Mustafa. He's the first Moroccan I met (with the exception of a spring break fling I would really rather forget). A seasoned tourist-nabbing barracuda working the environs of the Marrakech medina.
Mustafa looked well past the 44 years of age he claimed to share with the king. Bald, nut-brown, with a blue-tinted bulge under his left eye that suggested more than one unpleasant encounter with a fist, Mustafa spoke broken English and fair French to match my own. I would offer a photo, but he was careful to avoid the aim of my lens.
He sidled up alongside me as I walked to the medina and asked the usual questions: Where are you from? How long are you staying? Where are you going? Small talk – first English, then French. I was about to turn the wrong way, he warned helpfully. The medina entry is further along that street.
I read maps well, but thought, fine, maybe I'm mistaken and turned as directed. There's a special opportunity today, he told me. "This is the one day in the week the Tuareg are in town, peddling their wares. More authentic crafts, cheaper prices. This way. And the mosque is open today to non-Muslims, too. Because of the Tuareg. This way …"
After much winding through narrow passages, we arrived in an open square – the mosque, he said. It did appear to be adjacent to a minaret and the Arabic inscription he had me place my hand on to make a wish ("It will come true, I promise!") was, I'm quite sure, a phrase from the Koran, but a mosque is an interior space, not a square.
And this square included laundry drying and cartoon graffiti – not the stuff I usually associate with religious sites, but fine, thanks to my wish, at least there will be world peace. It will come true. He promised.
Next the special Tuareg market …. or rather, as it turned out, a shop away from the central souks with a basement full of carpets. Carpets … my greatest weakness in countries where hand-woven textiles are a major industry. I would buy one on this trip; I knew that already. Why not just get it out of the way on day one, I decided.
Out came the tea – mint, heavy on the sugar. Then the carpets: kilims (my favorite) – some woven in simple patterns of brilliant color, others with intricate designs embroidered on top of the weaving – much of it of silk.
It doesn't burn, the salesman insisted as he held his lighter to a sample piece. I picked one out in a red, black and white geometric pattern – silk embroidery on wool – 20 inches wide by 10 feet long. How much?
There is a process, Mustafa had explained. The salesman writes his name and the customer's on a bit of paper (or his palm), then enters his first offer. The customer then offers half, Mustafa said, by writing the figure under his name.
The written haggling continues until the third offer made by the tourist – presumably at about 75 percent of the original asking price and the deal is either made or is off. No worries, no hard feelings. Good day, ma'am!
So how much? He eyed me carefully, glanced at Mustafa, and wrote 19,000 dirham under his name. I squeezed the number through my fatigued brain, finally realizing that the approximately 250 USD I'd guessed the conversion to be initially was off by one zero … so it was 2,500 USD he wanted. No. I smiled and got up … and was gently urged back.
"What's your offer?"
"Ah yes, the game must be played," I smiled.
"It's not a game," he cried, clearly insulted.
"Of course not," I lied. "But, I'm sorry. It's just too much, and I don't want to insult you."
"No insult! Just write. If I don't agree, no problem. We part with a smile."
"Ok." 200 USD I wrote … about 2,300 USD less than his asking price. He blinked at that. Not an insult maybe, but clearly a chilly slap across his handsome bronzed face.
12,000 dirham.
250 USD.
700 USD.
300 USD. Wait a minute. What happened to three times and it's over!? I got up again to leave. And was gently pushed back again.
"You're no American. You're no European. You are mountain people. You want quality, but you don't want to pay! 500 USD," he conceded in exasperation, making his final grandstand offer.
"350 USD."
"Give me 500 USD."
No, sorry.
Mustafa to the rescue.
"Give it to her for 450 USD."
We settled. I did love the carpet. It was beautiful, and it didn't light up when touched to flame and I'd bought carpets before, and thought it a reasonable price. I paid in cash after an escorted walk to an ATM. I got no receipt. I should have asked, I suppose.
If I had paid more, maybe Mustafa would have left me alone at that point. His cut would have checked his tourist fleecing block for the day. I guess it didn't. He needed to invest more time in me. I was hungry, he decided. Not really, I said. Of course you are, he insisted. Well, I suppose I could eat a little something.
He deposited me at a sidewalk eatery filled with locals (men only), convinced a clearly reluctant sun-dried habitué in a striped djellabah to give up his seat in the shade for me, and ordered me a tajine, then excused himself to go for his motor bike.
The meal was delicious – chicken, potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, and olives, well peppered in a large earthenware bowl with a liberal stack of fresh-baked bread alongside. The price … unexpected. 160 dirhams the proprietor wrote, glancing up at me as if to see whether I would balk. I didn't. And I tipped, too. Mistake, I guess. But I wouldn't learn until the next day that the price was about three times what one would expect to pay for a meal like that.......
Photo Credits: Marrakesh, Mint Tea, Moroccan Kilims and Street Food by Karen Kindler.
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