Bargaining with Berber Man

The shops, stalls, and stores here entice you: by being cheap, plentiful, funny, beautifully displayed, beautifully made, fragrant, flagrant, shimmering, crammed, colorful, shiny, and all-around fascinating.

But for the shopkeepers, it's not about making you want to look. It's about making you want to buy.
And as many ways as there are to entice us, there are even more to try to get us to part with our money. If we so much as touch an object, we are immediately subjected to haggling and pleading. We try to keep hands off -- even eyeballs off, if we really want to avoid the hard-sell -- but sometimes it's just plain impossible. We encounter a wide range of sales tactics:

DISENGENUOUS
a.k.a. "Pay What You Want"

How it works:
Moroccan: "Shine shoes?"
Us: "How much?"
Moroccan: "Pay what you want. No worries. Clean nicely. What you want. Anything."
Us: "OK..."
Shines Anthony's beat-up leather sandals for 10 minutes.
Us: "Shukran (thanks). Here's 50 dirham (5€, about $7)."
Moroccan, yelling and pushing his hand away, "Not 50! 400 dirham! (40€, about $50). 400 dirham!"

Anthony's shoes probably barely cost 40€ in the first place. This guy must be high on shoe polish.

He is not the only one to take offense at our after-the-fact pricing. One taxi driver (yes, yes I know we should negotiate before the ride, but we just forgot) literally drives off without getting paid, so deep is the insult when we offer him 100 dirham for a ride for which we later find out locals pay around 70 dirham.

The snake charmers, below, on the other hand make out like bandits on this exchange because we don't have any small money on us, and Anthony forks over 100 dirham just for this. Excessive tipping in foreign countries always gets my goat, but our marriage survives it.

GENEROUS
a.k.a. "Here's a Gift for You"

How it works:
Usually cleverly aimed at the children, the shopkeeper or artisan gives what they assure us is a gift for the children, hoping we will be guilted into buying something. The man lathe-carving wooden handles with his foot makes little wooden charms for the girls. We agonize, but end up not buying the kebab skewers.

The natural products store gives the girls a little pottery bowl coated with a poppy-seed mixture that acts as a lightly tinted lip-stick. This time it works, and I do buy myself a block of wild jasmine paste. In the photos, it's the stuff that looks like bars of soap. Because Islam forbids alcohol, even perfume is considered mostly taboo in the local culture and stores. So, they make their own natural sented blocks that you rub on. One small cube should last a lifetime, and in the meantime my T-shirt drawer smells like a dream.

CONTENTIOUS
a.k.a. "Guerilla Attack" or "Let's Get Physical"

How it works:
The woman in the Marrakesh market who grabs the girls hands and dashes off a 20 second hand henna that we have not in any way requested is so angry when we hand her a couple dirham, she actually pinches me. Hard, and on purpose, as we are walking away. I would like to say I am an ambassador of goodwill, a diplomat, and an excellent role-model for my children. But I would be lying. My kids have turned away already, so instead I just give Guerrilla Henna Woman the finger. I consider this to be showing great restraint, because at least I don't hit her.

CONTEMPTUOUS
a.k.a. "What is That?!"

How it works:
After helping you out, your tip is met with a scornful glance, a shaking of the head, a certain repeated shoving of the collection hat in your face, such as with these musicians. Or, in the case of the boys who help us (unnecessarily) across the small stream to get to Ait Ben Haddou, they may actually vocalize it. The young boy looks at the couple dirham in his open palm and asks, incredulously, "What is that?!" That, my dear boy, is a 2 dirham coin, worth about 25 cents. Perhaps you've never seen a denomination so small.

DESPERATION (yours)
a.k.a. "We've Got You Where We Want You"

How it works:
You are in the desert, and you are already paying 150 euros per night for a hotel room, which is beautiful and, yes, Kate Winslet stayed at this same hotel when she was already somewhat famous, but still, you mostly chose it because it was actually the least expensive room or option for a family of four that you could find for the one night before you go into the Erg Chebbi to spend the bigger money on the main event. And you are looking at items carved from stone found locally that is embedded with fossils leftover from millions of years ago when this desert was an ocean and is, therefore, really quite unusual. Where else are you going to buy something like this? So you bargain, but really only half-heartedly, because you know that all the effort in the world is only going to budge the price down about $10.

After the negotiation, the salesman tries to butter you up by saying, "Madame! Are you a Berber?!" You think of replying, "No. I am a walking dollar sign." But you do not. Because it's not his fault. And because that's just the way the system works. And, perhaps mostly, because you cannot figure out how to translate this into French, Arabic, or Berber.

Sadly, though you pack it ever so carefully, your $40 fossilized stone cheese platter will irreperably shatter when you take it back to Paris.

Under the same sales tactics, you will also pay too much for a calèche ride through Marrakesh (a Mara-calèche?) and two little butter/oil tagine-shaped ceramic dishes from the airport on the way out.

DESPERATION (theirs)
a.k.a. "Wait! OK, That is Best Price. No, Wait! This is Best Price.Wait!"

How it works:
There are five shops selling the same thing, one right next to the other. Or, in the case of driving over the mountain pass from the desert to Marrakesh, there are more like 20-30 street-side crystal geode sellers, one right after the other, at each and every turn out. In fact, we turn out at one place to get some fresh air since G is feeling car sick on the winding mountain road, and we are accosted by rock salesmen.

Though we have obviously just come over the mountain and passed by the previous 20-30 crystal geode guys, we are flagged down by another rock seller. He know he's got competition, and he's also just a guy waving a rock at the side of the road, versus some of the more elaborate set-ups we've seen. We wonder aloud why would somebody sells rocks after so many other competitors, but after having passed by the other 30, we've now decided we might like a rock after all. We go in with 100 dirham per rock (10€) as our upper limit and since we don't really care if we get one or not, we start to drive away when he quotes 400 dirham per rock. We are stopped by the fact that Berber Man, as we've named him, refuses to take back the rocks or take his arm out of the window. "Wait! OK!," he shouts. "Best price! 300!" Each time we try to drive away, he stops us. "Wait! 400 for two! That is best price!" "Wait! 350 for both!" It becomes obvious even to him that it's either 200 dirham for the two rocks we like, or we're about to throw them out of the car at him and race away like we're escaping a bank robbery.

SYMPATHETIC
a.k.a. "It's So Little For You" usually coupled with "And It Means So Much to Me"

How it works:
Especially for smaller items. It's the direct approach. The scarf for 50 dirham you're trying to bargain down to 40 dirham? "Madam, just 10 dirham. Only 1€. It's so little for you. And it means so much to me." It's a hard-hearted customer that can withstand that one. Especially when you know it's true.

SIMPLISTIC
a.k.a. "Local Price, Small Charge, You Choose"

How it works:
One of our favorites, but it only works for certain non-touristy items and activities. You are quoted the same ridiculously low price that the locals are quotes, and you can take it or leave it. 5 dirhams for 5 minutes of trying to get a rubber ring at the end of a fishing pole on a soda bottle, for example. Well worth the 50 cents. Olives at 10 dirham (1€) per kilo. Egg sandwiches at 4 dirhams (5 for free range eggs). No haggling required: it's practically heaven.

EDUCATIONAL
a.k.a. "Let Me Teach You About This Craft (Till You Want To Buy It)" and when coupled with "Let Me Teach Your Kids" it's almost unbeatable...

How it works:
You don't have to buy it, of course, it's just they want to show you how this beautiful handicraft is made. Or to teach you something about this little aspect of our culture. And then (sinister laugh) once we spend the time to teach you all about how we make it, you will be near powerless to resist (see: buying carpets at place with hand-knotting; buying leather jacket at tannery; buying scarves at place with loom, once shown how to tie proper turbans). Between the genuine Moroccan love for children and the genuine Moroccan savvy for bargaining, the kids are often the targets of all this wonderful cultural enlightenment. And it's not just the snakes that the charmers are charming...

DELUSIONAL
a.k.a. "You Just Bought This. That Means You Like It. Now Buy Another" often coupled with...
CONFRONTATIONAL
a.k.a. the aggressive and rarely successful "Why You Buy From Him Not Me?"

How it works:
Whether it's by government edict or simply tradition, we find that neighboring stores and stalls often sell not just the same sort of thing, but the same exact thing, displayed the same way, for the same price. This makes it oddly difficult to choose where to buy something, and it means that if it's not quite right for you at one place, odds are it will be not-quite-right for you everyplace. In Marrakesh on the first night, Anthony hones in on stall #42 for orange juice, mostly because the neighbors on both sides were too aggressive. From then on, we are loyal #42ists. And numbers #41 and #43 on either side are not exactly winning us over with a constant barrage of dirty looks and entreaties to buy from them instead. By the end of our stay, we are ostentatious in our support, and make a big show of enjoying the incredible deliciousness of the juice (hands down the best, fresh-squeezed orange juice we've ever tasted, for 4 dirham, or 50 cents, for a large glass that they like to top off for free) to entice other customers. We also walk by chanting "Forty-two! Forty-two! Quarante-deux! Quarante-deux!"

We cannot figure out why nobody differentiates. Not the juice guys. Not the rock guys, costmetics shops (see above: Desperation (Theirs), Generous, etc). Not the restaurants, the clothing shops, the jewelry stores, the cheap trinket stalls. But the most mind-boggling thing is their logic. They see you leaving a shop with a bag of pottery. And instead of thinking, "Damn. She bought the pottery from them," they think, "Aha! She likes pottery! Now she will buy from me, also!" So having just survived whatever other haggling approach you endured, you must now run the gauntlet of delusional/confrontational shopkeepers trying to get you to buy more of something you didn't actually need in the first place.

After all of this bargaining, G has greatly improved her skills from our time in India, when her bargaining went like this:

Salesman: That is 50 rupees.

Me, thinking: My God, that's cheap! We could buy ten of them. Must look like I'm shocked by the high price, however.

What I should say: 50?! For this? No, no. This is 20 rupees. For two!

What salesman should say: No. 60 for two (etc. until we arrive at the price of 45 for two)

What G says, out loud, before the salesman or I can get around to it: My God, that's cheap! We could buy ten of them. Even I could afford that on my allowance! Come on Mom, let's get some!

What we end up paying: 90 for two. All the wind is taken out of my sails.

Now, on the other hand, G is a force to be reckoned with. When I go to buy a platter and some ceramic bowls, I am willing to cave at around 250 dirham for the lot. G refuses to let me pay that much, and though I suppose I could overrule her, she's so eager to drive a hard bargain, and I'm so hot, tired, and ambivalent (there are twenty other ceramics shops in sight, and we've already looked at and started bargaining with half a dozen of them), I don't. And sure enough, she gets us down to 170 dirham. You can always tell by the expression on the faces of the salespeople -- after the fact -- just how successful your bargaining was. If they smile, want you to take photos, and possibly throw in an extra gift for the girls, you know you've paid generously. If, on the other hand, it's taken you quite a while and a few attempts to leave and, like this pottery salesman or Berber Man who sold us the rocks, they mutter and walk off without a smile, you've probably paid a price that's about as low as they're willing to go.

Oops! Are We Missing Something?

The train to Meknès is efficient, clean, on-time, cheap, easy, and quick. It's pretty much everything a person wants in a train, other than the fact that it is hard for us to understand the announcement for our stop. We realize rather last minute we've arrived, and grab our luggage and, like salmon swimming upstream, we run out the door as the rush of people storms on looking for seats. Most of the fault is our own, since we are a bit late getting off, but there are other Moroccans caught in the two-way crush as well. After fighting our way out, we put our luggage down and breathe a sigh of relief. Then I look over at Anthony, who is the only one tall enough to put up or get down our things from the overhead rack, and notice something is missing.

 

"Anthony! Where is the camera bag?"

 

His eyes and mouth get wide and round like perfect letter Os. He looks exactly like an overly hammy actor -- think William Shatner -- auditioning for a deoderant commercial where he is supposed to look surprised. He runs back onto the train and starts up the stairs after the train has already started pulling out of the station. Now he looks exactly like an overly hammy actor -- think David Hasselhoff -- in a made-for-TV-movie scene of a man escaping the law, one last time. The train is, as I have said, efficient, and it is going at full speed in a matter of moments.

In Paris, we have a full family contingency plan for the almost-invetible day when we are running for a subway and either one or both of the girls makes it on, but I am left behind, or visa versa. Our plan is simple: Whoever is on the train gets off at the very next station and stays on the platform in that same spot. Whoever is left behind gets on the next train at the same spot and gets off at the next station, and voila!, we are reunited, with only about 2-3 minutes of controlled panic in between. However, this seems like a really stupid move here in Morocco, so I just scream up to Anthony as he is running onto the train, "We'll wait here!," and hope to hell he hears it and does not enact Paris emergency procedures.

Gigi starts to cry as Anthony goes speeding off on the train, nervous and afraid that somehow she will lose her father in the wilds of Morocco. Hard-hearted, grown-up, and travel-jaded as I am, the only thing I fear losing is the camera. Of course, if I had known what else Anthony has stashed in the camera bag, I would also be afraid of losing all four of our passports.

Thanks to common sense, a kind Moroccan man who wants to practice English and helps Anthony out, his cell phone's miraculous coverage, and somebody at the station telling us the schedule of the next train back, we are able to go deposit our luggage and come back for him a couple hours later. Anthony, and the camera bag in his hand.

It's a good thing we don't lose the camera, not only because I would have a heart attack and have to re-visit Fez, but also because it turns out that Meknès is extraordinarily photogenic. I suppose it's a good thing we don't lose Anthony, either, just to be clear. He's pretty photogenic, too.

Meknès is a formerly royal city, whose heyday was under Moulay Ismaïl, who was proclaimed Sultan in 1672 and then went on to found a dynasty. Moulay is a source of much discussion. Gigi wants us to pigeon-hole him: "But was he good or bad?" Well, if you were one of the Berber tribes revolting against him and got mass executed and had your decapitated heads put up on spikes on the palace crenelations, then I'm guessing you'd say he's bad. Or one of the 20-30,000 enslaved Christians or Berbers forced to build his monumental projects, also bad. One of his 500 wives/concubines in his harem, or the over 1,000 children he sired? (No this is not an exaggeration.) Also not so hot. So he was bloodthirsty and cruel, but he also was the only one who could unify the country, he built many great works, and at least he treated the Black Guard -- his special forces -- well. We cover an astonishing number of such topics per day, sometimes almost breathlessly interrupting one deep conversation about Moulay Ismaïl to segue into Darwin's theory of evolution which somehow leads us to World War II, and then, of course, the Wright brothers, and the demise of the silent film and the advent of the talkies, and back to Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination..... Really, it's dizzying, and the biggest problem is that neither Anthony nor I know everything about everything, despite what we may ever have tried to insist.

Your assignment: Moulay Ismaïl -- Tyrant or Hero? Or, Moulay vs. Empereror Qin Shi Huang Di of China in 249BC. Compare and contrast in 2,000 words. Don't forget to use supporting examples.

Photogenic Meknès:

Moulay Ismaïl Mausoleum: Resting place of a hero/leader/tyrant/statesman (take your pick). This is one of the only mosques or mausoleums (in this case, both) that allows non-Muslims to enter, thanks to a ruling by Mohamed V, who as leaders go, seems to be pretty enlightened and solidly on the "good" side. There is one portion of the building that is closed off to us, but we get to see the lion's share, and it is just stunningly beautiful.

 

I think all the next few photos are taken ever-so-slightly crooked, and it's like a horrible optical illusion when you see them next to each other. But the places themselves are beautiful (and not tilted). They are various cemetaries and public buildings from -- you guessed it -- the era of Moulay Ismaïl.

 

Meknès is a great place to take a calèche -- a horse-drawn carriage (known in Oklahoma! terms as a "surrey with the fringe on top").

 

What I love most about this view of the palace is that we aren't allowed to take photos of the king's entrance, so this is just the entrance for the servants.

 

Dar El Ma (House of Water): stables and cavernous granaries ordered built by Moulay Ismaïl, who apparently had a pathalogical fear of being beseiged. Probably because he had so many enemies. When filled, it could have fed Meknès at that time for twenty years. The longest siege in Moulay's reign was, however, one week. One portion of the Dar El Ma lost its roof in shock waves from the Lisbon earthquake of 1755 and is now a ruin --  but a very photogenic one.

The market in the old medina: Frankly, I have many more photos I love from this market of the food and spices, but I think I'll save them for another posting. But for now, I have to include at least one shot of olives. We buy a huge bag as a house-gift, since we are staying with a Moroccan family tonight. After he pays, Anthony turns to me and says, "I think we should also get something else..;" it has cost him 6 dirham -- about 75 cents. So, we buy a huge cookie box, too. Luckily, we have chocolates we brought in our luggage from Paris -- a microscopic bag that cost us almost $40.

 

 

Where Obi-Wan Kenobi Shops

I'm a little worried that you're going to think I'm some sort of uber-Star Wars geek, with yet another reference, but I do have to tell you that we have spotted Obi-Wan Kenobi in the tiny streets and alleyways of Fez.

 

In fact, we spot him about every minute or so.

 

  

Here he is, dressed up for Christmas! And in Obi-Wan Kenobi Djellaba Pajamas™ (try saying that five times fast).

The "djellaba " is the traditional hooded robe worn by many Moroccans, and it gives everybody (men and women alike) that distinctly Obi-Wan Kenobi look. It also gives us constant false hope that by following this person, in whom the force is obviously strong, we might actually find our way out of Fez. Eventually. It is the most labyrinthine place I have ever been, and the number of streets/alleys (frankly, there's no distinction between the two here) has been numbered at anywhere between 8,000 and 16,000. It is such a maze (and so amazing) that the impossible finally happens: Even Anthony's innate GPS does not function here. Within minutes, he is just as hopelessly lost and turned around as the rest of us. Which makes the 400 dirhams (about 40€ or $55) we spend on hiring a personal guide for a day and a half very, very worthwhile.

  

Fez is the largest pedestrian-only city in the world. No wonder, since between the hills, the steps, the cobblestones, the tiny alleys, the shortened doorjambs, and the 90° turns in the streets, it would not be feasible to ride a vehicle here even if you were allowed. The only things that threaten to run you over here are donkeys, mules, and pushcarts.

 

The girls take a mule ride; they do the same convoluted loop of alleys four times and never notice they are going in circles. And I think this garbageman, making his rounds through the "streets" with his garbage "truck", also proves the point nicely. Amazingly, Fez is quite clean. I shudder to think what a place this convoluted and narrow would look like if it were in India.

Hiring a guide proves to be an especially excellent move not just because of logistics and safety. It also accomplishes two other really important things: 1) it prevents other people from hassling us all day to hire them as guides and 2) it allows us to explore dark nooks and crannies we would never have felt comfortable exploring without him. By our last evening, we feel comfortable enough to venture out on our own (of course, we still get lost), even at night in well-worn paths. I spend most of my time in Fez actually, literally giddy and skipping lightly, because it feels so intensely exotic and so much like being in the most stereotypical, Disney-esque Arabian city. Except more so.

 

Our lovely guide, Azdin, shows us the door of the house where he was born and raised. No wonder he knows these streets like the back of his hand. He is also scrupulously honest, very kind, fluent in English, and extremely knowledgeable, and well worth the extra cost of hiring an official and licensed guide. For example, we learn that these short doorways are not a sign of a poorer family, as we would suspect, but just the opposite: high-status, wealthy, and important people built these low-door entryways so that people would be forced to bow down as they entered.

 

Nestled among the alleys are some beautiful spots, including one of the most picturesque (yet malodorous): the leather tannery. Here I buy a leather jacket -- a splurge I make about once every decade when I throw caution to the wind. The first time was in Indonesia after being attacked by a swarm of wasps and spending a few days in a hospital and deciding to live it up with a big purchase. The second time was while shopping for a wedding dress with my mom. And now, here in Morocco, because Anthony has just bought four Oriental carpets and can't possibly object. Still, throwing caution to the wind is not, in my case, the same as throwing cash to the wind, and when the seller originally quotes me 450€ (about $600), I accidentally snort with laughter. Once he realizes I work on a completely different price point (a Goodwill shopper at heart), I get him down to 120€, and then he tacks on an extra 10 for using a credit card.

 

Other spots include the many lovely gates, the mosques that we can only peer into, and the surprisingly airy courtyards hidden behind the plain facades and tiny alleys. The courtyard pictured below is actually a musuem, so particularly lovely and well-renovated.

Outside the medina (the ancient quarter), we see the doors of the palace, one of many of the King who we at first think is named "Mohamed Sex" until we realize it's just "Mohamed the Sixth" with an accent. Interesting fact about Mohamed VI: he's the King who outlawed polygamy in Morocco, about twelve years ago. Yes, he himself has just one wife. We also see the Jewish cemetery, which is just about as labyrinthine as the medina itself, and quite lovely. Moroccan Islam seems to be a very open, rather tolerant version, with local women dressed modestly, but in everything from tight jeans and long-sleeve shirts, to djellabas, to head-coverings, to full-on burkas, all sharing the streets. Another interesting factoid: In the 1940s, Morocco was still a protectorate of France. When Hitler asked Morocco's then-King, Mohamed V (grandfather to Mohamed VI) to give up its Jews, he was told "We don't have Jews. We have Moroccans." Not one of the approximately 200,000 Moroccan Jews went to a concentration camp or even wore the yellow stars that would mark them as Jews.