my first day in marrakech i signed up for a walking tour that left from my hostel in order to get my bearings in this new city, as well as meet friends. a group of eight of us departing with our guide latif, and i am so grateful for his guidance as well as the connections we made amongst ourselves.
latif guiding us through bahia palace on our walking tour
during the tour i asked him about buying leather and/or learning from some leather makers. i told him i make small pouches and was looking for some material to purchase. “tomorrow, go to the leather market. ask for my friend khalid.” that already felt unlikely but i figured any lead was better than none.
towards the end of our tour he stops and greets a man on his bicycle, who gives him a handshake and hug. “this is my friend khalid!” he says. “come find me tomorrow, just ask for khalid, everyone knows who i am,” this new man tells me. i am already feeling the power of manifestation at work, yet still doubt my ability to navigate the crowded souks and seeks out a man with a name as common as khalid in a muslim country.
the next day i set out from my hostel around 11:30, looking for the leather market and this man named khalid. in morocco, i assumed this was nearly a lost cause. armed with only this vague information and a general sense of direction, i headed out into the médina alone. some wandering brought me to the square, a feat in & of itself. then i took off across the square and down the street, a way back home again. i thought i had seen signs for the leather market on our walk home yesterday, and was hoping to retrace my steps.
a merchant carrying leather through the crowded souks of the médina
as i wandered deeper into the médina, i lost my bearings. sigh. guess i wasn’t so clever after all. a few men asked to show me the way to where i was going, a classic marrakech scam that ends either with you paying, getting yelled at, or worse. the night before two of my new friends were threatened and nearly beaten by a man who gave them directions.
one man was very persistent and started following me. i took a few turns, turned around once i saw he was far in front of me, dipped into side areas, all in an effort to lose him. & yet, he kept appearing beside me. now i was lost, and had a stalker. great. finally i told him rather forcefully that i knew where i was going (blatant lie) and that i didn’t want his help. the anger in my voice seemed to convince i’m to move on to a new target, and he left. i had ended up in a quieter part of town, it seemed a bit more developed, possibly the new city. i turned back & tried to find my way back to the slightly more familiar médina.
a kid sucked me into his scarf dyeing demonstration, showing me all the natural colors that are used for creating the bright colors morocco is known for. there were men hunched over large vats dipping masses of fabric into bright red dye, up to their shoulders. “this is my family, this is what we do. no chemical dyes here, natural, natural.” i was a sucker and bought two scarves, they were unlike anything i had seen so far.
the natural dyes and dyeing process supposedly used on my scarves
now in hindsight i can tell you i started seeing these scarves everywhere once i bought them, and that the blue one bled onto my hands and clothes in the desert. certainly a rip off, but it wouldn’t be a trip to morocco if my wallet & i came out entirely unscathed. at the time though, i thought it was a decent enough deal.
i set off again & another man comes up to me, showing me all the same things. i tell him that i just got to town and am just looking, that i just saw the same demonstration and have no money to spend. spices, he says, herbs. at this point i am a bit curious & also too tired to push back, so i follow him. he starts leading me down smaller & darker alleyways, down stairs, into a basement room. no, no thank you, i say, & go to leave. in broken english he tells me he is a nice man, no harm, that he likes women. i see some people and light at the other end of the room so i follow him deeper into the building.
he introduces me to the man at the herb shop, who i tell i have already bought spices the day before and am not interested. leather, i say, i am looking for leather. “that way,” the herb man gestures vaguely and walks off.
i make my way “that way,” back out of the basement building and toward the street where i had come from. my original friend swoops in, “leather?” he asks, “yes,” i say, “come, come, right this way,” he gestures and walks ahead of me. he brings me to a small souk filled with leather bags and goods, introduces me to a man there. feeling entirely overwhelmed, a bit frustrated, and totally off track, i say “i am looking for a man named khalid. he told me to find him in the leather market,” i am getting ready to turn and walk away. “that is my brother! here!” i turn around and sure enough, there is khalid.
relief and serendipity washes over me, i am baffled by the fact i found this man in the middle of the biggest city in morocco, after getting totally and utterly lost. i explain to him that i do leather work and want just the material. “go with my brother,” khalid says, “it’s okay, he is my brother, he will take you and show you.”
so off i go with fahid, khalid’s brother. he tells me he is a high school history and spanish teacher, that he works with his brother on the weekends. he says he’ll take me to the souk where his brother buys leather.
we get there are there are two kids working, teenagers maybe. there are two stalls next to each other, each stacked floor to ceiling with leather on three of the walls. in the center, there is barely enough room for the two of us to stand.
fahid helping me sift through floor to ceiling leather
fahid starts going through the piles of leather with me. “not shiny,” i say, “ not plastic feeling, not suede. no bright colors. natural, soft, good quality.” he keeps pulling out pieces to show me. yes like this, no too shiny, more like this one but darker, i am quickly sifting through the options. i show him the pouch i am wearing, thick dark brown leather that has been worn down by friction and the oil of my chest and hands. “this is what i make, this small. i usually buy scraps. small, cheap.” he laughs at me, “kat,” he says, “i like you, you are smart.”
he asks the teenage boy for a phone number and pulls out his phone to start dialing, “better to talk to the boss,” he says, and makes a call. a brief conversation takes place in arabic, as i stand there clutching my selections in my hand. “they have more over here,” he says, “leave these, we will look and come back.” off we go again, my favorite five pieces of leather waiting for me on the floor.
the other space is twice the size of the first two out together but is filled with some crap as well. “not this,” fahid says, pulling at some cheap, metallic material, “china, not morocco.” i find two more pieces i like, and the boy from the original souk comes down a ladder on the other side of the room. they are chatting in arabic, and the boy seems annoyed. he grabs some of the material i am looking at, large, beautiful pieces of leather, pulls them from the hand & starts folding them and putting them back on the shelves. “too big,” says fahid, “these pieces they won’t cut. you understand?” “yes,” i say, “of course. i like scraps, little pieces. scraps, discolored, holes, scraps.” i hold up one selection, “how much for something like this?” i ask fahid. “we wait for the boss,” he replies. “i’m not asking the boss, i am asking my friend. how much, usually, for something like this?” he laughs, “you are good at this, kat.” “i know,” i reply. still, he offers no price.
a man comes in, they shake hands, and chat in arabic. he is stern faced, glances at me, and looks annoyed. i take my two pieces from the larger souk and we all head back to the smaller ones, where my original five pieces are also waiting. he looks over my selections, starts barking about how he won’t cut this piece or that. fahid is arguing back, i hear “canada,” (this is where i told him i am from, i do not often admit i am american during my travels unless i read a situation as safe) “student,” “artisan,” a few times, while the boss rolls his eyes, “yeah, yeah,” he rebuts.
after clacking on his calculator, picking up each piece, examining and folding it, he comes to a number. i have already decided what i will not spend more than, and he is over double that. “great,” i reply, “now tell me what i can get for this.” “well, i won’t cut that one,” he says, grabbing a larger piece from the pile, “fine, i don’t want it,” i counter, tossing it aside. “this one is very strong, nice,” he has picked up a rather thick piece, “yeah, forget that one too. scraps, i want scraps. small pieces. hand luggage,” i respond.
we go back & forth, me shoving off anything he seems hesitant about, trying to show that price is my determining factor, not attachment to any particular piece. at this point fahid has taken a step back, and it is just the boss and i communicating in short english phrases. he seems to respect my wit and confidence, although i do get the sense he is less than thrilled to be doing such negotiating with a foreign woman.
“this,” i keep saying, “it’s all i have. show me what i can get for that.” after swapping a few more pieces & clacking on the calculator he comes back with a number that is still too high. “this is all the money i have,” i respond, “check,” he says with a firm face. fahid steps back into the negotiations, “give him whatever else you have and it’s a deal.” “fine, here,” i pull my wallet out of my bra, revealing an additional 40MAD, or $4USD. “there, see?” i open my wallet wide and show him there truly is nothing else, “happy? that’s all i have. now i have nothing to buy lunch with.” the boss grins, he seems amused by my attitude now. “deal,” he extends his hand to shake, “and this,” he pulls out a piece from the discard pile, “is a gift.”
he bundles & tapes my purchases, & gives fahid a few coins to go buy a plastic bag (the leather is too large for my small daypack). fahid comes back with the bag and we head off again, i am feeling quite pleased & proud of my purchases. “that was very good,” fahid says, & although i have no real idea if the prices were truly fair, he does seem genuinely impressed with me.
the bundle of leather i ended up with, hand for scale
on our walk back we chat more, he tells me about his family, his five brothers and five sisters, about teaching high school. he asks what i do & we exchange pleasantries and laughs as we navigate our way back to his souk, him stopping to shake hands and swap greetings with other men as we pass by. he tries to get me to stop in his friends lamp shop, but i laugh and tell the man that my new friend here took all my money. when we return to his souk, i buy a small leather backpack from him and khalid, who tells me it’s no problem to take me to cash machine to get more out for my purchase from them. it was already my plan to buy a backpack, and i settle on a beautiful one for 300MAD, or roughly $30. i am happy to give them my business after all the time and energy they offered to me.
i tell fahid that i would like to watch some leather workers work, and he brings me to his friend’s souk down the way. they are busy watching football (real football, as in soccer, not the american version) as the world cup is coming up soon. no work will be done while the game is on, so he brings me a different direction to his friends who are making slippers. i am offered a seat and some tea and i watch these two men churning out slippers, each one with a different task in the assembly line, working efficiently and quickly, their hands almost hard to follow as they effortlessly move across the materials and tools.
leather workers working through a pile of slippers
sitting here, on a stool in front of the souk, amongst moroccan men, i am not bothered by anyone. none of the other souk owners hassle me, and no one stops to bother me like when i am navigating the médina alone as a foreigner. i am offered tea but after one sip feel lightheaded and realize it might not be wise to accept an unknown brew from strangers. i take a few activated charcoal tablets, just in case, and drink water. i discreetly pour out the rest of my tea and when fahid reappears a few moments later, i ask to be brought back to the main square.
as we part ways with big smiles and a handshake, i feel overjoyed. i am confident in my navigation skills and ability to make my way back to my hostel through the winding, cluttered, busy streets using my proficient sense of direction and photographic memory, confidently fending off the hasslers who descend upon me even thicker than before now that they see me walking through the market with two large bags.
on a quieter street near my hostel i come across two stray adolescent cats, one who is exceptionally outgoing and curious, meowing and demanding my attention. i soon find myself sitting on the ground, off to the side. while i am busy with this sweet black and white female, her larger, orange, intact male friend comes and stands on my bags. he starts clawing at them, so i go to gently shoo him off, and as i’m doing so be begins peeing. i quickly move him off my bag but in the process he sprays all over the other one, thankfully only getting his mark on the plastic and not in the leather goods inside. there are two men across from me, one selling nuts and sweets from a cart, the other sitting on a carton next to a doorway, possibly his home. they are laughing, i look up at them and am laughing, “he peed on my things!” i exclaim, they nod, and we all laugh together even harder.
the kitten friend who did not pee on my things
my day feels complete, and i continue my journey home, a smile spread across my face the whole way back. when i arrive to my hostel i am gushing with the excitement and synchronicities of my day to my new friends. everyone is asking “did you ever find khalid?” and are entirely amused by the fact that i did, despite, or perhaps only because, i was entirely lost in a part of the médina that none of us had yet ventured through.
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