Tree of Goats

You probably think this is a random posting title meant to grab your attention. But no, it's quite literal. On the three-hour ride from Marrakesh to the seaside town of Essouira, I suddenly punctuate the silence by yelling out, "There are goats in that tree!" One person behind me calmly translates this into French for his wife, and a couple people on the correct side of the bus look out the window with some mild interest. Meanwhile, I am lunging from across the bus to get our camera from the overhead rack and end up cursing my husband (and not silently, mind you) for not responding to this photo op with the same sense of urgency I feel. Except I don't say it quite that eloquently. I am now completely appalled that a) I have just seen a tree full of goats and have no photo of it and b) nobody else seems nearly as amazed by this as I am. What the hell is wrong with these people? How many trees full of goats have they seen? And I don't just mean goats around a tree, goats near a tree, or flocks of goats eating low-lying tree-like bushes. I mean something that looks like a child's drawing of a tree absolutely dotted -- from the bottom branches to the top -- with goats. It's like an apple tree, or an orange tree, except it's a goat tree. It's as if somebody has photoshopped a flock of goats onto a tree. Do you get the picture? Good. Because I don't!

To explain: my father worked for Kodak virtually his entire career, and we actually referred to the Eastman Kodak Co. as the Great Yellow Father. Cameras, photography, and getting the picture (or in this case, getting the f***ing picture!) are rather important. We might have just had major surgery and be limping with crutches while still partially under the influence of anesthesia, and the next second will suddenly be scaling a mountain to the get the right angle for a shot.

Here is the obligatory family photo of another family member taking a photo. By family law, there's one taken on every trip; in this case, of P taking a photo of the Green Wok Thai restaurant sign where we eat dinner once when we break down and give in to the girls who cannot handle one more night of cous-cous tagine.

I am profoundly disappointed about this missed goat tree photo all afternoon, and it doesn't help that we end up having a dreary, freezing outdoor dinner. By now, cold and completely dispirited, I am having a "bad traveler" moment, until we decide to walk to the fishing docks. The universe works in mysterious ways, indeed, because it is at this point that I suddenly stumble on what may be my favorite non-desert photo of the entire trip.

Cheered up rather considerably, I resume my normal enjoyment of the trip, and of taking photos, which sometimes means wresting the good camera out of Anthony's hands. Here's the same shot the next day, when I return to the scene of the crime, and others of the docks.

 

 

And some of the town's famous blue doors:

 

But it's not just the missed shot of the goats that gets my goat. It's also the fact that so many of the Moroccans don't like to be photographed. This is especially true of the more traditionally-clad folks -- women in burkas and men in djellabahs -- who are, of course, the ones I most want to capture. So it becomes a sort of personal challenge to get my camera ready, then try to look like I'm talking to Anthony or the girls, and surreptitiously take a photo from the hip. Usually, the results are not what I'm dreaming of:

 

 

 

I have better luck if I can take the photo before they look my way and notice. Just after the click, I get scolded frequently. I have yet to figure out why this young man is offended that I take a photo of his bread. It's bread.

 

 

After days of playing my personal game, I am finally rewarded with one not-award-winning-but-at-least-acceptable, from-the-hip shot of a burka-clad woman. Anthony calls me culturally insensitive, but given what I said to him on the bus, I can hardly claim offense.

A few days later, on our return bus back to Marrakesh, you better believe that I ride the whole time with a camera in my lap. Of course I don't really expect to see the tree of goats again; lightning doesn't strike twice. But unbelievably, there they are -- trees of goats. It turns out they love the argan trees here, and they climb up to munch. Whether the leaves taste better up there, or they just enjoy dinner with a view, I don't know. I can't ask them; they're goats. And so, while it is shot from a moving bus and may not be the best photo I've ever taken (heck, it's not even the best photo on this page), it is one of the most satisfying. Anthony asks, when he sees it, if I'm disappointed there's a tourist in the photo, taking pictures of the goats. And I can honestly say I'm thrilled both to have the picture and to see that there's at least one other person out there who thinks a tree full of goats is one unusual and memorable Kodak moment!

Old/New, Right/Left, Whatever

The cliché would be to say that Marrakesh is a land of contrasts. And the truth is that in a city that's been around and evolving for almost a thousand years, there's bound to be some old against new. These photos below kind of say it all. But I'm going to say more anyway.

 

An example of the ancient: the El Badi Palace which, frankly, would be more awe-inspiring if Moulay Ismaïl hadn't plundered virtually everything but the mud walls themselves at the end of the 17th century. The holes in the wall come from inserting the scaffolding in the mud as they create the walls. Then they leave the holes so that future renovations can use them. Generously, Ismaïl did not abscond with the holes.

An example of ...the ancient. When was the last time you saw so many (or any?) pay phones?

And more of the legitimately ancient... In this case, Bob is not your Uncle, but rather the way you pronounce "Bab" which means gate. The mid-12th century Bab Agnaou is the prettiest of them, leading into the Marrikesh medina, but the most fun to say is Bab er Rob. The Bab Agnaou gate leads you in right next to the beautiful Saadian tombs, which were built in the 16th century, walled-in, and then subsequently lost until World War I pilots spotted them from above. How you lose something this big, in the middle of a populated city, is a mystery; it's not like it's a Mayan pyramid overtaken by the jungle.

And here, a view of the 12th century Koutoubia minaret in the center of the old city, with a colorfully-clad Berber water-seller in front of it.  

My personal favorite of the old sites: the Ben Youssef Medersa. Built in the 14th century, it is no longer the largest Koranic university in the Maghreb (Northern African region containing Morocco, Mauritania, Tunisia, Libya, and Algeria), but it remains just as stunningly beautiful as it ever was. The former students' rooms are small but look out onto this gorgeous courtyard. I've seen worse places to live in 21st century Paris.

Here you can see the embodiment of the national dyslexia. This sign clearly point to the right and say that the Majorelle Gardens are 200m to the left. Around 75% of the people we've asked for direction through the country have pointed right and told us "left" or vise versa. I actually looked up how to say these words in Arabic, thinking perhaps it sounded similar in a confusing way. But no, "left" is yaminan in Arabic and gauche in French and "right" is shimalan in Arabic and droit in French. So we have no explanation for this pervasive phenomenon.

The place itself is something of a contrast -- a garden first built by French artist Jacques Majorelle, then purchased and revived by Yves Saint-Laurent, who also opened a fashion musuem here. It's a haven from the honking and hubbub of the streets. Other than the swarms of tourists inside, that is. Very refined with an Occidental sensibility (it feels a little like being in a Monet painting) yet distinct Moroccan influences.

Naked Family Togetherness

On our last day in Marrakesh (also spelled Marrakech [officially, especially in French] or  Marrakesch [German]. It's the Hannuka/Chanukah of Moroccan city names), all G wants to do is visit a hammam. Traditionally, these are like the Turkish baths, and there are public ones all over the country. The problem with these is that the men and woman are always separated. The other problem is that while there may be some lovely, huge ones somewhere in the country (I'm hoping/assuming even nicer than the one I visited in Paris), the local public hammam is small, dingy, and generally smells/feels like a gross junior high locker room. With more naked parts sharing the same benches.

So after a little looking around and making the decision to fork over tourist prices (around 200 dirham [20€] per adult and half that per child, instead of 15 dirham [1.5€] at the public hammam), we end up at the Koutoubia Spa, where they start us off with the ubiquitous, obligatory sweet mint tea. Then, up in a small room on the rooftop, we all get naked and, in turn, a woman uses black soap to scrub us down for our gommage, then coats us with a light layer of mud and has us sit till it's our turn to be washed off. Clearly, to work here the women must be modern Muslims, since our lady is scrubbing Anthony's naked body along with the girls and me. The scrub is on the edge of painful, but the good thing is that it does get all those dead skin cells off. She must go lighter for the children, because they don't complain. Or maybe I'm a wimp.

Then we are wrapped in big robes and towels and brought downstairs where there are three massage tables. The girls share a table, and a masseuse, who can do each tiny back with one hand. They rub argan oil -- the local tree extract that's increasingly touted in Western beauty products -- and give us  lovely massages. By the time the lights come back on at the end of our half hour, little P is snoring away on her table, much to the amusement of all. It's just so darn cute.

Cameras aren't allowed in this -- or any -- hammam, so this is all I get -- a picture of the sign in the alley, next to the entrance door. Even then, I have to snap it quickly, as I walk by, because the person standing in the door doesn't want me to take the photo. Perhaps because it's such a risqué job?

If you're ever in Marrakesh, I recommend this hammam for somebody who wants an interesting cultural experience without having to get too authentic, if you know what I mean. 

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.