In Marrakesh, I hired an official, sanctioned-by-the Ministry-of-Tourism guide, through the Tourist Information Office, to ease my way through the maze of souks. I wanted someone local to help me to know what was a good price and to assist with negotiations. Rafik, I was told, was my man.
Raffish Rafik, sporting yellow teeth and a frayed shirt colour, arrived at my hotel on the appointed day, and off we went.
Although the alleys twist and the colours, textures, sounds and smells overlap in jumbled heaps, this is a highly organized market…actually, a number of markets: clothing, leather, iron and copper, wood, jewelry, carpets and spices…each dedicated to a trade and assigned to a specific area.
Fabulous! I expected to wander at will, but Rafik wasn’t having any of that! If I stopped at a stall, he’d tell me that the goods there were made in China – not authentic Moroccan – and said he knew of an ‘authentic shop’. Without reason to not believe him – it is possible that items were more cheaply made in China – I grew more skeptical as the day wore on, because while there were shops and stalls, there were also workshops where you could see everything being made. See, this is why I wanted a sanctioned guide: it’s impossible to sort truth from deception here. But, as soon as we stepped inside, he disappeared, leaving me to navigate on my own. Chances are, he was also making commission from everything I bought, even though I was told he wasn’t supposed to.
Shopping goes something like this…
“How much are these slippers, please?”
“Just tell me everything you are interested in and afterwards I give you good price.”
“If you could help me with a price, now, please, I will then know if we can talk.”
(I just wanted to make a decision and move on!)
“Oh, Miss…Just sit here…Have some tea. We sit, we talk. If you no want to buy, we part friends…yes?”
“Thank you, no. I think I’ll just keep looking.”
“Oh Miss. Look at these beautiful slippers! For you? For your mother? Where you from? England? America? Oh, Canada! I have cousin in Toronto! Come, I make sure you are happy. You want sugar in your tea?”
You just know you’re not going to get out of there under an hour and without a bag of overpriced something. Seven hours later, and as many shops, I was worn down, done in.
I learned that to ask questions – or to question, anything – is to unleash a practiced weave of redirections about honour and culture and the ‘Moroccan way…Come sit…this is how we do it in Morocco.”
Yeah, well, I kind of like it more straight ahead…and not sure mint tea will ever taste the same.