The Visa Diaries

Have you ever bought a rug in an Arabian souk? I can tell you that it is a wholly different experience from buying one in Ikea or Pottery Barn. Here is how it happened for me:

I was wandering though the narrow crooked alleys of the souk (relieved to have found it amidst the rest of the narrow crooked alleys of the old city, because outside the souk I kept getting harassed by touts, but inside the souk, although there are aggressive salespeople, nobody seems to follow me down the street), and a kindly man hanging out the door of a textile shop asks me if I want to see them weaving the silk upstairs. “Ok” I say, and follow him up 6 small flights of stairs, to the rooftop room, where indeed there are two men working an old-fashioned loom. “Vegetable silk” he tell me it is, though I don’t really know what that is. The man is not pushy at all, and seems more to be showing me around than trying to sell me anything. He takes me out onto the roof and shows me by the roofs the five things he says every Arab neighborhood has: a bakery (you can see the chimney), a Koranic school for the kids, a public toilet, a hammam (with its domed roof), and a mosque (with a tower and minaret). The view across the rooftops of Marrakech is forested by spindly antennae, round satellite dishes, and golden minarets. All has a hot, lazy and charming feel about it.

We go back inside, back down the stairs, passing stacks and stacks of textiles and rugs on every level. I stop to look at some here or there, and finally, as if begrudgingly, he says he’ll take me to the showroom.

There are three American-looking college students already in the showroom when I arrive. It turns out they are form California. They have cups of tea at their feet, and all look utterly worked. The guy in charge of the showroom is younger than the first man, and has a friendly but persistent air. “You want that rug then? What is your best price for it?” he is saying to one of the Californians, who has his head in his hands. The guy doesn’t look up, but mumbles, “I’m thinking. I’m not sure I can afford it.” He looks totally broken. I sit at the other end of the room from them.

There is a young boy in the showroom to do all the heavy lifting. He shifts stacks of carpets and blankets to get to the one the boss wants to show me, unfurling it, holding it up, laying it down on the floor. Repeating till there is a stack on the floor. Then it is a process of elimination. “La” he teaches me, means “no” in Arabic. “Wa-ha” means “yes.” Go back through the stack they have laid down, telling the boy yes or no, which ones I like. That way he gets to know my taste, and goes for several more rounds, bringing more of what I like, unfurling it, laying it down, go through process of elimination. “La. La. La. Wa-ha.” It is getting intense. Somewhere during this process, the three Californians leave. Then, the boss draws the curtain across the door, and I feel like prey that has been dragged back to a cave for the final kill.

“Do I want some mint tea?” Yes maybe that would be nice, but I am conscious of incurring too much debt. Plus the tea is very sugary and I am trying not to eat too much sugar. Best to stay sharp for the impending negotiation. I refuse the tea.

We winnow it down. Apparently I like the true, old Moroccan, “primitive” designs – I keep rejecting the more ornate, more patterned rugs in favor of very  minimalist ones, that seem to have the elemental power of a Rothko or Motherwell. A few of them take my breath away when they are laid out.

Finally it is down to four. “You want all four? I give you a good deal for four,” he tell me. No, I don’t want four! I never wanted four, cannot afford four, have nowhere to put four. It is like one of those card tricks where the “magician” has been controlling the process, so in the end you happen to “choose” the card he wanted you to take all along. In this case, he may not care which rug (or rugs) I choose, but he has carefully controlled the process so that it is now impossible for me not to buy. The pressure is on.

I try to say, “Let me think about it and I will come back tomorrow,” but that’s not allowed here. “Come on,” he says, “I have shown you so many carpets. Hundreds of carpets, I have gotten special stock for you.” And, “It is not my prices that are expensive, it is your taste that is expensive. You like the old ones.” I have a splitting headache. I cannot look up at him, and am reduced to the same rocking, mumbling mess as those poor chaps from California.

There is really no getting away, so all I can do is bargain. If I refuse to pay what they want, I think in a brainflash, I will get away. So I stick to my final offer for two of them, half of what he originally proposed. In the end I do not get away – they grumble and groan (”I make no profit on this sale, you know!”) but agree to my price. I make him include shipping, and think that I’ve gotten a pretty good deal.

Although of course, it is his job to make me think that I’ve gotten a good deal. I wander back into the souk in a daze. “Come by for tea tomorrow if you are around!” he shouts cheerfully after me.

We’ll see how I feel when they arrive back in New Haven in three weeks…

(sorry no picture today…)