Which raises the question of who I am. From the first night in the Jamaa el fna, when someone called me “Moustache” in the French mode, that has been my main name. But I’ve also been called Ali Baba more than once, and I’ve just been told that I look like a Colombian soccer player of years past, who also had a fine head of hair. That’s the odd part. My moustache is hardly my most prominent feature; my hair is. And yet it has occasioned very few comments. The guys a moment ago wanted to know whether it was real, and back at Ait Ben Haddou a shopkeeper asked to touch it. But few comments. Apart from one wag back in Marrakech who called me Einstein.

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