“La.”

With that, the stunning royal blue wool carpet is whisked away by two attendants, and with a flourish, another one is rolled out for our inspection.

I’m hopeful we can get out of this predicament with our credit card intact.

And then the tray of steaming mint tea arrives. “Oh boy,” I say under my breath. Everyone who’s ever been to Marrakesh knows that the mint tea ceremony is code for ‘will that be cash or credit?’

And not for the first time, I ask myself how the hell I ended up here.

The plan was clear. We were NOT going to buy a carpet on our trip to Morocco. In fact, I’d instructed Jon, my travel and life partner, on this very subject as we were packing.

“Now remember,” I said (maybe even wagging my finger at him for emphasis), “we’re not buying a carpet.”

“OK,” he replied.

“I mean it. We can’t afford it, and besides, we have no place in this little house for a carpet. We have all the floor coverings we need.”

“OK,” he replied again, this time with a touch of concern in his voice. “I didn’t think we were going to buy a carpet, so not buying one shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good. Maybe we can bring back some spices though.”

“Sure,” he replied. “We have room in the house for spices.”

With all that conviction in our hearts, we should have at least lasted longer than 24 hours before our defences were worn down. But this is only our first day in The Red City. And it’s not even noon yet. We’d just left the comfort of our riad inn, when a burly man with a warm smile approached us.

“Hello!” He called, “Remember me? I’m your driver from yesterday.”

Of course, I remembered him. We’d arrived late after a tiring travel day, from Canada, through Paris, and a long final leg by standing-room only train from Casablanca. But the taxi ride from the station to the old town medina was fast, and the driver had been friendly and helpful. It was nice to run into him again.

We exchange pleasantries, and he asks where we’re off to. “We’re walking to the supermarket to buy water,” I reply.

“Well, after that you should go to the souks and see the carpet auction,” he suggests.

Carpets.

“Mmm,” I reply, “We’re not looking for carpets.” There, conviction upheld!

“Oh, not to buy,” he reassures me, “the auction is only held once a year,” (or was it once a month?), so it’s very interesting to see.”

I glance at Jon. He is oddly quiet. “Maybe after we go to the supermarket, we can go there.” Jon nods without much enthusiasm.

Our driver starts to give us directions, but I’m quickly confused. He offers to help. “I’m on my way to prayer, but I go right by the auction house, so I can show you if you want to go now, before the market.”

We both agree to change our course and have him escort us to the carpet auction. He deftly weaves through the maze of medina alleyways, with Jon and I in hot pursuit. Minutes later, we arrive at the carpet-laden doorstep of Palais Saadiens, where we are greeted by Moses (not the original, but quite possibly a distant relative), the tall, cheerful and reverent proprietor.

He declares the day has been made perfect with our arrival and welcomes us, literally, with open arms. Our taxi driver friend beats a hasty retreat (I don’t even see him leave), and we are lead into the shop’s expansive, cool interior.

“We’re here to see the auction,” I explain, perhaps not as authoritatively as I would have liked.

“Of course, madam, and you shall see it,” replies smiling Moses. “Let me first tell you a bit about the exceptional quality of the carpets here at Palais Saadiens, so you understand what the buyers are looking for.”

That seems fair, so we listen as Moses gives us a quick lesson in Moroccan carpet making; all the while, he takes us deeper into the cavernous workshop. At some point, we stand on the mezzanine, looking over the auction below (there really is an auction going on), but we quickly move on, up another flight of stairs, into a vast room with a kaleidoscope of carpets piled high along the walls. Moses directs us to a low sofa with a small table – perfect for a tray of mint tea. We dutifully sit down, but I remind Moses that we are NOT going to buy a carpet.

“Of course,” he says with a broad smile. “I understand. But you have come a long way to visit our beautiful country, and you should at least have an opportunity to learn more about our proud traditions. I will show you some carpets and explain the patterns, how they are made and the difference in quality. If you happen to see something that you think, ’well, that is beautiful and would be a nice addition to our home,’ you let me know and I will put it aside so you can think more about it. No obligation, though Madam. You do not need to leave here with any purchases.”

I am not feeling reassured by this – I have the distinct feeling that Moses has heard all this before and like a clever spider, he knows that with patience, in time, his prey will jump into his web.

He goes on. “If you do not like the carpet I show you, then you simply say, “La’, in Arabic, this means no. I am not offended, so please say this if you do not wish to know any more about the carpet.” When he says the word, he also makes a hand gesture, a dismissive sweep of the arm across his body. Jon and I both try it out.

“Good,” says Moses. “Now, if you see something you think is nice, and you would like to know more, you say “yumkin”. I quickly forget the word though – all I really need to know is ‘la’ because we are NOT buying a carpet.

We’re off and running. Two assistants appear on Moses’ command and the show begins. Carpets of every size, colour and pedigree are rolled out before us, and we learn about them in turn.

For centuries, Berber tribes have populated Morocco from the desert to the High Atlas and hard-working Berber women have designed and weaved beautiful creations for personal use as well as trade. For as long as traders plied the legendary caravan route from Europe, Africa and Asia, Berber carpets were prized goods. The weave, colours, patterns and symbols are unique to each tribe.

In spite of my inner voice shouting ‘no carpet!’, I want to learn more and find myself edging towards Moses’ sticky web.

And then it appears. A beautiful, cinnamon coloured creation, with rose-hued accents, a robin’s egg blue central medallion and a decorative border. A fringe on one side adds whimsical character. I’m caught in the web.

Instead of saying ‘la’, I say nothing, and then I realize Jon hasn’t said ‘la’ either. We glance at each other. And Moses strikes.

“I see you like this carpet. It’s very beautiful. This carpet is made by the Berber women of Taznakht, in the High Atlas Mountains in the region of Ourzazate. Let me put it aside and we can discuss it later.”

No one disputes this, and a few more carpets later, the cinnamon Taznakht is again rolled out for us to admire. We negotiate pricing and when we arrive at a somewhat suitable amount (this is an excellent price, you negotiate very well!), Moses leaves us to talk privately for a few minutes.

“Jon, we’re not supposed to be doing this,” I say.

“I know, but we’re here, and we’re never going to have a chance to buy a Moroccan Berber carpet at this price ever again. Besides, we love it, and it’s a better souvenir than another fridge magnet.”

“You mean several hundred fridge magnets,” I reply. But it’s a meaningless discussion. We’re in love with the carpet and we picture it brightening up our sitting room – a happy reminder of our travels to Morocco for years to come.

The credit card does its job, the carpet is packed and rolled (no need to ship –  it can be carry on luggage!) and Moses arranges for it to be delivered to our riad later that afternoon. There are handshakes and smiles and many blessings upon us, and an hour after we arrive at the carpet shop, we’re back on the frantic streets of the medina.

“Well,” I say to Jon, “I guess it’s a good thing we ran into our taxi driver today, or we wouldn’t have come here.”

Jon looks at me. “Barb, that wasn’t our driver.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No, it was a Marrakesh con artist – he gets a kickback from Moses for every tourist he brings in. That guy didn’t look anything like our driver.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask.

Jon smiles. “You were enjoying yourself. And I wanted to see what would happen. It worked out, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” I agree, but I remind myself that facial recognition is not my forte. “Let’s go get that water from the supermarket. All that carpet buying has made me thirsty.”