La, la, la!

Yesterday, when we got off a full-to-overflowing train from Casablanca (it’s the beginning of a week-long holiday for Moroccan families), we followed the crowd over the tracks into the taxi parking zone where two Moroccans were heatedly screaming at each other.  No blows were exchanged, but at one point they hung fire when one of them, a skeletally thin man with crazy eyes and crooked black frame glasses, clapped his hands in front of the other guy’s face.  It was such a bizarre move both of them had to pause…and then commence to gesticulate and yell.

A man strode up to us and said, “Zitkin?” “Yes!” He pointed to another man farther off holding up a piece of paper with Ella’s name lightly written in pencil. This was our driver. We followed him through the holiday melee and loaded into a small van that felt enormous after the hunching over in Petit Taxi rides. The van took us through one the 14 arched gates that open into the Fes medina, .the ancient walled-in city (founded in 789) noted for its narrow labyrinthine streets (9 thousand plus) and a heritage of craft artistry that claims to be the cultural center, if not the soul, of Morocco.

Our driver dropped us off in a small cul-de-sac where a young man with a hand cart hauled our carry-on baggage through the zigzagging corridors leading to Riad Fes Algila where we are staying.  (See Ella’s pictures.)  Then, as we were checking in, we had some hot sweetened mint tea poured from a small crafted silver pot into small glasses that I couldn’t hold without resorting to the handkerchief I have stuffed into my jeans pocket.  (The handkerchief also comes in handy when food is served without napkins…and when one takes a header and needs to sop up the dripping blood.)

The room we’re staying in required an unplugging of lamps so we could connect the chargers for all our devices (iPads, iPhones, earbuds, et al, they do make traveling easier), so it’s a little dark, but the walls are thick and, given the close confines of the medina’s commotion, the room is nice and quiet.

Mohammed, a guide we arranged ahead of time with an overly friendly traveler on the train, met us in the lobby.  Young fit guy with slick dark hair and a form-fitting polo shirt tight on his biceps as if he’d just finished pumping iron.  Like the traveler on the train, he was overly friendly.  As a guide, I guess it comes with the territory.  But, as it turned out when he flashed us the key to his Mercedes, Mohammed’s valuable time is taken up exporting rugs to America.  “Rug cost me five thousand here, I sell in America for twenty-five, thirty thousand, no problem.”  Tour money, he explained, “I give percentage to widows here in Medina.”  Later when Ella bought a rug, she was informed that a big percentage of the sale went to the widows.  It made me wonder how many husband-killers were staying at our riad.  

Walking with Mohammed we received a quick commentary on the commercial highlights of store nooks crowding the mazy alley-wide streets.  Traveling up and down tunnel-dark cobbled pathways revealed a different craft for sale at every turn.  Yarn still wet from naturally colored dye hanging above, leather slippers spilling out below, purse trellises, coats racked,  pyramids of bronze platters and perforated lamps; manikins wearing indigo djellabas and creamy red-embroidered caftans; walls framed with colorfully patterned tile; glazed pottery spread out on low stone steps, and, of course, rugs strung out on clotheslines.  As a live show of authenticity, there always seemed to be a practitioner performing his craft, busily hammering, weaving, dyeing, or chipping away with a tiny chisel.  It was tradition-enriched crafting as a performing art.  

It was also part of making the sale.  Tahir Shah says in “The Caliph’s House” that, to quote Kamal, the foreman on the crew refurbishing his place, “All Moroccans are thieves.”  What he’s bluntly stating, and we’ve been quick to find out, is that sincerity here is hard to gauge because, like when a tiger looks at you and sees only a possible lunch, when a Moroccan encounters an American it’s hard not to sense the superfluous money that is part of being an American.

So Mohammed tells us, as we’re scuttling along the shaft-like corridors, that a friend of his supports widows with a rug business that is part of the medina’s heritage.  We are escorted inside a three-story establishment with rugs hung like museum masterpieces on the walls, stacked on tables like dry goods, and rolled up like statues standing to the side.  We are introduced to Sarl, a short (need I say it?) overly friendly man who tells us in broken English that all we have to do is smile and, as he shows us his shop, he will be a happy man.  So if we don’t buy something he’s going to be a happy?  Hmm… Sarl then kisses the back of Ella’s hand.  Ah, the quaint old-world touches, how faintly creepy!  But it’s all part of the soft-sell leading to the hard-sell.  Sarl shows us the different styles (Berber, Jewish, and Persian), dyes (indigo, saffron—keeps away the snakes—poppies), weaves (with merino wool, silk, and agave—love that plant),  and patterns from simple to hypnotically complicated.  So, right, they’re exquisite, each a work of art.

Sarl offers us tea.  It would be rude to refuse.  While we’re waiting, why not have a seat?  Sarl asks us what we do back in America.  We tell him we’re retired from teaching.  “Ah, teachers,” he says and places his right hand on his heart.  “Rich up here,” then taps his wallet pocket, “poor down here.”  

Then he says he’s going to teach me some Arabic.  An assistant plops down a pile of rugs.  If I like the rug I am to say, “hadha”.  If I didn’t like the rug, “Ighrum.”  Okay, still waiting for the tea, it would be disdainful not to play along.  I go through a stack of rugs making random decisions.  Then he takes the “Hadhas” and I narrow them down. The tea arrives.  We’re down to four rugs.  Which do I want to buy?  I tell him I don’t want to buy a rug.  He presses me.  I remember the Arabic word for “No” is “La” but it would be harsh to say it out loud.  He has his assistant lay them out on the floor.  I shake my head.  Mohammed tells Sarl I’m not interested.  Sarl turns to Ella and asks which is her favorite.  She likes the Jewish weave, a colorfully busy design, unquestionably a beautiful piece of work.  The rug should arrive in Albuquerque shortly after we get home.