s Terminal 5.
And then I thought about the Croc. How the one-legged man hadn’t been looking for it, and yet it was exactly what he needed. The metaphor I’d been so smugly pondering now seemed less like a profound observation and more like a cosmic setup. Because here I was, in Adil’s shop, not seeking a carpet, and yet – was this it? Was this my Croc moment?
I glanced at Adil, who was holding my gaze with the intensity of a man who knows he’s got you. Then I looked at my kidnapper, Barry Sheene, still loitering in the doorway, revving his moped as if daring me to reconsider my life choices.
“No,” I thought. “Not today.” Marrakech may be full of unexpected magic, but it doesn’t mean you have to buy the Croc every time. I thanked Adil profusely, apologised for wasting his time (because I’m British, after all), and prepared myself for the terrifying journey back to my riad. As the moped roared to life beneath me, weaving through the chaotic streets, I couldn’t help but laugh. Marrakech might not give you what you seek, but it will give you a story.
And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
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Paradise in Marrakech. A singing holiday with Laïla Amezian.
