Magic Carpet

Sunday has become my own private Independence Day. It started last week when, rather than waiting for a ride home from church, I bravely embarked on my first solo taxi ride. I was terribly nervous. It turned out to be terribly fun. I chattered (if one can call it that) in French the whole way, and had a good laugh with the driver after declining his spontaneous marriage proposal.

So this week I decided to be doubly brave. Go to French church. Leave the dictionary at home. Understand the first half of the sermon. And then (to prevent a messy brain explosion), slip out and trek, explorer-like, to the city’s old medina.

“Just keep going on that road until you get there,” said Anne, my Sunday cheerleader. Well, that’s just fine until one comes to a fork in the road. Map number one was no help. Nor was map number two. Forget it. Stupid maps.

The handy thing about Casa is that there are guards everywhere, guarding who knows what, and it probably makes their day when someone (anyone) breaks the monotony by asking for directions, even in the most infantile French. “Merci, merci!” I say. I’m getting very good at saying that.

The guards are not the only helpful people in Casa. Pretty much everyone is willing to be helpful, for a price. Of course I never clue in to the “for a price” part until I’m saying my “merci, merci” and they’re holding out their hands expectantly. More on that later.

Mostly I was just basking in the thrill of accomplishment of having walked in a straight line to the Place des Nations Unites – marked by a green and red dome that I had only yesterday added to my very short list of recognizable structures in the city. “I’ve done it! I’ve walked from A to B! In French!” And the medina lay before me. Voila.

But before I could direct my purposeful stride to the entrance, I was joined by a kindly hotel worker wearing a Canadian flag pin. “You are very lucky,” he said. “Today is the Berber exhibition. The people in the mountains work for a whole year on their carpets and crafts, and come to the city for one day to sell them. Just turn right after the minaret. You’ll see them.”

I was incredulous at my own good fortune. A Berber exhibition! On the very day that I had planned to venture into the medina alone, with the entire afternoon before me! And, as there is something about a Canadian flag pin that inspires immediate trust, I happily followed my helpful guide to the very door of the Berber carpet shop.

Now. Do I need a Berber carpet in my teeny, tiny, not-quite-one-bedroom apartment? No. I do not. You know that. But what could be the harm in looking, just a little?

You see where this story is heading already, don’t you? You are shaking your head mournfully. “Natasha, Natasha. You have no sense.”

My helpful guide greeted the proprietor warmly and told him to look after me. From this I made the vague deduction that they had some prior relationship. Oh, well. I followed the white-robed man up a narrow stairwell into an opulent room lined with carpets, jewelry, and brass ornaments. I brushed aside the brief speculation that perhaps it wasn’t wise for a single woman to follow a strange man into an opulent room; this is Morocco, after all. Nothing, and everything, is safe. And anyway, what’s the harm in looking?

He led me first to the balcony overlooking the medina. “That side, everything is from Hong Kong”; he waved his arm disapprovingly. “This side, from Morocco. Stay on this side. This good side.” Duly noted. I will remember that when I leave the opulent room for the next phase of my adventure.

“Sit, sit, sit!” he said, and led me to an opulent couch. “We are good people here. We welcome you. You like sugar or no sugar in your tea?”

Again, I disregarded the vague premonition that perhaps it wasn’t wise to accept a beverage laced with a powdery substance from an unknown man in an opulent room.

“Sugar,” I said decisively.

And so, out came his female rug-making apprentice with the characteristic Moroccan shot glass of a teacup, and the tastiest mint tea I’d had since yesterday. What fun!

“Now, I tell you a few things,” he said. “You just listen, and watch. These rugs, all made by hand in the mountains by Berber women. These, wool. These, cactus. These, cashmere. Soft! Feel! These, camel. These, silk. Feel! No slip. They no slip. These very good carpets. I show you only good carpets.”

Carpet after carpet was unfurled on the floor in front of me. “This was made by a Jew,” he explained. “You see, six parts, for the six parts of the Star of David. This one, this shows the woman at the loom. This one has the signs. You know, Scorpion, Sagittarius, you know? What sign are you? Aquarius? Oh, very good. That’s the best. You are very calm. You never worry.”

Clearly not.

“This carpet, this very expensive. It’s a magic carpet, see? It has two sides. You flip it over, it is a different carpet on the back. Magic! Nice, nice carpet.”

He was right. It was a nice, nice carpet. Not that I need a carpet.

“Now this one, this for the students with backpacks. Can’t carry big carpet when they travel. No money to ship big carpet. See, I ship big carpets everywhere! See?”

He brought out his big book of addresses and pointed out the many destinations of his various textiles. Australia. Texas. Indiana. Australia. San Francisco. Australia again. Street addresses, email addresses, happy faces, sums paid. “You see, I send the big carpets everywhere. But these little carpets, these for the students with backpacks. Not so much money. Just little.”

Whew. There are little carpets with not so much money. Let’s see the little carpets. Okay, okay, I’ll see the blankets, too, while I sip my second cup of tea.

“Where you come from? How long you here? What? You live here? You be here two years! Aaah, thank-you so much for telling me this. This is good. Now I can give you the good price. The big price, that’s for the visitors. They pay more so you don’t have to pay so much. That’s how it works. You just don’t tell anyone, okay? If your family comes, tell them you pay 2000 dollars. But I give you a good price. You are like Moroccan.”

“Now,” he said, “you need to learn two words. Two most important words in Arabic: they are la and waha. La means “no.” And waha, “maybe.” Now you say them. La. Waha. La. Waha. Good. Now you really Moroccan.

“Look this rug. You like? Say waha. You don’t like? Say la. Be honest, be honest. Waha or la. You like?”

Did this man think I lived in a gymnasium? “La, la! Too big! It’s much too big!”

He directed his assistant. “La, la, all the big ones, la. Take them away. La.”

“And this? Or this?”

La.

La.

“This one very good. Very pretty. Very pretty, no?”

Waha.

“Aha, you say waha. Now you like real Moroccan.” And the game continued.

La.

La.

Waha.

La.

When he got to the bottom of the pile, four wahas remained, which he laid out side by side. “Now,” he said, “now I tell you the price. Just ones you like. You decide. We eliminate the ones you no like. Which ones you like?”

“I need something that won’t slip,” I said. This was true. By now I had mentally measured and found a place for my new rug. Right beside my bed, so I wouldn’t have to step on the cold tile first thing in the morning. I could use it to do my exercises before bed each night. And a rug for such practical purposes must not be slippy.

“Ah, ah, ah, no slip! We take these two away. They slip.”

Why make rugs that slip at all, I wondered absently. What good is such a thing?

“These two, they no slip. No slip. These very good rugs. No fire. You see? I show you.”

He spun around and grabbed a super-soft, super-intricate, perfectly symmetrical rug, and proceeded to light its fringes on fire. “You see? People come, they buy these rugs, they think they so good, so soft… Bah! These not good rugs. They from machine. People pay lots, lots money, use their credit card, and go home, and find out the rug is not so good, and go to the bank to cancel the debt. Not good rugs. Look. They burn. Bah!”

Undisguised contempt. I, of course, thought the super-soft, super-pretty rug would feel heavenly under my feet each morning. Good thing I had someone trustworthy here to direct me away from his own despised merchandise.

“Now this, look! Look! It no burn. You see?” The authentic carpet smoldered briefly but did not ignite. “Smell! You see? Animal smell! Not cotton. Animal! You see? Smell! Smell!”

“That rug, it not a good rug. It burn. This one, no burn. Smells animal. You see?”

I saw. I smelled. It was not all that unpleasant.

“Which one you like? You like both? I give you good price for two. I give my price.”

He pulled out his bargaining notebook, drew a big circle, and wrote 2700 inside. “This my price. You say if this is good price. You want one, or two?”

I, at this point, wanted none. 2700 dirhams is not $2700, but it is still an insane amount of money to pay for a rug I do not (to be honest) want. What I want is to go and look at the trinkets on the wall, exclaim over their beauty, select something for 100 dirhams or less, and be on my way.

I sat there, gaping. “Now you, you put your number here.” He drew a small circle below his big circle, and I sat immobilized. What had I thought I might spend on such a rug. $20, maybe? I couldn’t insult this man with an offer less than a tenth of his asking price.

I looked at him pleadingly. I was not feeling so good, suddenly.

“Is too much? Okay, okay. Don’t be shy. You write what you can pay. Don’t be shy. I give you good price, you bring your friends here, you bring more business, is okay.”

Paralysis. I do get myself into uncomfortable situations, don’t I?

“Now, you see? You write any number. No offend me. What offends is if I do not have an answer. You see? Just write a number.”

“It’s too much money!” I sputtered.

“There, you see? Now you answer me. That’s good. Now I not offended. You write a number. Is okay.”

I took the pen reluctantly. “500,” I wrote. This can’t end well.

“Good, good, you write a number. Good. So this for one rug, not two. Okay. Which rug? We put the other one away. Now. I write another number. Here.” New page. New circle. “And you write another number. Here.” Another small circle. “Here, you just write. Is okay.”

“550,” I wrote. I felt sick.

He looked at me. He looked at another rug guy, who had been drifting in and out of the opulent room throughout the course of the negotiations. The two conferred. I felt like I was buying a car.

“Okay, okay, we give you for 550. Because you live Morocco. But you tell your friends you paid 2000, yes? No tell them the price I give.”

Nausea was setting in. “But that’s all my money!” I said feebly. His assistant was already rolling up the rug. “I would like to buy something smaller from you. Maybe one of these…”

“Okay, okay, we give you for 500. Is okay. 500.”

I had my wallet in my hand. My real wallet. The one I keep at the bottom of my purse for large purchases, not the little purple change purse that I let people actually see.

“You see, you have 600! Is okay. We give you change. We give you 100. Wait.”

I waited. He returned.

“Now. Just 20 for my assistant.” Right. I’d forgotten. He’d mentioned when the tea came out that his assistant might like a small tip. Okay, whatever. She seems nice enough. And I was glad not to be the only female in the place.

“Good, good, good. This is good carpet. Now you say ‘salaam.’ You know what this means? Salaam.”

“Salaam,” I muttered, and headed down the opulent stairs, to be greeted by another ‘helpful’ stranger offering me genuine, guaranteed authentic argon oil products.   “I’ll think about it,” I said, and he left me alone. God bless him.

Safely in the out-of-doors, I took a breath and surveyed the booths to my right and to my left. The Hong Kong side and the Morocco side. For did I have the good sense to go straight home after this unfortunate debacle? No, I most certainly did not. I had planned to wander through the medina all by myself, and wander I would. I needed to buy food and clothes, and no carpet catastrophe was going to abort my mission. I got a cup of freshly pressed sugar cane and orange juice for 10 dirhams. I got a kaftan for 70. Cashews for 10. Bananas, peaches and apples for 20. Bread for 3. A cup of fruit salad for 6. And a 5 dirham tip for a guy with a Detroit accent who makes his living leading bewildered strangers in circles. Oh, the circles!

But do you know what? My magic carpet was good to me today. It took me safely home, from one cab to another, and helped me avert another marriage proposal en français. As I trudged up the hill to my haven of an apartment, I thought fine, optimistic thoughts about my glorious Independence Day.

It’s really not so bad, I thought. I got all the other things I needed for $12. And the carpet didn’t burn. It might be a half-decent carpet after all. Even if it isn’t, and all the Berber world is laughing at me right now, look what I did! I did not pay 2700 dirhams for a rug. I did not get drugged, abducted and trafficked from one opulent room to another for the rest of my life. I did not lose my hat or sunglasses. When I realized I’d forgotten my fruit salad, I did not say, “Oh well, forget it,” nor did I get lost on my way back to fetch it, even without a helpful guide with a Detroit accent. I did not get swindled by either of my taxi drivers, I did not pay 60 dirhams for a bar of soap, I did not pay 300 dirhams for a pair of shorts, and I did not get groped by even one of the five men with whom I shared my taxi.

And the $50 I parted with for a rug I didn’t want? It didn’t go to Walmart or to some high-end home décor outlet. It didn’t go to some corporation making its money on the backs of children labouring in sweat shops in Bangladesh. It didn’t go to Hollywood or Wall Street; it went (I hope) straight back to the Atlas mountains, where women work all year to weave rugs to bring to the big city. And if the Berber exhibition is just a myth, and the guy in the opulent shop sells his rugs 365 days a year to unwitting tourists with too much money hidden in the bottom of their purses, even then it’s still okay. I got an undeniably flame retardant textile, a story to tell, and two cups of delightful mint tea. I’d call that a pretty sweet, magical ride.