Madina Madness

I was charged to have something unexpected happen Sunday, so in a constant effort to impress my charger, I walked into the Medina. The Medina looks like something out of Aladin: there are vibrant fabrics everywhere, traditionally clothed men trying to sell their products. A key service in the madina are “guides”. Usually homeless men who offer to show tourists around for a price. As a white guy, I’m immediately approached by a number of men. Someone trying to sell me a “real” rolex, a café owner asking if I wanted a traditional Moroccan tea, a druggie offering me the “good stuff, not the stuff I normally sell to tourists” and a begger, with his tragic story about how he lost his leg (even though its obvious he’s just lifting his leg up and hiding it behind his body). I managed to dismiss all of them and a few steps later am approached by a bearded, graying man in is mid 40s. He asks if he can show me around and I say (in French) that I know the madina well (a lie) and don’t need a guide. He then switches to English. “Oh you’re American? And I’m no guide, I’m just headed back to my family store and wanted to know if you wanted to see it.” This struck me for two reasons: first his English was very good, hardly any accent, and second, he was able to identify my accent in French (a skill few Moroccans can, most think I’m French, and even most French people think I’m from Belgum.) This man was obviously well educated, and not homeless, so I said what the heck, let’s try it. He then starts to lead me down back alleys and deep into the labyrinth that is the Madina. I’m visibly nervous as we arrive at a natural pharmacy. My guide waits outside as I duck inside. An overly friendly man starts to show me all the products he has laid out for display: a dry rub for meat, message oils, and herbal teas. Just when I start to relax and think this wasn’t a bad idea, he rubs a bag filled with black rocks against his hand and shoves it under my nose just as I inhale. Great, he just drugged me. He explains it’s for headaches (it certainly did a good job of causing headaches for this overly tense tourist). I buy some simple green tea, and leave. My guide quickly snuffs out his cigarette and whisks me a couple of stores down to their family tapestry store. They shrug off my comments that Im not looking to buy a tapestry and I’m pushed up 6 flights of stairs to the roof where the view of the madina is astonishing. He points out several landmarks (most notably Antonio Bandares’ house) and starts ranting about how he loves Americans. I get back down 3 of the fights of stairs before I get coerced into a chair and he starts unfolding tapestries. I’ll hand it to him, they are beautiful: stories of love, war, expedition, each one unique. He then asks which one I’m going to buy. I have to explain to him that I’m not going to and he immediately changes from a personable, smiling, pro-America, guide to a disgruntled, peevish, ruthless salesman. “We invite you into our home and show you are city and you wont support our village?” I stick to my guns, and book it toward the door. I try to interject that if I do need a tapestry Ill be sure to come back and that I did forewarn him but I doubt it got through the barrage of ruthless sales pitches he was spewing. I get to the open front door, thank him my most sincere Darija and he turns back into the personable man I first met. “Ok my friend I trust you, I hope to see you again if not just drink a tea”. As I leave I recall an exerpt from Jean de la Fontaine: “apprenez que tout flatteur vit aux dépens de celui qui l'écoute.” It seems that in Morocco you can get treated as nicely as you want, as long as you’re willing to pay at the end.