"Oh, not a chance. I'll give you 100 dirham for it."
"My friend! Look how nice it is...okay i'll give you special price, but just for you. Don't tell anyone", the musty and scarred Moroccan man whispers, "i'll give it to you for 350 dirham."
"Nah, i'll give you a 100 dirham for it", I calmly say back, trying to avoid eye contact with the guy. Avoiding eye contact lets them know that you aren't some naive tourist. This isn't your first time haggling. All the other wide eyed Brits and Americans get eaten alive by these Moroccans - laughing at their jokes, looking them straight in the eyes. They start to feel emotion...sympathy, empathy, kindness, whatever....it doesn't matter what feeling, but once emotions come into the picture, reasoning exits out the back door. And it might be true that this guy is nice and charismatic, but he's trying to charge you 650 dirham for a small little moroccan cup that's worth 100 dirham at best...that equals one euro, which is about $1.40 US...they try to scam you at all costs.
"My friend...this is happy price! okay, okay...you give me 300 for it. Deal..."
"Nah, how 'bout 100."
"Alright, alright...250," as he reaches out to shake my hand.
"Ha. Okay i'll give you 100," as his hand sits empty in the open air.
"Come on...it's worth 600 dirham..."
"Alright...," as I turn my back towards him and start to walk away...wait for it....wait for it...wait for it...
..."Hey, senor! Alright, alright come back," he yells waving frantically at me.
Got him now.
"What is the best maximum, ultimate price you will pay..."
"100."
"Alright, you give me 150, " as he starts to wrap it up.
"Nah. I'll give you 80."
"Ahhhhhhhh...okay, okay 100."
I smile. He knows I won that round. I hand him the 100 dirhams, and make eye contact with him for the first time. He's not mad. He knows it was a fair price...he's disappointed he couldn't get more money out of me. The smile doesn't leave my face - this guy is a good man. He finally breaks, and gives me a smile, and then knocks on his head, "You are stubborn."
We shake hands and I continue to walk through the crowded and dirty streets of Morocco. Lined with tents and Moroccans, all yelling and trying to make money - it's overwhelming. Finally, I make my way out of the crowded marketplace, but not really...Morocco is like one big marketplace. Everywhere you turn someone is trying to sell you something, or beg for money, or trying to get you to take a picture so they can hassle you for money until you give it to them. Morocco is a different world.
The open square is filled with white food carts...chicken, shrimp, prawns, beef, vegetables all being cooked. Smoke lifts off the crowd of food carts into the crisp night air. Cous-cous, Tanjia, Tanjine de poulet, Pastilla de poulet....it's all good. Moroccan food hits the spot...but if you're not careful it will send you to another spot. A porcelain spot, where you will be for a while. Luckily, i was careful.
Snake charmers dazzle toothless cobras, while chained up monkeys are trained to jump on you if you get to close. I had a snake thrown around my neck. I didn't ask for it, and I didn't take a picture so I didn't pay. I didn't even take my hands out of my pockets. I just spun in a circle to unravel the snake off my neck...it would have fallen to the ground had its Moroccan owner not caught it. Don't put snakes on my neck.
I walked too close to a monkey, and before I know it the sad, little guy is sitting in my arm like a baby. I took a picture this time. Once the photo is snapped, its toothless owner immediately yanks the monkey away, and onto his back, his smile disappears, and his tone grows angry. He wants money. He demands 200 dirham...100 for him and 100 for his partner who is a bigger man sitting under an umbrella with a bucket under his feet. I'm not scared of him...i'm the biggest person in Morocco. They are all small, little thieves. I give the guy 20 dirham, and he tries to deny it and demand more. I'm not gonna budge on this one...I didn't just take a 20 euro photo. "I'm gonna drop it. Do you want it or not," the stubborn man won't take the money.
"Alright", as i start to put it away...he accepts it, finally. Don't charge 20 euros for a photo you scam artist, monkey slave driver.
"We know where we are going," I firmly say to a lingering Moroccan.
"Yes, yes, right this way."
"No, we don't need your help. Stop following us."
He won't stop...he's desperate, and he knows if he walks with us all the way to our hostel he has a "good" enough reason to hassle us for money. In which case, one of us will feel sorry for him, or one of us will get so annoyed at his insistent bantering that we give him a little money. Not this time. I put an arm bar out - not an aggressive one, just enough to let him know that he's scaring the girls...
"Stop following us. We know where we are going," I say as I look him straight in the eyes. I stand a solid foot over him, and he gets the message. He turns and walks back down the dark alley where he came from. Lingering in the night, waiting for lost tourists.
Morocco is a beautiful place. The countryside is amazing, and as I think of where on the globe I am right now, it bewilders me - like thinking about life on other planets. That type of trip. There are a lot of really good and warm hearted people in Morocco. Most don't care if you don't buy anything, they really just want you to take a look and give their shop a chance...one guy named, Ali, made us some tea...i didn't buy a thing.
"Ali Baba, Ali Baba," a tiny, little boy says to me as he runs up with his hands out and a goofy smile on his face. He's no more than 4 years old, and his mom sent him up to me to beg for money. 4 years old and already working the streets. It almost chokes me up, as my eyes start to glisten. He's the cutest little boy. He's grabbing at my arm, trying to pull it out of my pocket...he doesn't even realize what's going on. He thinks it's a game. He calls me Ali Baba because of my beard...all the little children do. I give the kid 20 dirham and signal him away. If he stuck around I'd have given him all my money.
Another kid, about 10 years old, wearing dirty clothes and a worn out brown beanie approaches us as we are drinking juice at a tent. He's very aggressive and in your face in his approach...he wants you to see his face, and look into his eyes. We gave him a couple euro, but he stuck around and kept asking. He saw one girl getting skiddish and tried to approach her, but she ran away. What he didn't realize was that her eyes were filled with tears, and her heart was throbbing for that poor little boy...she couldn't stand to look at him without crying her eyes. It was a really touching and moving moment, while also very sobering. It gave me some perspective on everything that was going on before my eyes. The intensity of all, the realness...T.I.A....this is Africa. I plan on going back. It was a great experience and I'm a better person for having gone.
Sober,
C.M. Stassel
p.s.
It's snowing in Madrid. Clásico is tonight...for those of you who don't know what clásico is....it's the fútbol game Real Madrid v. FC Barcelona....Vamos Madrid! I'm going to sit outside in a plaza with the real fans, as snows floats down from above and Clásico is illuminated on a giant screen hanging on the side of a building.
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