Making my way down the alleyways of the souk of Marrakech I am in wonderment of the cacophony of sounds, smells and colors. Smoke illuminated by the sun streaks through the tented roof, striking brightly dyed textiles-red, blue and saffron, while motorbikes and donkeys bawl for the right-of- way. Senses are overwhelmed. Vendors reach out of every stall, beckoning one to buy their wares- an age old skill of the Berber people, honed for millennia on those drawn to the Orient and the exotic.   As I negotiate my way through the crowd I become mute and dumb, so that entrepreneurial tour guides don’t latch on to another hapless foreigner; “English? French? Deutsche? Italian?…Chinese?” they tease. One stall, layered in beautiful rugs of…