A Traditional Berber Remedy
I got sunburned. One wouldn’t consider it a serious burn but it was enough to annoy me. I had even applied 85 SPF sunblock, just in case. That’s the last time I spend the day poolside in Marrakech…until the next time.
One week after moving back to Morocco, I felt like I was doing better with the transition. In the grand scheme, I felt more a resident than a tourist. I was beginning to remember streets, intersections, some faces and landmarks. I could walk with my head held higher and with purpose, rather than face down, nose deep in a map. My day was set with viewings of potential apartments listed with various Marrakchi realtors. While my wife readied herself for work, I spent the morning rehearsing my dialogue:
How do I say it again? “Je suis brûlé: Est-ce que vous avez quelque chose?” Close enough. “So, when I get into town and find a pharmacy, I should be able to say, ‘I am burned. Do you have something for that?’ and they will grab some aloe or something?”
“Oui.”
It was a late morning arrival into the Centre Ville, via the hotel shuttle, and a quick huff up Boulevard Mohammed V (the Champs-Élysées of Marrakech) to the center of the Guéliz (the new town) to meet with our realtor. We quickly finished the viewings and I received all of the answers we needed concerning housing logistics and bureaucratic necessities.
Following that meeting, I was picked up by Hicham, the other realtor (who happens to like America and L.O.V.E. Craig David) outside the notorious ex-pat hangout, Grand Café de la Poste. After assessing the other apartments, I asked Hicham, in broken French, if there was a pharmacy nearby. He seemed impressed, as he knew I spoke only English at the time, and listed off pharmacies near the apartment … but not near where they are dropping me off. Not a big deal, I thought. I’d find one when he dropped me off.
I did not. None were open. Is today another holiday I was unaware of? I knew the upcoming Thursday and Friday were both holidays ( And to think some Californians think Cesar Chavez Day was one holiday too many).
I returned to the Place de la Liberté, the streets lined with touristy horse-drawn carriages, an hour before the shuttles arrival. I had time to find a pharmacy. I walked toward the medina in search of my wares. In so doing, my path crossed that of a gentleman in a long flowing white djellaba, walking his bike. He saw me out of the corner of his good eye and asks me, en Français, if I am new in town. Adding to the allure of this tale is that this gentleman was wearing an eye-patch. After a brief exchange and explanations that I am originally from California, I explained that I was looking for a pharmacy. He cheerfully stated that he knew of a great pharmacy nearby and would show me on his way to work. “What a thoughtful gentleman this is,” I thought to myself. The man introduced himself as Abdullah and that he was an artist from the Atlas Mountains, though he knew the city well.
Before I know it, while chitchatting about work, life, and family, he was guiding me through the narrow streets of the medina (walled old city). As this was actually my first time in the medina, I began to feel a bit anxious and even more out of my element. The streets are narrow. They twist, turn, and then twist back onto themselves. In a silent panic, I thought to myself, “How the hell was I going to get back to the bus in time?” I took a deep breath and remembered something my wife’s new coworker mentioned: Ride the wave. If you try to swim against the wave, you will drown.
The medina seems to be where it is important to dress more conservatively. My shorts, T-shirt, tattoos and bright orange shoes were gathering a few looks, though no obvious disdain.
With this, I gained a new-found adventurous spirit and followed Abdullah further into the medina. We stepped into a small square, where to one side there was a goat drawn cart with fruit for sale and in one shop window was a carpenter squaring a piece of wood by hand with an antique plane, with sweet smelling curly-q’s of wood falling by the wayside.
He stopped and looked at me with a wry smile. He pointed upward toward an open terrace and said that it was his home. “Wait”, I thought. I was under the impression we were going to a pharmacy. A pharmacy that specializes in “traditional Berber remedies.” Oh well. I will continue to “ride the wave.” Abdullah seemed kind and generous enough to show me all this way. What was a few minutes extra of hospitality?
He then invited me up the stairs to his home. And upon reaching the top , he looked at me and said, “Here is my shop! Welcome! Here, these are shoes my son makes. Moroccan Adidas! Also, we have Berber jewelry that mon père makes. Would you like some mint tea?” I was at a loss: dazed and confused. He said most of the previous sentences, in French, and I was attempting to gather my wits. I am in a stranger’s house, in the old city, needed to catch a bus back to the hotel, and he is talking about mint tea? “Berber whiskey? Berber Whiskey… Do you want some mint tea?”
Uh… sure. I didn’t want to be rude. I understood that Morocco is all about hospitality. At the same time, I realized I was being bought. If I allowed him to take the time to be hospitable, serve me tea and introduce me to his family, I would feel somehow indebted, like I should purchase something from his shop. Maybe I was just being cynical and Abdullah is really just being a gentleman.
After leaving the room to prepare the tea, I noticed his son, sitting in the corner opposite me, with a smirk matching his father’s. He then coyly asked me to “look around.” Ah, hell. From that moment, I decided I would trust my cynical gut. I need to learn to stop being so cynical about my cynical side. They were trying to sell me stuff.
Upon returning, Abdullah yelled something to his son in Arabic, with which he ran down the stairs with an eye-roll …for which there is no need for translation. After a few moments of silence and exchanges of nervous smiles, his son returned with a pastry of some sort. Abdullah urged me to eat and we toasted to my arrival into Marrakech with mint tea. Abdullah then acted as though he saw me eyeing some of the shoes on the wall, earrings hanging behind him, bracelets on the counter or traditional Moroccan garments hanging from the ceiling. It didn’t matter. He asked me if I liked them and he urged me to look more closely.
I took the bait… hook, line, and sinker.
I knew that I had only taken a little bit of cash with me , so I thought that I better be careful. He explained that his father went downstairs to prepare this “traditional Berber remedy” for the sunburn , for which I had traveled so far, and that I should take my time in browsing. I found an item for my wife’s upcoming birthday and he said that he will offer a better price if I buy more. In explaining that I didn’t have much cash with me, about 300 Moroccan Dirham (Dh) in fact. He understood and asked me to sit.
Abdullah’s father then returned with a small bottle of “traditional Berber remedy”. He unscrewed the handmade gloop and urged me to smell it. Nothing. He pulled out a notebook and pen and drew two squares. The top square was for his price and the bottom square was for my price. The dreaded haggling is about to begin. My wife had been freaking out about this while I had surprisingly been looking forward to it. Unfortunately, there was an aura of intensity surrounding us, particularly knowing I only had about 30€ for the “traditional Berber remedy” and my wife’s gift.
He started at 950 DH. Wait, didn’t I already explain that I only had 300Dh? I wrote 150DH, understanding that it is usually a good idea to roughly quarter the original offer. Still, I needed to low-ball, with my only having twice that amount. He looked down to find my offer and he began laughing hysterically. I thought he is literally going to drop dead from laughter. He looked across the room to his son and proceeded to stomp around the room, looking at me and saying, “No… no… no…” and scratched out the two boxes. Abdullah drew a new set of boxes, this time filling his with 800DH. With not much wiggle room, I wrote 200DH. He repeated the same spectacle, again scratching out the boxes and started anew. This time the respective boxes are filled with 650DH and 300DH.
Finally, for a fourth round of haggling, he stated “Last best price.” As I understood it, last best price was the bottom line before the walk-out price. That is to say, a shopkeeper would say this is the bottom line, then when you get up to leave, they would drop it. Well, he wrote his last best price of 550DH and mine stayed at 300DH. Literally. Physically. NO MORE MONEY. Unless he would accept an IOU.
Abdullah acted offended. I tried to explain, again, that this was all the money that I had. Still dubious, I offered to show Abdullah my wallet. He refused, seemingly insulted by this offer. He then looked at me with the same wry smile and stated, “D’accord.” He then starts laughing and pointing at me and repeated the phrase, “Il est un Berber.” He is a Berber!
We shook hands and he wrapped up the “traditional Berber remedy” and my wife’s gift, in soiled newspaper and packaging tape. We exchanged our departing pleasantries and I walked out of the winding medina streets on my own. God knows how I found my way back to the new city on my own. I think it was the sense of achievement floating in the back of my mind. The thought that I had survived my first foray into the medina, experienced my first haggling, and managed to procure my pharmaceutical end. Even though he had kept calling me a Berber to his family, I was rather happy.
I was proud of myself for doing something that is truly the antithesis to my way of doing things. I had always wanted to be able to go with the flow. But normally, I would just say, “No thanks,” and be on my way. Well done, Garren.
I remembered, while walking through the medina, that many times people who are hard bargainers are referred to as Berbers. Though I find the reference grotesque and would never use it in this context, calling someone a Berber as it relates to bargaining is on par with calling someone a Jew in the United States.
Upon returning to the hotel, I took off my shirt, broke out the “traditional Berber remedy” and opened the bottle. Hmm… the bottle seemed vaguely familiar. I dipped my finger into the jelly mass and the texture and viscosity seemed vaguely familiar as well. I then began to rub the remedy into my sunburned skin and with the subtle scent along with the greasiness it hit me all at once.
Abdullah sent his “dad” down to the corner store to purchase a bottle of Vaseline. They then sloppily removed the label, and was able to sell it to some stupid American as “traditional Berber remedy” along with a cheap metal bracelet for 30€. I laid back onto the bed, allowing the Vaseline to do its magic on my sunburn, and slipped into a brief, air conditioned induced nap with a smile on my face.
What a bloody tourist.
