"Hey, English. Which one is your woman? Hey, come on, tell me. Beautiful ladies."

I'd become used to this, from the traders and beggars and tea drinkers as we had passed them by on the dusty streets and alleys. Depending on the situation I had found I had to either ignore them or play up to it. This time, I looked across the cloying air of the bazaar to see who was speaking. On the other side of the narrow alley, in front of scarlet carpet columns, I could see two men. The taller one had spoken, a handsome Arabic man about six feet tall, dressed unusually for a trader in western clothes. He was waving me to come over, but I shook my head, no.

"They're all my wives. See." I reached out to Susan and put one arm around her, then called to Rachel to come over as well. Some ego trip they called it whenever I did this. Only one was my girlfriend, the others were her friends, travelling companions. As the only male in our party, I was their keeper. 

"You're a lucky man, my friend. I'll buy one from you. One thousand camels." The other traders laughed. 

"Two thousand, and it's a deal." They grinned as the spokesman held his thumbs up in agreement. There was no tension here; sometimes there was, most times not. It was an old gambit - I think Egyptian men liked the bravado, even though never once believing me.

Susan pursed her lips as she looked at me, took Rachel's hand, and went back to look at the fake gold camels and sphinxes glistening under the bare bulb in the shadow of the awning above us. Motes span in the disturbed air, appearing as tiny, magical dots as they went from the gloom under the canopy into the narrow sun filled space of the alley. 

"Looks like your wives want to put their hands in your purse, not your pocket, hey?" He laughed again. "Maybe the deal is off?" 

Looking at the four girls, I could see Claire was tapping the round end of a silver ankh against her teeth whilst the shopkeeper looked on. I gestured to let Susan know where I was going and stepped down onto the dry, brown dirt of the street. 

"You want a tea Mr Englishman?" said the trader as I got to the other side. To accept was almost the same as saying I was in the market for a carpet, but I thought, tell them straight away you've got no money and have a tea, it'll be okay.

"Yeah, sure. I'll have Hibiscus, if you've got it" The spokesman nodded to his smaller companion, who went back into the shop. "I've got to tell you though, I've got no money, so I won't buy a carpet from you."

"Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps you do me a favour instead? Any way, who wants to talk about carpets? Let's talk about women." I noticed that his accent was less pronounced than the usual traders. I complimented him on it, mainly to change the subject. 

"Ah, yes, thank you. I deal a lot with England. We send our carpets out to London, and they are sold in your Fulham Road. They are great carpets." I could tell he was winding up into his sales patter. Why not, I thought, I've told him I had no money, and a cup of hibiscus tea would be nice. The girls were coming over and it would be good to sit a while. 

"Ah, here come my wives. What took you so long women? Come here to me!" I pointed down at my feet.           

"Yes, master," said Claire. 

They came over and asked what was going on, so I told them my friend - who introduced himself to them as Omar - had offered me a cup of tea. 

"Of course," he said. "You are all welcome as my guests. Come inside and we can sit. I will then tell you the Myth of the Worth of a Woman. Come, come." He ushered us into the doorway, gesturing the tea bearer back inside. 

"Hang on Jim, we don't want to waste Omar's time. We're all skint, remember?" 

"It's okay beautiful lady. Mr Jim has already told me he has no money. So, after we talk of the worth of a woman, he will do me small favour, no? And if a man has no money, why should his wives? So, please, be my guests, be my guests." With a collective shrug, the girls followed his arm into the shop, and I went after, Omar's hand pressing lightly at the small of my back. 

Inside, the walls were invisible behind huge rugs stacked in every space. Muted hues of red and brown dissolved into intricate patterns in gold and jade green. The carpets were truly beautiful.

A narrow channel ran down the middle, with smaller rugs laid flat on top of each other on either side. The channel passed through the valley down to another doorway, where yellowish, smoky light was shining through multi-coloured beads hanging down. Omar's assistant went through the door with his tray of tea glasses, and we followed him.

The back room was smaller, but not as cluttered with carpets, and a desk stood in the far corner, with a computer asking us where we wanted to go today. The tea-man had rested his tray on a small wooden table, with ornately carved legs, and was leaving us again. I assumed he was going to get more glasses, and thought that this must have happened hundreds of times, so easily did he go, without any prompting. 

The girls were making themselves comfortable on cushions two feet across, purple, gold and orange, embroidered in delicate roundels across the seams. Claire and Rachel were discussing one of the carpets, a fine deep blue coloured rug with a depiction of the tree of life on it. 

I was gestured towards one of two small chairs that stood next to a Shisha pipe. Its glass bowl, the size of a small melon, was blue inlaid with a crystal white and burnt yellow patterns. Omar took the other chair.

"So, Mr Jim, do you smoke the Hookah? Will you join me?" I had to tell him that I could not take the smoke, much as I would like to. He looked disappointed, but shrugged and reached into his pocket to pull out a Zippo lighter. 

"You don't mind if I do?" 

"Of course, please." As I spoke, tea-man came back with four more glasses, upturned on a small tray. He set them right side up on the table and poured the purple, viscous tea into each one. 

"Please. Drink," the te-man said to the girls. His accent much thicker than Omar's. 

By now, Omar had lit the tobacco and fruit mixture, and its heady smoke had started to fill the room. I could smell apples mingled in with it. Bubbles gently rose and popped inside the bowl when he took the pipe from his mouth. 

"Okay then," I said to him. "Tell me about the, what did you call it, the worth of a woman?"    

He puffed out a bluish haze that curled and wrapped around his face, partly obscuring it.      

"Ah, Englishman, always in hurry too much," he replied. "First we sit quiet and drink some teas, smoke some smokes." 

He leaned back slightly and took another puff. The girls were all now intently discussing the blue and gold carpet. Omar was watching them through the smoke, sensing how he could get the sale he clearly wanted.            

I raised my small glass, shook my head at the trader and smiled.

"I know this story Omar."       

"Okay," he laughed. "You are a sharp man." 

He sat slightly towards me, blowing the smoke out again, but to one side.          

"But," he continued. "Do you know why I offer one thousand camels for your wife?"               

I had to say I did not, unless it was just a tourist.  

"Ah, no my friend," he smiled indulgently. "You think tourist were here before camels? Perhaps we make carpet and smoke Shisha for you?"

His face was light-hearted, but there was some agression there in his eyes as well.

"No," he went on. "Of course not. You seem a good man, English. So, I tell you the myth of the worth of woman. Then you know that we compliment you when we say we buy your wive's for one thousand or two thousand camels."           

He took another puff of the pipe and I sipped my sweet, sour tea. Then he began to tell me the myth of the worth of a woman.

"One thousand or more years ago...