Growing up, my father was obsessed withIbn Battuta. “Our very own Marco Polo,” he would say to my brother and I, as we wandered aimlessly down the brightly lit aisles of our local grocery store during the weekly family shop. We were never quite taken by Baba’s admiration of this mythical figure, one we knew so little about. There were tens of books in the local library about the famed Italian merchant and explorer – even a game named after him that we played in and around discounted piles of tomatos, oranges and potatoes. But this, ‘Ibn Battuta’ fella? Who on earth was he? Frustrated by our la…