This is Africa “When you get back from the desert, you must come into my shop,” says Ibrahim. “Sure,” I reply, not really intending to. But on returning to M'Hamid, the village that lies at the end of the road before the sand takes over, I can't resist the charming smile on Ibrahim's craggy face.
Ibrahim's shop is the proverbial Aladdin's cave, filled with headscarves, shirts, jewellery, alabaster masks, swords, you name it. “Come, come,” he beckons. “I have more.” I enter a backroom. He invites me to sit at his desk as he empties the contents of a Tardis-like drawer of jewellery on to it. Along the wall, piles of rugs catch my eye. Ibrahim unravels a few onto the floor.
“How much for this one?’’ I ash. “And…