We decided to visit the bazaar. The day was so hot that the camels took advantage of the shade near the ramparts of the ancient Kasbah. (Fortress) We stepped out draped in traditional robes with hoods for shade looking forward to a day of haggling at the local bazaar. At least that was the plan.
We had come to visit Morocco at the invitation of my mother's niece who lives in Chefchaouen the blue jewel of the north west. We shared her riad and spent the cooler evenings in the courtyard garden surrounded by the scent of orange blossom and the smell of black coffee absorbed into the ancient walls. Happy days adventurous days filled with rich sights and sounds in a strange land.
The town of Chefchaoun is painted a vibrant deep turquoise blue almost Prussian blue but lighter mixed with white. It offers a pool of blue light and shadow on a sun scorched landscape and gives an illusion, a mirage of cool, water in the heat. We strolled because walking any faster was impossible. We entered the cooler spaces where the market stalls create shade in the inner square and narrow criss cross of streets. To be fair they appear narrower than they actually are lined with various materials and objects to buy which tower skyward leaving a small cut out of blue sky against the riotous colours.
I reach into the left pocket of the robe I'm wearing and find the familiar leather wallet stuffed with Moroccan bank notes. Thankfully the money is still safe. Chefchaoun bazaar is renown for accomplished pick pockets. Tricks of the trade to relieve naive visitors of their riches. It's so easy while the witless tourists feed his Barbary monkey nuts and figs. So easy as the owner mirrors their excitement and he slips his hand into convenient pockets and bags. So easy to increase his own stash of money. These tourists so stupid he sighs with a disdainful grin.
Beads of sweat break out on my brow and settle like diamonds pierced into the skin. We turn a corner and feast our eyes on exotic colour and smells. The stalls overflow with rugs and blankets
hand crafted by the Berber women. They are made with earthen shades complimented by bright stabs of pattern, and sit alongside wooden boxes carved with story telling motifs. The straw bags and woven baskets with tassels and pompoms are heightened with rich embroidery relief side by side with ceramic tajines and tea pots and tea glasses. Mountains of tiles Zelij rise like a contemporary, secular mosque all for the worship of commerce. Babouche slippers and leather clothes for men and women and camels head dresses and harnesses jostle for space in every niche.
I am searching for a lamp a Moroccan lamp pierced with holes in either brass or pewter. I think pewter will be best to match the subtle light grey in my hallway back in my London flat. Grey is the in colour for interior design back in London and grey is the skyline in London on most days. A mirror image.We stop and breathe in the smell of oils and black soaps and cosmetic bars - argon oil and jasmine and orange blossom and rosewater- soaking the senses with luxuriant scents and exotic perfumes.
I haggle for Moroccan pastries - 110 dibham he sticks his chin out stubborn immobile - So I offer 30 and he offers 50 so I offer 40 and we are done. They taste sweet and sticky and we are silent as we digest them slowly.
As we walk deeper and deeper into the souk we come across a lamp stall some lit with candles. The owner is calling 200 Dirhams in a sing song call. They are shaped like glass lozenges elongated with bulbous tops and bottoms some circular some elliptical Metal fretwork surrounds the glass cut in small wedge shapes in brilliant effects like jewels set in a complex necklace. Every kind of colour ways, Pale cream glass and metals reds? and blues set in pewter. Lime greens and terracotta with gold effect or brass redefined as gold. I am awestruck. Gazing high into the display - light flowing like liquid gold.
I listen to the calls from the stall holder. 500 dibham for jouj atay afak?(two) The man is dressed in flowing robes turquoise blue, sewn with orange and gold stripes and embroidered with gold and blue threads. He begins to talk at us rapidly win the local lingo.
Suddenly a shout cries out, many shouts in fact, We look at each other and the owner joins in. Then the sound of engines spurtling and spluttering gaining ground through the tight alleyways until two lightweight Yamaha motor bikes appear incongruous as a camel in Oxford Street.
There is a lot of shouting and gesticulating and mothers grabbing young ones into their skirts and stall owners screaming out- in the local Arabic dialect- I'm glad I can't understand but whatever it is it sounds like cursing and swearing! Fl labb er gas ted! Fl labb er gas ted - I want to put my hands over my ears and I do. We crouch beneath the counter of the lamp stall as the owner literally jumps up and down and rubs his hands together in anger and distress.
At last the commotion dies down and we hear the bikes further and further in to the distance- The only evidence they have been and gone are the indistinct engines sounding now like buzzing mosquitos.
Just then the owner slaps his arm with a leather and camel hair whip Fl lab er gas ted he cries and I groan inwardly Oh no not more swearing and I direct my flimsy smile at him to hide my discomfort.
Shall we buy the two lamps or just one? We discuss and finally agree we both want one and so we begin to barter for jouj atay afak (two) 500 dibham the owner eyes me inscrutably and I frown and say 200 dibham. He feigns a mixture of horror and pain that I such a nice British woman should insult him so deeply. mafhemtech- I don't understand he says and he spreads his hands widely to apologise for me. He strokes his beard and replies back 400 diham and i bargain back 200. He sigh's deeply 450 and I reply 250. His eyes turn glassy as he realises I.m not going to be a push over. As if he is reaching within for one of the ancient proverbs of the east he blurts out 300 dibham . I wait a moment my eyes questioning his and then smile broadly as I say yes!
We pay upfront and when the lamps are wrapped in sugar paper and twine we turn to go. I am horrified to hear Fl lab er - gas- ted as we walk away and I look back my eyes burning with offence at being sworn at. He looks at us both and says in Arabic English ladies I am flabbergasted - as we all are with motor bikes in the blessed souk and British ladies who barter so well
bslama (goodbye)
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