bright copper kettles and shishas with apple

Morning in the Medina dawns as a chick unfurling itself from a newly hatched egg. The first small crack runs into the second and then the third, until the fissures become an avalanche of noise. And rolling out, the new life that is the new day opens its mouth and begins its feverish cry.

The city wakes up, and brings me willingly with it.

After less than auspicious beginnings, Mars this morning seems in higher spirits. As eager as I to do some determined haggling in the souks, I don’t have to do much wrangling (in fact, none at all) to convince her to stop by Aziz’s carpet shop as promised.

Of course, finding it amongst the maze of stalls and persistent shopkeepers is a different matter altogether. The labyrinthine maze of colours, sights and smells is enough to overwhelm anyone, particularly when the desire to absorb them is overtaken by intimidation of the many touts’ persuasive techniques.

Battling on, we move deeper into the belly of the beast, ‘la’ing (no! no!) our way past the invisible threads of ‘come in my shop, you see what you like!’ and ‘hey girlie you come here now!’s that seek to capture and keep us.

Eventually we stumble into 44 Semmarine Souk, a veritable treasure trove of organically dyed wools and fibres, all weaved into the finest carpets one could hope to bury their feet in. Our new friend Aziz raises his hands in delight – “Ah, ladies! You came as you promised! Sit, sit, we have some tea now. Mint tea, you know? It is the scotch of Morocco!”

And thus began our wonderful day exploring the heart of Marrakech…

Aziz proves to be the consummate host. After some chit chat over tea, he shows us some pictures of famous people who’ve visited his store. Hugh Grant (in the days of Jemima Khan – she’s wearing a lovely floppy hat, I must say), Will Smith, Patrick Stewart – all have been recipients of Aziz’s hospitality. Even the King of Morocco is featured on the wall, a man Aziz assures me has done much to modernize his country.

“The King is very good and popular here,” Aziz says. “Since he has become King, he has made it illegal for men to now have more than one wife. He has made things very good for women here – they all go to school; they are very modern now.”

Aziz himself has only one wife, Khadija. “Ah! One wife, one heart….” he explains with a big smile on his face. “A man has the energy only to look after one woman anyway…”

The King’s own wife, by all accounts, is a bit of a Cinderella success story. She certainly didn’t move in the kind of circles where women end up married to kings. As the Queen, she still works as an engineer and is apparently seen all over Morocco and loved by all the people.

I’m certainly not against monarchic societies – the Sultan of Oman runs his country very well and peaceably (based on what I remember, and what my parents told me), and the King and Queen of Jordan have also proved very good to their people. On the other hand, look at John Howard and George W. Democratically elected, and complete disasters. Go figure.

I ponder this as Aziz takes us upstairs to feast on the shop’s special Friday meal of cous cous. Layered with vegetables and tender goat, the meal takes approximately 4 hours to make when prepared properly – which rather explains why Aziz’ mother only ever makes it for them one day a week…

As his father’s first wife, Aziz now lives amongst all 9 of her children (of whom Aziz, at 42, is the youngest) and apparently enjoys quite the life. Making cous cous for Stall 44 on Fridays is her gift to the carpet store that has run through Aziz’ male line for 3 generations. It began as a hotel for Berberas (sp?), the native people of Morocco before the Muslims moved in from the east, living a nomadic lifestlye and selling their carpet wares from town to town. Aziz’ grandfather would allow them to stay in the hotel as they passed through in exchange for a commission from their local sales.

When Aziz’ father took over, he said “Enough! No more hotels!” and instead began buying commissioning local women to make the carpets and setting up shop as a proper supplier.

Now that it has passed to Aziz and his brothers, he tells me they continue to employ local woman (especially Berberas, like themselves) to make the intricately crafted pieces of art that adorn the walls and are piled high in stacks ready for tourists to salivate over.

And salivate over them we proceed to do! Because there is always a catch in any kind of business arrangement, Aziz has arranged for his employee Abdul to talk us through the history of the carpets – conveniently asking us to put aside the ones we like and the ones we don’t. One by one the staff roll out luxurious items before us while Abdul explains the four basic categories of Moroccan carpetry. The most beautiful are those made from wool dyed in glorious colours, painstakingly weaved together by Barmera women looking to keep afloat in these troubling times. Indeed, they are true works of art and more than once I catch myself calculating how I can possibly afford to take an armful home with me.

“In the olden days,” Abdul explains, “Barmera mothers would make carpets as part of their daughters’ dowries. The carpets would tell stories of love, designed to last many lifetimes. Now, only a few women make carpets for these reasons – mostly, it is to make money because the times, they have changed now.”

And perhaps it’s the romanticism of trousseaus, or the idea of a mother gifting her daughter with something intended to be passed from generation to generation, but I discover that Abdul’s words have worked their own magic on me. Against all financial judgement, I point to one and say ‘wa’huy’. This one. I want this one.

It is to be the first in a long line of Moroccan purchases, justified to myself through the sheer beauty of the objects and the intoxicating power of bargaining a good salesman down. I manage to knock a third off the asking price for the carpet that has chosen me. Already I am imagining burying myself into its winter side during the cold season, and tripping lightly over its summer side when the days are long and hot.

The great salesmen that they are, Abdul and Aziz assure me that for anyone else they wouldn’t be so kind but for me, “we will do it, because you are our friend!” I’m not fool enough to think they still haven’t made a profit from me, but their good humour is comfortable to bask in. This is how haggling works, I remind myself. Ain’t it a gas?

It turns out that meeting Aziz on the train was a true stroke of luck (apart from placing me significantly out of pocket for a carpet that yes, may well last forever, but is guaranteed to not have a proper home for some years yet). He fixes us up with one of his employees, Jamal, and instructs him to take us into the souk to find the things we want for reasonable prices.

Again, I’m not fool enough not to realize that this means “take them to the shops owned by our friends – we keep it all in the family here, yes?” but hey….the stalls all seem to be much of a muchness really. The prospect of having a guide to take me through them and facilitate my more determined haggling pleases me greatly.

And Jamal is an intimidating presence. Tall and burly, I’m almost looking forward to having someone try to cheat me so that I can whisk him into the store to give the erstwhile brigand what for. It’s the kind of thing I enjoy having my father around for. (Unfortunately, Jamal’s feelings turn out to be slightly less than familial considering he later jokes to Aziz that not only does he want to marry me, but that he’ll pay 10,000 camels for the privilege. I’m told this is a very good asking price.)

Indeed, the day turns into a bargainers’ idea of heaven. Mars (whose mood has improved dramatically – this is the Marrakech she was looking for, not one of grabbing hands and aggressive touts) and I load up first on vibrantly coloured leather bags, before being treated to a fascinating lesson on the various medicinal balms and spices stored within the local Berbera pharmacy.

Our pharmacist Sayeed has the chocolate brown face of an angel and the kind of smile that makes a woman feel like he has eyes only for her. He smooth talks us into buying various oils, teas and natural products designed to make us better, healthier versions of ourselves and then invites us to later join him for mint tea (an offer I will continue to consider for the duration of our stay….). His shelves are adorned with all manner of spices, potions and sweet smelling agents, while the king of them all is saved for last.

Saffron.. the spice of the gods, where even the merest thread can transform a dish and whose magical properties seem to extend far beyond a pinch turning three bags full of rice a bruising yellow.

I think I may be a little in love with him, a feeling which only intensifies when he demonstrates the remarkable healing properties of Argane massage oil, strong hands manipulating my bare neck with the skill of Don Juan himself…

Laden down with our bags, Jamal takes us to our final destination – The Jewellery Store Of Ancient Wonders And Incredibly Heavy Silver. Our shopkeep is wily – the toughest faced so far. “Tradition”, he informs us, “dictates that you place all the items you like on this tray and at the end, we discuss the price.”

This. Could. Get. Dangerous.

Indeed, the store is a spendthrift’s nightmare. I have to restrain myself from placing everything I see on our assigned Tray Of Regretful Choices, because I know the bargaining stage will be relentless and brutal. And it is. Of course, it doesn’t help that the items I’ve chosen include the most wonderful teapot, gigantic in size and mosaiced almost entirely from the buttered pearly sheen of camel bone.

“This one is 3950 Dh. A very good price for this!”

3950Dh. 395 euros. AUS$790.

“No. No. It’s impossible. It’s beautiful, but impossible. I cannot do it!” I tell him. But he’s crafty and determined. He will not let me get up until I perform the next stage of the dance.

“Right, you tell me (no, you write it here please) what you want to pay. What is your best price? And please, do it with a smile!”

He can see that I’m most dazzled by the teapot and a fabulous silver pendant embedded with turquoise and into which a deer has been lightly etched (and to which he’s already attached the pricetage of 1200 Dh or AUS$240).

“No, you write down, write down!”

I look to Jamal with trepidation in my eyes. Surely he can get me out of this potentially financially ruinous corner?

“It’s okay, you don’t have to buy,” he soothes (conveniently using the opportunity to stroke my shoulder tenderly). “But maybe just make him an offer and see what he says.”

I feel trapped, powerless against the shopkeep’s insistence and the seductive lure of that o-so-beautiful teapot. I can just see myself impressing guests while nonchantly remarking, “Oh this? I bought it in Morocco from a shopkeep so cunning you could brush your teeth with him,” while they all ooh and aah.

I offer 2000 Dh. 200 euros. AUS$400.

He counter offers. 3500. Can I justify $700 for a pendant and a teapot?

I make my last move. 2500 Dh. I half hope that it’s so insulting he quits the game in disgust…..but a salesman never quits.

“Done! You have cheated me, but for you I give it because you are my friend and business is slow!”

And there’s no backing out. It’s checkmate. Technically I’ve won - but I wonder who’s really beaten who…

Later, sitting in Aziz’s shop and drinking strong, sweet Moroccan coffee, I begin to think it doesn’t really matter. The winning and the losing – it’s all relative. Mars and I may have spent inordinate amounts of money on things we probably don’t really need, but the prizes extend far beyond the products.

Through a chance meeting with a Marrakech carpet seller on a long haul train ride from Tangier, we secured a Moroccan host, a ready made tour guide-cum-bodyguard and a passport to some of the most colourful elements of the Medina’s marketplace. Our day has been a history lesson, a shopping expedition and an exercise in cultural immersion all in one.

We sit there drinking coffee with our hosts, and chatter excitedly as ladies are wont to do following a day of Buying Pretty Things. Aziz arranges for Jamal to meet Mars and me outside our hotel in the morning. He is to deliver us to a Moroccan hammam, or spa, and then conduct a guided tour around the mosques, the old palace and the qu’ranic college. So what if there’s a little quid pro quo going on between businessmen? Where one hand scratches the other one’s back, there are still three hands left for the giving of things.

It seems that, for only the small price of a priceless carpet, I’ve seen more of Marrakech than I could have hoped to discover stumbling around by myself. What is there to begrudge in that?

And now, a suitable ending.

Immediately before I find myself in sudden possession of an expensive camel bone teapot, I am led to the roof terrace “so you can have an excellent view across the city!” We climb four flights of stairs and step to the edge.

It’s simply breathtaking.

Pink roofs with battered rugs hugging their folds stretch out before us, while the souk and food stalls hum below. A storm appears to be rolling in, as shutters and overhanging tarps flap madly in the fierce winds. Sand and dust cloud the horizon in a thick smog, the furrowed eyebrows atop a crinkled and well worn face. To the east, we can see the snow capped Atlas Mountains; to the west, the sprawling mass of Marrakech’s New Town.

Inhaling it deeply, I realize just how much I have missed the desert after all these years.

When you grow up surrounded by white washed walls with elaborate carvings, flat roofs that collect both dust and wind whipped heat, and the haunting calls to prayer that bookend days spent marveling at the sparse and barren beauty that blankets you, you forget how these things become a part of you. They form a story around your edges, dyed threads woven into the fabric of your skin, your senses, your soul.

And though the story may change, may discover new colours and new patterns, may even change course entirely, may reveal itself to be a lowbrow satire as opposed to the heartfelt tragedy you once expected it might be, still it began with those very first threads.

The beginning is as intricately connected to the end as the first line is to the next. A life is nothing more than carpet of connected threads; it is nothing less than a work of art.

The carpet tells the story, and like all things, a well made one will survive.