The Red City is mostly a faded kind of putty pinkish brown. In the Square, Djeema de Fna, we are approached by men who offer to be our guides—Good price, they say. A well dressed, thin little man in a neat black pea coat tells us to follow him. No money, he says, I’m paid by the hotel. We are hesitant but it feels rude to blatantly accuse him of lying. He shows us where we can exchange currency, we walk past skinny horses tied to carriages, palm trees and pruned back roses and cross the wide seemingly lane-less street where cyclists, mopeds, trucks, taxis and horses speed along together.
In the bank we stall for time, hoping he will leave, but he doesn’t. Back outside, in the dry smell of exhaust, he tries to guide us down a side street, away from the busy plaza and the marketplace. He says it’s better, but the road he indicates is much more quiet and empty. Trust me, he says, and a little signal goes off inside of me. We tell him we want to see the souks, wander through them without a guide.
The plaza, across the street from the foliage-filled square, is a strange mixture marketplace and street. There are no marked pathways, but mopeds and bikes zoom through pedestrians; the loud squawk of horns fills the air. A woman with a hidden face comes towards us, her voice is loud and demanding and she tries to push a book of henna photos into my hands, just to look, she keeps saying. She grabs Mom’s gloved hands, saying, look, look, yanks back the glove and pulls out the little henna syringe, lightning fast. Mom pulls away just as the woman squirts henna onto her hand. She follows us for a moment, but falls back when we ignore her.
All around are identical looking white and blue carts with stacks of oranges piled high. Behind them young men call to us, Bonjour, hello, orange juice? No? Next time, eager optimistic, determined. A man with a monkey on a leash steps between us. gestures at the sweet animals, more vendors offer us dates, spices, coriander, they say, saffron. We step into a covered street, the reds seem to deepen here, and we are engulfed in a mass of colorful slippers, silver teapots and jewelry, mounds of spices, leather bags, stacks of carpets, little wooden boxes. Women with covered faces crouch against the walls with outstretched hands, a soft faced boy fixes his store front with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and all around us are the cries of the English phrases picked up through the marketplace—just to look, just looking, maybe, good price, take a look, top quality—they outstretch their arms, try to herd us into their cramped little shops to point at their goods. Here, silver, here, red stone, they show us their earrings. Genuine leather, they boast, holding a lighter to the surface, you want smaller? You want different color? They zip and unzip the pockets in their bags to show the durability.
It feels like a sensory whirlwind—toothless old men with canes, stray cats cleaning themselves in the sun, slinking around little lamps and carved boxes, round faced women cooking square pancakes, butchers slamming down their knives, young boys rubbing their hands together, relishing the prospect of a sale, vegetable vendors crying out their wares, restaurant owners shouting out their menus behind us, shop keepers offering up their soaps and cedar wood to smell. We have this moss, good for the hair, mix with other things, lavender, chamomile, they tell us. Where you from? England? Ireland? We have herbs for snoring, too. This is Moroccan made, no China, Marrakech made. Artisan. We buy nothing, wind our way through the confusion until we find a quiet courtyard outside a museum.
It’s still and peaceful. We order tea and sample Moroccan sweets, breathe in the sun, chat with the friendly man at the counter, marvel.
When we plunge back into the twisty little streets, we feel rested, energetic, ready to take on the leather shops. We become bartering machines, or Mom does, picking our way though the bags thoughtfully—No it’s too big, no I don’t like the stitching. Finally she finds a little brown burgundy bag with a flat bottom and silver buckles. The shopkeeper is a boy about my age with a sweet face in a long gray robe and shiny black tennis shoes. He asks for 750 dirham and she offers 300. He offers 700 and she stays firm. It goes on like this—he says, I’ll give you a plastic bag for free, and we laugh. I want to make you happy, he says, Madame I cannot sell it to you for that. I am an artisan, he tells us, proud. 350, maybe 400. We walk away and another man, whose shop we’d stopped in before, comes running up to us. 350, he says, it is okay. We return to the shop and the boy tells us, 400, you promised 400. Mom tells him, I want a long strap, 400. He ushers us into seats and disappears into the maze of leather. When he returns his hands are greasy and he has a shiny leather strap that is being stained darker. Artisan. Then he turns to me.
I want a backpack, and I tell him so, so he begins to show me little packs. I say no, bigger. I’d seen one earlier, in a different shop, and suddenly that other man reappears, and seems to remember the bag I liked. I have, they keep telling me. He disappears.
The boy chats with me. Is that your mother? How old are you? He is also 21 but finished school five years ago and has picked up all his English in the markets, with the people, after leaving his Berber village to work in Marrakech. The man returns with my bag, a big, brown leather backpack. Handmade, they tell me, good quality, good leather. The bartering begins again, Madame, this bag is much bigger. Mom tells the boy she wants him to come sell insurance for her and we laugh. He has straight teeth. I want to make your daughter happy, he says, working the charm that seems to come natural to Moroccan men. We finally agree, 350 this time, no plastic bags. We all laugh, all happy, all defeated. Next time come visit my shop, he says, waving from the doorway, come and have tea.
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