Tangier

There I was again, fidgeting my thumb over my own textured name on the bottom left corner of my credit card.

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It had become instinctual over the past twenty-four hours, almost Pavlovian —  the crinkling of wrapping paper sending my awareness to my idle hand, reminding me of just how perfectly formed a tool it is for retrieving my wallet. Making light chit-chat with my host, I'd become unaware of just how earnestly I was turning the thing over in my hands, no doubt a byproduct of the cortisol still surging through my veins, not to mention a mild sugar high. Must have been the tea. 

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But this time I caught myself. How did I get here again? It must have been the fourth time I'd encountered this situation. The previous forty minutes were a blur, and here I was reaching for my remaining dirhams as the shop owner presented me with the result of his computations on a four-function calculator. I wipe the sweat from my eyes, as if waking from a fever dream. Does that say 650? Dirhams, right? I confirm with the shop owner, who assures me so. I take a sigh of both relief and exhaustion. Better dirhams than dollars, but that's still nearly $65. I peel back the paper wrapping to get another look at what exactly I'd bought, which had become the subject of almost an hour of haggling. Oh good, another rug.

 

My third. 

 

How did this happen?  I thought I'd sworn them off after the second. Was it something in the tea? I peered into my empty glass, noting nothing more than mint leaves and the remnants of a sugar cube. The sugar, maybe, but this turn of events could not be blamed on that alone. In less than a day, I'd spent over $200 on things I had never set out to buy — clothes, spices, oils, fragrances, and of course, rugs. How?  I had a budget, and until now I had stuck to it religiously. As I sat there puzzling how I'd again found myself here, it occurred to me that it wasn't something in the tea that persuaded me to purchase yet another souvenir I didn't need, but rather something about the tea.

 

It was only that morning that I'd been happily making my way through the winding, descending streets of the Tangier medina, admiring the white stucco, the windowsill flowers, and the stained-glass lanterns beside the doors. I must have looked in no particular hurry, as an old man called to me from his stoop. He wore a Yankees baseball cap over his white hair, and a blue- and white-striped dress shirt so stained with sweat I'd have believed he'd sat on those steps for a week straight. 

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As it turned out, he'd been there for fifty years. After asking where I was from, joking that I looked Moroccan, and inquiring pleasantly about my travel plans, he revealed that he had been running this same shop — pointing to the one across the street — in this same spot, on this same street in Tangier, for half a century. Astonished, I asked what had changed in that time. Chuckling, he said he no longer sits on the steps outside and instead had bought himself a stool. You seem a nice young man, he said. Could I interest you in a cup of mint tea?

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Courteously obliging a lonely old man, I followed him to the second story of his shop, taking a seat on a cushioned bench against the wall. He disappeared for a few minutes, allowing me time to admire the ornate patterns of the rugs hanging from the walls. He returned with a silver tray, an elaborate kettle whose spout was made to resemble a fish, and two small glasses stuffed with wilted mint leaves. He gently poured the tea and offered a sugar cube, which I accepted. Mint tea without sugar is like drinking dishwater, he remarked as he dropped a second cube into his glass. 

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We talked for some time, mostly about his visit to California many years ago,  before I was born. And about the languages he spoke (of which there were four), and how difficult we both found it to understand Scottish people. It was only after I inquired about the rugs on the wall that he asked if I might like to see a couple. He shuffled into another room and reappeared with a rug under each arm, unrolling them simultaneously onto the floor while I stifled my surprise at his sudden strength. He commented on the style of each (Berber or Arabic) and on the origins of the dyes used to produce each color (henna for orange, saffron for yellow, indigo for blue, and so on) before offering to show me a couple more. He was already half-way into the next room before I could answer.

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A couple turned into a few, a few turned into many, and many turned into thirty. Back and forth he went, piling rug upon rug until the floor became six inches deep, all the while insisting that I not lift a finger. I felt I was witnessing a new olympic event. No wonder all the sweat. 

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Finally, he stopped to take a sip of tea and closed the door to his Mary Poppins' bag of a store room. He asked if there were any rugs that caught my eye. A few did, and he laid them aside. For the remainder, he said, I want you to tell me either naeam — yes — or la — no. I agreed, seeing no reason not to oblige him — I figured soon enough he'd start the sell, and why shouldn't I at least hear the prices after all this effort he'd put forth? He lifted a rug from the floor and presented it to me — vibrant, with a swirling tear drop pattern . We call this Berber Picasso, he said proudly. Naeam. He pulled another from the pile, grey with an ornate Arabic pattern and frills on either end. La. Never liked grey. 

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On and on we went until there were only a handful remaining in my naeam pile. Okay, he said. Now we will talk about price. Here we go. He had a glint in his eye as he spoke, and his mustache danced with every word. Remember that, if you buy something, we are friends. If you do not buy something, we are still friends. That is how we are in Morocco. He chose the largest of the rugs in the pile, a beautifully ornate black and white pattern with long frills, and looked me dead in the eye. 10,000 dirham. 

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I nearly spit out my tea, but chose to choke on it instead. Between coughs and through watering eyes, I suggested that we look at the smaller ones. 

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Very well, he said, rolling up the large rug. Having sensed my alarm, he pulled the smallest rug from the pile, this one green with an Arabic pattern, the size of a doormat. 600 dirham.

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Getting warmer. But still, more than I'd like to spend. As I stumbled through my excuse, he interrupted me. This is Morocco! He exclaimed with a smile. You can negotiate.

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I must have forgotten. Offer what you can pay, he said. This makes it interesting. May as well try to get a deal. 

 

150 dirhams? I spouted without the faintest idea where I got that number. It was a shot in the dark. I didn't know the first thing about negotiation, but figured it was advisable to start low. 

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Pfft! He spat and swatted the air. Too low! This is hand-made, you know. He paused to think for a moment, tracing the pattern with his hand and running his fingers through the frills as if this were the very rug he stood on at his wedding. Suddenly, his eyes shot back to me:

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500 dirham!

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I was keen enough to know his ploy. In the same way I wanted to start low, he needed to start high, much higher than the thing was worth, and gradually whittle his adversary down to a more reasonable price at which he could still profit. At this rate, I figured, we'd meet in the middle somewhere around 350 dirhams. I decided to see if I could get away with 300. 

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I agreed to play at his game, rubbing my chin and juggling a sugar cube around in my empty glass like dice in a Yahtzee cup, feigning disinterest. It wouldn't even really be for me, I mused, but probably for my brother, and I'm not sure he'd like the design. I could maybe do . . . 200 dirhams? 

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He scoffed, laid the rug down, and paced to the far end of the room, his hands clasped behind his back . I felt we were engaged in some sort of play production, like I knew what lines would follow. When he reached the far corner, he turned on his heel and began his monologue, gradually approaching me as he spoke like a lecturer making his way down the aisle of a classroom. 

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Look, he said. You are a student, yes? I know you don't have a job and money is tight. Class is expensive! That's a student budget. You are on a student budget, so I will give you a student discount. What I ask in return, though, is that when you get the job and you become super rich, you remember me when you come back, right? And then you buy two rugs! So here comes the student discount; and remember, I don't give this to everyone. Alright, student discount: 400 dirham. 

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His eyes were magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses, amplifying the intensity of his stare as he watched and waited for my reply.

 

I felt tempted. His humor and charisma were starting to win me over, and I could sense the sincerity in his voice, that maybe he really doesn't go this low very often. But the fact of the matter remained. He's right: I am a student, and I have a student budget. And that student budget doesn't include spending $40 on a rug on a whim. 

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I decided not to waste his time any more, placing my empty tea glass on the tray as a sign of withdrawal. I thanked him for his hospitality and started to gather my things, but before I could finish he made one final effort. 

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Wait, wait, he said, exasperated. Before you go, let me talk to my brother. He shuffled toward the stairs. Hassan! He called down the stairwell, and not a moment later a voice called back. They exchanged a number of words in Arabic, with Hassan's masked in a tone of frustration and my host's in one of persuasion: a familial tug-of-war, with my host vying on my behalf. 

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Finally, he turned to me. Okay, okay. He smirked. You bargain like a Moroccan. This is my final offer, and I cannot go lower than this. I should not even be offering you this, which is why I needed to ask my brother. Okay, final offer. If you and your friend [Aidan had been downstairs all this while haggling with a man who I could now only assume was Hassan] both buy a rug like this one, he said, gesturing to the green Arabic rug that had been the subject of this debate, I will give you them for 300 dirham, each. Final offer. You walk anywhere on this street, you will not find a better price than this. 

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I bent towards the rug, felt it's smooth face, and tugged at its frills. Maybe my brother would like it. And I'm sure he'd enjoy the backstory. I looked back up at my host, admiring his salesmanship. Final offer?

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Final offer. 

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I'll take it.

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He poured me another glass of mint tea, and together we toasted the purchase. 

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The market is the heart of Morocco. In every city on every street, goods are bought and sold, prices raised and lowered, battles fought, treaties negotiated. Everyone is equal there, and is measured on the merits of reliability and trustworthiness. And time spent haggling is time invested in discerning who actually has your interests in mind from those who are looking for a quick payout.

 

While e-commerce services like Amazon, DoorDash, and InstaCart make the market more impersonal — offering a wealth of products and brands to choose from, as well as free and fast delivery that, while convenient, means we never once interact with anyone involved in the production or sale of the things we buy — the act of buying and selling in person, face-to-face, is a uniquely personal experience, and one that I realized I have never quite known. Every transaction is a story in itself, with plot, characters, and conflict. In Morocco in particular, these stories are prized. Each exchange is a triumph, a compromise by the characters in resolution of the conflict. And as such, unless there are foul characters there are rarely ever any winners or losers. Rather, arriving at that pure market price — the one which the buyer is happy to pay and at which the seller is happy to sell — that itself is victory. Buyer and Seller can rejoice and part ways amicably.

 

Even though my host, the old man in the Yankees baseball cap, was surely leagues beyond me in terms of haggling experience, and undoubtedly employed almost every trick in the book (which he very well may have written), he nonetheless invited me to play a part in the story. He was happy with the sale so long as I was happy with the purchase. Though I of course encountered those who let their greed compromise their integrity — telling lies or refusing to back down when I genuinely wasn't interested — I also met so many good-natured merchants who coveted nothing more than honesty and respect. If you buy something, we are friends. If you do not buy something, we are still friends. As a customer of such people, you find yourself buying more and more, and happily so.

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It's not as though I had been tricked — that my mint tea had somehow been spiked with some type of elixir to lighten my grip on my wallet — but rather that the mint tea is a perfect symbol for the entire philosophy of Moroccan commerce. People first. Hospitality first. Decency first. Money second. Treat people like people rather than vessels for cash, and they will be so much more willing to do business with you. 

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 I would run into my host again during my time in Tangier, and we would catch up like old friends. He would invite me up for tea and to enjoy the view from his rooftop terrace, without any expectation that I would visit his store again.

 

That story had already been told. 

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I sifted through my bag and realized that I didn't have enough dirhams to pay for the rug. 

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That's okay, Hassan will show you to the nearest ATM. Hassan! My host called down the stairwell again. A shorter, younger, balding bespectacled man appeared at the foot, and I followed him out onto the street, the afternoon sun piercing my eyes. I had lost all track of time, and nearly an hour had passed. The sun was already on its downward arc toward the horizon. 

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I followed Hassan through the alleyways, nearly losing sight of him as he deftly sifted through oncoming pedestrians. Nearly out of breath, I caught up to him as he was engaged in conversation with a well-groomed man in a blue djellaba standing in front of a small clothing store.

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This is my cousin, Mohammad! Hassan introduced us with an arm around Mohammad's shoulder. 

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Pleased to meet you, Mohammad said, shaking my hand. He had hardly any trace of an accent. He was balding like Hassan, with well-defined stubble and a mild manner to him. A calming presence. 

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Please come inside, he said, extending his arm towards the door welcomingly, the sleeve of his djellaba hanging like a curtain. Peering inside, I spotted a number of beautifully spun shirts of all colors, and an enormous wooden machine with chords of tightly strung fabric at regular intervals resembling the interior of a piano, which I could only assume was a loom. Mohammad placed a hand gently on my shoulder, guiding me toward the device. Come, my friend. I want to show you how my aunt makes the shirts. But first — he said with a warm smile — while she prepares the wool... 

 

Can I interest you in a cup of mint tea?