前途: A Year in Morocco

Taking any bus in Morocco always results in a hair-raising adventure. As I write today’s entry, I am sitting on a CTM bus, a coach bus company, as we wind our way around extensive sets of switchbacks and hairpin turns in the High Atlas. The driver honks to warn drivers on the other side of the turns, honks at children walking on the side of the road to warn them of his presence, honks at eighteen wheelers before he passes them on said hairpin turns, and frequently raises a salute to drivers of other large vehicles and then touches his chest (a Moroccan gesture which indicates solidarity and sincerity, “I hold you to my heart.”) With all of this going on, I can’t help but wonder what percentage of his drive time is spent with only one hand on the wheel. File this under “Trips People with Fear of Heights Should Not Take.” Meanwhile, I can’t help but peer over the edge at how far down the valleys go.

Peering down into the valleys, I see small villages built into the sides of the hills. Each village has a nearby stream which flows through the valley, and in some of them, the water is choked with trash, plastic bags and containers. In these rivers, the women of the High Atlas are doing laundry, and they hang it on the trees to dry. To my eye, this somewhat resembles the decoration of trees for Christmas, and the brightly-colored laundry flaps pleasantly in the wind. The women are herding sheep too, which is not something have encountered up north, and there are men with collections of agates, fossils, and ceramic pieces displayed by the side of the road. There are some which are bright blood-red, and I wonder if they are natural or have been dyed.

There aren’t large numbers of tourists in Morocco this time of year, but (with the exception of Errachidia), all the other cities I’ve been in recently have had people from all sorts of foreign countries passing through, most notably Fes, where I spent two and a half days living at my friend Matt’s large house in Fes al-Bali, the old medina, where we received reduced price “Moroccan menus” at restaurants where the owners knew our friends. Making it back to Matt’s place rarely involved NOT making a wrong turn down one of the narrow streets, which are sometimes no wider than your armspan, and navigating them means remembering bits of graffiti, certain signs, and vague impressions of “this is the way we should be going.”

Making your way through the medina, especially going home, involves greeting the locals, and enduring almost constant badgering and helpful directions—which are only useful if you’re headed towards touristy areas. Sometimes your “guide” may demand a dirham, and other times (twice, in fact), we accepted guidance and were not solicited for payment. Once was in the Mellah, the old Jewish quarter, where we walked through two synagogues, one of them restored and the other not, and viewed the Jewish cemetery. The second time was to the Chouwara tannery, after which, we were directed into a weaving shop run by a Berber family.

Clearly this guidance to a shop was a setup, not uncommon. They show you the looms, explain how things are woven, dress you up in Berber clothing, and give you tea, then start unfolding blankets and bed covers to entice you to buy.

Normally, I would not have bought anything. However, this time, I came across a lovely handmade blanket. I’ve been wanting to buy a blanket or two for a while, but I hadn’t yet happened upon any design/color that I was particularly attracted to, so I indicated my interest, thereby consenting to the bargaining process.

When I bargain, I like to talk about several items at once. This confuses the shopkeepers, who possess an uncanny sense for when you really want something. It is important to appear that you can leave without the item you want—otherwise, they will match your desire with their own stubbornness on the price. In any touristy area, the prices are inflated, anywhere from two to ten times the “Moroccan” price for them. Before you go shopping for an item, it is imperative to have a fair price already in mind.

So, when I was quoted 3200, 3000, and 2900 (dirhams, divide by 8 for USD) for each of the three blankets I had told them I liked, I just about burst out laughing. I told them that this was way out of my price range, and I was offered a “good bargain” for all three. At this point I informed my salesperson that I was only interested in affording one, and so I was pressed to pick the one I liked the most. I did, then crossed off a zero and offered her 320.

Bargaining took about an hour, and my facial expressions alternated between happy and joking, and solemnly blank in deep consideration (there was no way I was going to pay even 100 USD for it). We talked about our jobs and livelihoods, and I was pressed upon to help out the shopkeeper and his family. At times we broke into Arabic, and I called him “my brother,” an Arabic word which invokes Islamic solidarity, and he replied calling me “my sister,” in English. We both budged our prices up or down by a dirham, and then accused each other jokingly of being Berbers (who are apparently renowned for their bargaining skills?). I stood up and put on my coat, and then the real price reductions began, slashing one, then two thousand dirhams in fell swoops. In the end, we agreed on a price of 600—about a fifth of the original price, and certainly possibly still twice as much as I should have paid.

At the end of the deal, I was gifted with a scarf, one of the common 20 dirham pieces for sale all across the medinas, and the shopkeeper showed me a cool way to tie it. He bundled up my purchase, and I left, mildly exhausted and ready to have tea and repose for the afternoon.