We’ve been in Marrakech a couple of days
and have actually learned much about nonverbal communication of our country’s
hosts. Here’s rule number 1: DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH ANYONE, unless you
want to take home a live monkey as a souvenir of the time you’ve spent in
Africa. Making eye contact is the equivalent of begging to wheel-and-deal, and
let me tell you, they always win.
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| Snake, Anyone? |
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| Oldest Minaret in Town |
A new taxi driver took us to town (more on
him later), telling us that he would pick us up at 6:00 p.m. (Inshallah!) to
take us back to the hotel post-visit. On the ride to the Medina (the old town
and touristic area where tons of ryads and the souk are found through a
labyrinth of terracotta walls and spicy perfumes), our taxi driver made a call
and in abrupt Arabic syllables gave instructions to his cohort of cons that
“the pigeons were arriving.”
We had not stepped out of the vehicle that
a man in his early twenties (probably Sadek’s son—Sadek is our driver… name
pronounciation “sadique,” French for “sadist”) took us under his wing and moved
us towards the Souk, telling us that we needed protection form young boys,
pickpockets, old men, etc. We thanked him for the offer but decided to face the
enemy solo. The minute I had told him that I didn’t want his services, a flock
of boys and mold men descended upon us, touching my arms, purse, and Urie’s
sweatchirt (in the vicinity of his pocket). Our hero (who never gave us his
name) started swatting them off, pushing them out of the way, and stopping cars
so we’d be able to cross the street. (Marrakech population: 1.5 million;
driving population: 10,000 cars, 1,000 horse-drawn caleches; 500 donkey carts.)
I thanked him again, gave him a tip, and we left, confident that we’d be able
to find our way.
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| Colorful Passages |
We were heading towards the open market
when our guide reappeared by our side (I thought we’d lost him a couple of
minutes earlier) and told us that the Arabs were selling junk and that we
needed the Berbere experience by going to the Souk. He indicated that we would
follow him, so we gave up on our independence and the ride to his buddies’
shops began. An argan oil herboristerie, a shop specializing in silver jewelry,
knives and clothing, a restaurant in a private ryad….
He was obviously on a predetermined
course that would lead us to being invited to tea countless of times, making a
few purchases for which there never seemed to be prices available (“How much do
you want to pay? We negotiate. For YOU, I give you a special price, but only
for you because you are like family” [right hand over the heart for special
emphasis].)
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| The Souk |
The trick is in the negotiation part (which
I cannot master). Rule 2. Keep a straight face, and talk about your family,
kids, and the cost of living, and bargain down at least three times. Rule 3:
Walk away; that’s when the prices drop. Rule 4: Be firm when you say no. Their
inner senses tell them you are about to break down. They even know, at first
site, what language to use. In the souk, a couple was addressed in Italian by a
vendor. The woman muttered to her husband that they must have their nationality
printed on their forehead because, sure enough, they were Italians. And they
know which nationalities are more likely to weaken and buy.
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| Don't Get Lost! |
I was exhausted by the time Sadek showed up
and ready to jump in the pool to cool off the emotional barrage of negotiations
and persistent/insistent benevolence from the salespeople who fight each other
for a few dirhams worth of merchandise. I spent nearly all the cash I had
brought with me that day (wisely I had left most of it at the hotel, else that
would have disappeared too).
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| Stop to Think about it! |
The one thing you should experience in
Marrakesh: The fabulous orange juice for 40 dirahms a glass ($0.40). Urie and I
downed a few of those on a regular basis… to stay hydrate, you know. I’ve never
tasted the likes of it and I never will again. I can’t describe the perfect
equilibrium between pulp, liquid, acidity and sweetness; the coolness, the
color, the taste. Perfection!
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| Liquid Gold! (with Hilary) |
On the ride back, Sadek asked us how we’d
liked the herboristerie, the souk and the restaurant. Unless Sadek is a
part-time clairvoyant, how would he have known we stopped by these places?
(Obviously, he’d planted his son or nephew as our would-be guide.)
Side notes: Once Sadek made himself our
driver, there was no shaking him off. He was a persistent bulldog gnawing at my
ankle, yapping, and not letting go. Let me give you an example. We left the
hotel to take a cab—there were three cars awaiting clients—but were told by the
cabbies that they were all busy. (They were sitting by the side of the road,
doing NOTHING.) One told us he’d called his taxi friend who’d be there in a few
minutes. Who shows up? SADEK. The same happened again and again at the hotel restaurant
with the waiters (more to come on that).
The Medina (or the old town) is a tourist
heaven for the alert shopper. It’s a maze or narrow passages, colors, people of
all ages and ethnicity, and pickpockets on the look-out for an innocent prey.
Nothing was stolen from us but our dignity; I can’t get over the ease I was
conned into purchasing things I didn’t want. But that’s part of the cultural
experience and part of helping the local economy. No matter what, the sun and
insincere sincerity of the people make it a fabulous magic carpet ride that I
highly recommend.
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| Delicous Pastries |
For more information on how to survive
Marrakech, check out http://www.ellecroft.com/blog/2013/05/10-essential-tips-for-visiting-marrakech/
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