The Souk
The Fodor's Guide treats the place as if it's the Amazon Jungle. They tell you you'll get lost in the twisting maze of alleys. They caution you about high-pressure merchants who will overcharge or cheat you. They warn you about "guides" who will commandeer you, direct you to merchants who give them kickbacks, and then try to charge you for their services. They strongly suggest you take elaborate precautions against pickpockets.
Gee. Sounds like lots of fun.
The guide suggests that first-time visitors have their hotel provide a guide. Oh puh-leez. That's for pansies. I, of course, am a seasoned traveler. I've had my pocket picked in two countries. I laugh at danger. I grab Jean and we plunge into the labyrinth.
Fodor's fails to warn about the greatest danger in the Souk: traffic.
No passageway in the Souk is too narrow for some kind of vehicle, whether it's a full-sized delivery truck or a human-powered push cart. Bicycles, mopeds, motorcycles and scooters careen through alleys, beeping at everything in their paths. Mules graze pedestrians from behind, the outboard wheels of their carts threatening to run up your heels. Drivers are masters at squeezing through impossibly tight places; clearance of one inch is trivial. They're also masters at intimidating tourists, although residents seem matter-of-factly unconcerned.
Below, a scooter approaches Jean faster than the image suggests. The bicycle to its right has just swerved around her. Her apparently calm demeanor, hands clasped pensively behind her back, is proof that over the years, she has developed nerves of steel—an experienced traveler for whom the world offers nothing fearful. Either that or she's entered a fugue state.
Hooded figures prowl the alleys, while sinister groups of young thugs plan mayhem.
Ancient Moslems sit against walls, thinking inscrutable thoughts.
Figures in jelabas emerge from the gloom.
Morocco is adopting western ways as well, as these young soccer players attest.
A Gabby Hayes look-alike whiles away an hour talking with his friend.
No northern african or middle eastern market would be complete without a rug merchant or two. The Marrakech Souk has scores. Of all types of dealers, these have the worst reputations for honesty and integrity. My defenses go up just looking at this picture.
How can you trust a man wearing a zoot suit?
—§—
Buyers come to the Souk to get bargains. But getting quality at a good price takes experience and haggling skills, This woman appears to know what she's doing as she stares disapprovingly at couscous and dried peppers. She's making sure the proprietor will have a hard time justifying his asking price. "Five dirhams for that? Why, I wouldn't even feed it to my cat!"
Speaking of which, the Souk is teeming with cats, as is all of Marrakech. They're not pampered, but people take care of them and seem to treat them with affection. A fishmonger fed this one; in return she graciously accepts a stroke from a nearby foot.
The first cat I ran across in Marrakech lived in the baggage claim area of the airport. I mean, they're everywhere. Ominously though, you don't see dogs. Makes you wonder just what was in the tagine you just ate...
And speaking of haggling, Jean was unable to come to terms with this merchant for a bedspread she liked. (Yes, photographers, I see the damn lens flare, but I just had to use this image.)
He began negotiations by drawing two columns on a piece of paper. At the head of the left column, he wrote "My Price." At the head of the right one, he wrote "Your Price." Then he drew a series of horizontal lines to form two columns of boxes. In the upper left box, he wrote "Dh 6,000." That's six thousands dirhams, or about $720. then he handed the marker and paper to Jean and said, "Your turn."
Flummoxed, Jean handed the marker and paper back and walked out. You can tell we have a lot to learn about haggling.
Still game, Jean braced a dress merchant. His fatal mistake was to model that pink frock for her with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Ruined the entire presentation. Somehow, she just couldn't picture herself wearing it.
Besides, it was the red number she really was interested in.
We did manage to overpay for some wooden-handled kebab skewers from this wood turner. We just had to buy something after he demonstrated his craft for us.
He used a bow to spin the turn-piece. He held his turning chisel against the tool rest with his bare foot. Crude as that sounds, he took a square piece of wood and turned it into an ornate amulet in less than two minutes. He presented it to Jean as a gift—and we were sunk. No way we were going to get out of there without buying something.
His haggling style was masterful. Oh, he wasn't interested in profit. He wasn't into woodworking for the money. No, he was an artist. He was turning wood for a creative outlet. That's why his prices were so low. "Here. Have this amulet. It's nothing. A little gift for you. You don't have to pay me for it."
See? Before you've uttered a word, he's got you set up to be a Philistine if you even hint at the possibility of a lower price. After all, he's an artist. There's no profit in his prices. How could he possibly lower them?
So we gave him the $6 he asked for twelve kebab skewers, and another $14 for a domino set that his 12-year-old son had made. After all, what's $20? It's nothing. Especially for such a fine craftsman, an esthete. And for his kid.
Over the next few hours of wandering, we saw many other merchants offering skewers and domino sets identical to the ones we had bought. It became obvious that they were all made in a factory somewhere. Sigh.
This woman is selling ksra, traditional round loaves of bread that were actually cooked in a wood-burning oven. (Or in the Wonder bakery in Passaic, New Jersey.) For a country in the middle of the Sahara Desert, they sure seem to burn a lot of wood. Where does it all come from?
And what are those things in the red bucket beside her? Oh. Kebab skewers. Sigh.
Comestibles can get a little exotic. Butchers' stalls look every bit as gross as those in Guadalajara, where any part of the animal—I mean any part—is sold for food. I couldn't decide if the stand pictured below was for medicine or food.
They sell herbs, roots and turtles. The reddish-black stuff in the white bowl is some kind of fruit paste. Ot else it's the gunk that squirts out of ball joints when you lay too long on the grease gun.
But most Moroccan food looks appetizing.
These pastries are just as appealing as any you find in the U. S. or France. Myself, I'm trying to keep a lid on my weight, so I didn't try any, but this stall had that familiar, mouth-watering bakery smell. Olfactory temptation.
The Fodor's guide was right about the aggressiveness of the merchants. You could hardly walk twenty feet without someone calling out to you or grasping your hand and shaking it. You can't just give them the brush-off like you can in San Miguel. These guys are persistent. But they're so darned nice about it. They exude a friendliness and warmth that seems genuine. You enjoy talking with them. They make you feel good.
But you must never forget it's all an act. They're not looking for new friends. They're looking for your money. They'll be just as welcoming and sweet to the next tourist that comes along, hour after hour, day after day, year in, year out.