By my fifth day in Morocco, I had already gotten used to the Moroccan shopkeepers’ ‘Nationality Guessing Game’. Every once in a while, a shopkeeper sitting outside his shop would gratuitously try and guess my nationality out aloud. ‘India!’ would be the first guess of most shopkeepers as I strolled through the streets of the medina.
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View from fortress.[/caption]
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Street View.[/caption]
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Main Square.[/caption]
Continuing my stride, I’d shake my head sideways at each incorrect guess.
“Spain!” “Italy!” “Brazil!!!”Each name of a country with a higher pitch and a sense of urgency as the distance between me and their shops grew. Nine out of 10 times they would guess ‘Pakistan’ while I’d still be within earshot. On my last day in Chefchaouen – a beautiful, blue-washed mountain town perched below the Rif Mountains – Abdul, a carpet shop owner, sitting outside his shop guessed ‘Pakistan’ in his first attempt as I passed by his shop. I did my customary thumbs up and kept walking. Abdul called out behind me asking if I had a quick minute to translate a message someone had written to him in Urdu. A little curious and surprised, I followed him into his shop. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"]
View from Rif Mountains.[/caption]
He emerged from the rear of the shop with a thick register full of messages from around the globe thanking him for the great bargains he had offered on the carpets.
Noticing that I was somewhat impressed by the volume of appreciative messages, Abdul quickly turned a few more pages until he came to the message written by a Pakistani couple, Farah and Nabeel visiting from New York. They had written a message in English followed by another one in Urdu, which was not different from their message in English.
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Thank you note from Nabeel and Farah.[/caption]
Abdul, sensing I was not amused that he had called me in to show something for which he virtually already had a translation for, called his son over to start unrolling some carpets. I told him I wasn’t interested. Besides, I was backpacking and I didn’t have any space, even if it was a small rug.
Realising that anything bigger than a doormat would be a hard sell, Abdul pulled out a few small rugs made of cactus thread. Demonstrating their fireproof quality by trying to light them up, the tiny, mat-sized rug looked impressive. He asked me to pick a colour that I liked (with no obligation to buy, of course!). Upon telling him that I liked the yellow one, he said it was for MAD600.
I thanked him politely, saying it was not within my budget. Abdul, quick to capitalise on yet another novice error, asked the price I’d be willing to pay for it. Having no idea how much a rug like that would cost, I went for a ridiculously low price, less than half of what Abdul had quoted,
“MAD250,”I said, hoping Abdul would realise I really wasn’t serious and let me make my way to the bus station. Abdul declined saying it was too low. At that point, I thought the value of the rug was at least higher than MAD250. Having haggled many times before, he definitely knew I’d be thinking that. Abdul went on about how a dinner in London would cost more than that and offered to give it for MAD350, only because he did not want to bring bad luck to his shop by turning away a ‘Muslim brother.’ I declined his offer, hoping that he wouldn’t budge and I could continue with what I was meant to be doing. But Abdul, knowing that I had fallen for his sales trap, hook line and sinker, offered MAD300. At that point, I was already running late for my bus and would have felt pretty ashamed in turning down a reasonable bargain. Besides, I felt there was no other way to leave his shop with my dignity intact. So, I paid him MAD300 and rolled the mat up. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"]
The mini rug that I ended up buying.[/caption]
Just as I was leaving, Abdul brought his big, fat guestbook out again and sat me down to write a short message in English and Urdu. I quickly scribbled a thank you note in both English and Urdu for the amazing bargain Abdul had offered me.
I was left dazzled by my leisurely stroll in the medina costing me MAD300. It was only a few seconds after I had stepped out of his shop that the whole episode flashed in my mind.
Soon there will be another unsuspecting Pakistani, walking the streets of Chefchaouen who will be asked by Abdul to translate a message from Urdu to English, this time it would be my handwriting that would serve as bait for Abdul’s next desi catch!
All photos: Osman Ehtisham Anwar