It started off innocently enough. It was Saturday night and I was out with this girl and this girl at a new wine and cheese bar in Marrakech called (cough) Cheese Me.

It was small and modern and had a very special chandelier.

Karim, the co-owner, had enough charisma for all of Marrakech.

Cheese Me's simple and very affordable menu was written on a blackboard,offering delicious cheeses, desserts and a short wine list. We ordered.

And there was a clinking of glasses.

And that's when she told us. About the jinn or genies (those spirits written about in the Koran, and respected and feared by many Muslims).

She had been (of course) in the Algerian desert. It was night time. Now every good Tuareg nomad knows perfectly well that you mustn't ever fall asleep near a fire because when the last embers fade away, that's when they come. The genies.

She heard them. Their feet tap, tap, tapping.

Back and forth, back and forth the genies walked. Pacing. Why right above her sleeping bag.

She was astonished.

Suddenly -- salacious creatures as they sometimes are -- one of the genies tried to get into her sleeping bag.

She resisted, sliding deeper into the sleeping bag, her hands holding it closed.

She tried to remember how to say Help in Arabic and French, but nothing came to mind. She tried German but these particular genies didn't seem to speak that language. So she squeaked a tiny little Help in English.

Thank goodness, it worked and the genies fled. (I think her talismanic rings might have assisted, too.)