Hello My Friend

It begs and defies description. The land of my sister's namesake. The legend of my parents meeting in a campground. I wrote my dad to ask for description of the campground where he lived for months and eventually met my mom. But all I got was “near a four-lane divided road.” He spent hours on google maps looking for it. I am convinced it only existed for a fateful few months. Long enough for them to meet and a family legend to be planted. Then it was gone. Now pilgrims like me wonder if it ever existed.

For now, I wander elsewhere in Marrakesh, in search of some worthy keepsake for my siblings. I get lost in the souks a few times until I can find my way through them. They are millions of small stalls of color and craft. Purples, indigo, turquoise, yellow. Slippers. Sweets of a hundred varieties. Meat raw on the counter. Ceramics. Metals. Filigree lamps and jewels. Scarves. Jelabas of beige, brown and gold. Dates, almonds, dried apricots. Leather worked into saddle bags, shoulder bags and shoes. Old metal Johnny Walker advertisements. Hygiene products. Wood-carved camels. Bubble wrap. It is hard to imagine how they all survive.

Outside each stall is at least one Moroccan man. His craft is sales. They must be trained in it at a very young age. Entire universities must be dedicated to it. If you are not vigilant, a Moroccan man may just sell you the shoes off of your feet back to you for the same price you paid when they were new and leave you feeling like you got a deal. That's in part because the bargaining starts at ten times the value of the item. But value is all relative here. Value is simply about what one is willing to pay. But we are ahead of ourselves. The talk of price always comes last. They insist.

What comes first is, “Hello my friend, where are you from?” This is the introductory line for selling everything from orange juice to hashish to desert excursions. Often if one answers with a place, the response is something the salesman knows about that place. This has variety and color. Sometimes it is, “Oh I have a cousin who lives in Los Angeles. She is an actor.” Other times it is an exaggerated Bart Simpson impersonation, “Cowabunga, Dude!”

If one doesn't respond with a place, then the guessing game begins. Usually it only takes three guesses. In my case, it is England, Australia or America. Once we get to America, they name a city they know. The cab driver said Philadelphia. Others say New York, Los Angeles, Miami. New Orleans rarely makes the cut. Usually it gets blank stares, presumably with an error message in the salesman's head that reads, “No map on file.”

The conversation continues in an attempt to elicit a smile, or even eye contact from me. Then comes the invitation into the shop. Sometimes it is direct, “Come see my shop.” Other times, it is an outright lie, “Everything inside is only 20 dirhams.”

Once inside they hustle to shove everything you express any interest in to you in every possible color and style. They make a mirror appear. If you are looking for something specific, they work to keep you waiting in the front while they search for that very item in the warehouse of a back room. If it isn't there, they tell you to wait a minute while they disappear into the souk. Only to reemerge ten minutes later with something different than what you were looking for. And this is the ultimate game. Making you buy things you never wanted until you ended up inside this shop.

At times, it is richly entertaining. At others, it is disturbing and exhausting. Survival in the souk requires we hang up our southern sensibilities that dictate we speak when spoken to. And to practice Buddhism, or at least non-materialism. Want less when surrounded by more. Otherwise, pay twice what these things are worth in postage to send them home.

When we find our way out of the souks, we end up at Place Jemma al Fna, Marrakesh's main square. Here cobras dance to oboes. Monkeys prance on leashes. Young men become boxers for circling crowds. Snailmen sell bowls of steamed goodness in a shell for ten dirham. Men behind stacks of oranges shout, “Hello” and point with their hands as if the only thing between you and a four dirham fresh-squeezed glass of orange juice is an invitation. And sometimes it is. Shoe shine men keep busy at one end. Vehicles seem to think there is a street through one side of the square. Horses with carriages and the hand of fatima imprinted on their hind quarters trot through. Motorbikes. Bicycles. Cars. And people. Lots of them. Moroccans and tourists. A man sits on a carpet and plays a violin. A guy in brightly colored wool with a huge Tibetan looking hat walks around with a bell in his hand. Young men scare me at least once a day as they sneak up on me with a wooden snake. Each is doing their part in an elaborate effort to extract the dirham from the tourist. I don't know how the monkeyman makes his money. But he does. And it has something to do with his monkey. The call to prayer resounds from minarets on three sides of the square, each sounding a similar call at a slightly different time. Then men crowd the entrance to the mosque for prayer.

And drums beat. Always. They pound. They provide a soundtrack for it all. Intoxicating, alluring, hypnotizing percussion.

Our hotel is down a narrow alley and around two corners from all of this. And it is surprisingly quiet. It takes us until day three to wander out of the medina, where life is more peaceful and ordinary. I find the Cyber Park, a creation of the king and one of Morocco's telephone company – Meditel. It is a beautiful and peaceful park with various internet kiosks and wireless everywhere, which attracts an interesting mix of tourists and teens. I breathe deeply and listen to the birds. I dawdle. Bide my time before returning to the Medina. I sit and wonder if there is anything I might need to buy in this land of sales.