A whirl of fervent shopping and social chaos meets treasure finding and memorable interactions in a Moroccan market.
My first afternoon in Morocco is a hazy memory, but what I embodied was the exhausting but enticing sense of being overwhelmed in every way by the extreme culture shock I was tossed into.
I don’t think it’s a feeling that I will ever tire of, and it is one that I became a little addicted to due to the circus like environment of strange characters and the kaleidoscope of crafts, designs and textures that tumble around you as you tunnel through hoards of people from yelling shopkeepers, rolling wheelchairs, darting children, beggers, other foreigners, stray animals that you don’t even notice, because you’re so enticed by all of the rare goods that dangle above your head or the unknown smells that confuse your nose… do you feel maddened yet? That’s pretty much the magical affect.
I quickly learned that every step in the market maze is an adventure, a treasure hunt. Even when I didn’t purchase something, it was exciting to help others bargain or just be humbled by the power of immense culture tucked into a tight space.
There’s also an attachment you feel and even see in others’ eyes when that one special something is spotted.
After seeing so many markets, however, I began to notice the repeating inventory in the various shops. I was becoming numb to the shock of what I saw in the market, such as a donkey’s head protruding from a butcher’s shop, and all that dazzled me in the first market rounds seemed a little dimmer.
That didn’t last for long of course.
In Fes, we walked up a narrow stairway and into a tannery shop where we were given mint stalks upon arrival to erase the stench. The store was a honey-comb of rooms, cave-like ones that revealed not a single inch of wall space due to all the leather goods on display.
My shopper’s soul was in paradise. I was surrounded by leather everything, each piece its own designed and colorful masterpiece.
I found a pair of low-cut tan boots with three cloth designs etched on the face and side. It was the only pair in my size and they had zippers on the back.
I questioned my choice of picking one thing out of all the options in the multi-roomed shop. Yes, the boots were speaking to me, but in that setting, they really didn’t seem unique.
I asked Dr. Siegle what he thought of the boots as he sniffed on his mint leaves.
His way of handling the situation, he said, was to imagine those boots back home. They may not stand out in this arena, but imagine how they will look when you’re in Virginia and there’s no other competition for attention or detail that could be compared to them like here.
It’s a good thing he didn’t give me that advice earlier in the trip or I would’ve brought half the markets home with me.
But it's true, much like when you spot that one Moroccan rug that somehow whispers to you out of the thousands of other ones that tease your eyes, when you spot one object in a market, one that somehow captures you, it’s irresistible and can’t be left behind.
These trinkets and rugs are more than souvenirs. What you find in a Moroccan market is a piece of you that was crafted by hands worlds different than your own. A part of your story was resting on a shelf or hanging from a roof’s edge waiting for you to collect it and begin the next chapter in its novel as well as complete an important paragraph in your own story, the one you will read to others years ahead.
My boots will surely be a fun object to show my children one day when I tell them tales of my Moroccan ventures.
My first afternoon in Morocco is a hazy memory, but what I embodied was the exhausting but enticing sense of being overwhelmed in every way by the extreme culture shock I was tossed into.
I don’t think it’s a feeling that I will ever tire of, and it is one that I became a little addicted to due to the circus like environment of strange characters and the kaleidoscope of crafts, designs and textures that tumble around you as you tunnel through hoards of people from yelling shopkeepers, rolling wheelchairs, darting children, beggers, other foreigners, stray animals that you don’t even notice, because you’re so enticed by all of the rare goods that dangle above your head or the unknown smells that confuse your nose… do you feel maddened yet? That’s pretty much the magical affect.
I quickly learned that every step in the market maze is an adventure, a treasure hunt. Even when I didn’t purchase something, it was exciting to help others bargain or just be humbled by the power of immense culture tucked into a tight space.
There’s also an attachment you feel and even see in others’ eyes when that one special something is spotted.
After seeing so many markets, however, I began to notice the repeating inventory in the various shops. I was becoming numb to the shock of what I saw in the market, such as a donkey’s head protruding from a butcher’s shop, and all that dazzled me in the first market rounds seemed a little dimmer.
That didn’t last for long of course.
In Fes, we walked up a narrow stairway and into a tannery shop where we were given mint stalks upon arrival to erase the stench. The store was a honey-comb of rooms, cave-like ones that revealed not a single inch of wall space due to all the leather goods on display.
My shopper’s soul was in paradise. I was surrounded by leather everything, each piece its own designed and colorful masterpiece.
I found a pair of low-cut tan boots with three cloth designs etched on the face and side. It was the only pair in my size and they had zippers on the back.
I questioned my choice of picking one thing out of all the options in the multi-roomed shop. Yes, the boots were speaking to me, but in that setting, they really didn’t seem unique.
I asked Dr. Siegle what he thought of the boots as he sniffed on his mint leaves.
His way of handling the situation, he said, was to imagine those boots back home. They may not stand out in this arena, but imagine how they will look when you’re in Virginia and there’s no other competition for attention or detail that could be compared to them like here.
It’s a good thing he didn’t give me that advice earlier in the trip or I would’ve brought half the markets home with me.
But it's true, much like when you spot that one Moroccan rug that somehow whispers to you out of the thousands of other ones that tease your eyes, when you spot one object in a market, one that somehow captures you, it’s irresistible and can’t be left behind.
These trinkets and rugs are more than souvenirs. What you find in a Moroccan market is a piece of you that was crafted by hands worlds different than your own. A part of your story was resting on a shelf or hanging from a roof’s edge waiting for you to collect it and begin the next chapter in its novel as well as complete an important paragraph in your own story, the one you will read to others years ahead.
My boots will surely be a fun object to show my children one day when I tell them tales of my Moroccan ventures.
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