The Moroccan scam that wasn't

Even with all the trouble in the world, sometimes a friendly invitation is simply an invitation, and a humble robe can be a treasure.

Two men on the train invited me to their sister's wedding, but they didn't look at all like brothers.

Tall, fair-skinned Achmed and short, swarthy, moustachioed Mustafa entered my cabin midway between Marrakech and Fez.

"A thousand welcomes to Morocco," they said, putting their hands over their hearts.

I gave them a noncommittal nod, wary of yet another scam, having spent most of my time in Marrakech fleeing from touts, tour guides and con artists.

Lacking contacts, a guidebook or much cash, I was essentially a refugee in this land, dependent on the good will of people I didn't know.

The duo asked why I was visiting Morocco. I was too embarrassed to say it was actually just a cheap side trip from my stay in Spain.

I didn't want to admit I chose Marrakech because of a Crosby, Stills & Nash song and that I was travelling to Fez because of the funny hats.

So I made up a story with the old cliches, telling them I had always wanted to visit the land of the Arabian Nights, snake charmers and exotic desert adventures.

They laughed.

"Well, perhaps those tales have some truths. But if you want to see the real Morocco, you must come to our sister's wedding tonight," Achmed said.

"Really?" I said, slowly looking them up and down. "I'm supposed to believe you two are actually brothers?"

"We have different mothers. Our father has three wives, you see. And 15 children! What do you think about that?"

"Your father must be a very energetic man."

"Oh yes! He once played for our national football team. But nowadays, we usually only take one wife here in Morocco. It is too expensive to support all those women."

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