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A Deal in Morocco

After travelling for eighteen hours on four planes Ravi and Monica arrived in Fes, Morocco on a pleasant afternoon in utter state of excitement. They had a five star hotel booked in the oldest walled community in the world, built in the ninth century on the northern fringe of Sahara desert by Sultan Idris as the foundation of his empire set to last for centuries to glorify Allah and his prophet Muhammed. A half hour ride in a Mercedes diesel almost as old as the Medina itself and emitting as much fumes as the total population of a couple of hundred thousand humans burning wood and coal for cooking and heating delivered them to the gate of the Medina nearest to the hotel. A young man promptly appeared out of nowhere, loaded their suitcases in his push cart and conveyed them to the hotel five minutes walk away. He wanted to be paid as much as the cab fare from the airport and after much haggling agreed to release the case for about half as much, approximately ten dollars. It should have given them a clue of what was to come but blame it on the jet lag or the thrill of new culture around them it did not register.

An hour in the majestic courtyard of the hotel sipping mint tea and munching cookies was a pleasant introduction to luxury that was Riad Fes, their hotel. A young Arab lady presented herself. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a revealing pink sweater, no hijab (head scarf) leave alone Niqab (veil with a slit for the eyes). She explained in reasonable English the amenities offered in the hotel and other services including recommendations on the guide and local travel. They promptly booked an English speaking guide for the next morning, specifically opting for sightseeing over shopping. The hostess led them to their room on the roof. It was elegantly furnished with traditional local decor and had a bed big enough for a Sheikh and four wives. Instead of customary chocolate on the bed, there was a plate of cookies with two bottles of water on a brass side table. The evening was spent absorbing the atmosphere of Arab culture with a lute player briefly interrupted by the dinner of Tajine.

The morning arrived soon enough, hastened by the call of Muezzine from several mosques in the area, or were these recorded vioces on the loud speakers to be broadcast five times a day set slightly out of unison to create the atmosphere unique to a Medina. Ravi got out of the room, walked over to the edge of the roof and watched the sun rise behind the domed roofs of ancient houses built on the rolling hills within inches of each other. He woke Monica up and they enjoyed one of the best sunrise views of their lives with arms around each other.

It could be the jet lag or the beautiful sight they had just witnessed, or both they could not go back to sleep. They talked of all the wonderful things they would do, visit the mosques in Medina, look at all the traditional shops, leather factory, carpet warehouses, visit the mosques where millions of devotees of Allah have prayed every day reciting the words specified by the scholars of Quran. On other days they would visit the Atlas mountains, see the caves where families still lived like they did thousands of years ago, visit Mecnes, another historic town nearby and roam around the new Fes by themselves. A memorable week was on the horizon and they were eager to grasp it.

A leisurely breakfast, not included in the two hundred dollars a day charge for the room but what kind of miser would worry about such details in this lap of luxury, brought the hands of the clock to nine. A quick brushing of the teeth and they were ready to meet Abdallah, the English speaking guide and the master of their day, to show them the sights of Medina and to protect them from aggressive merchants of carpets, leather jackets and local spices they did not need at their age.

A visit to the king's palace, to one of its many entrance gates to be precise, beautiful carved and firmly bolted, was followed by a short drive to the farthest entrance of Medina. Abdallah took his visitors past entrances of several mosques dating back several centuries but Monica and Ravi could not see them because only the Muslims are allowed entery. How any one knew that Ravi was not a Muslim is a mystery yet to be resolved. After walking along several narrow streets with only a few local shoppers and even fewer tourists, they entered a porch through the huge gate with the view of an enormous courtyard. Our guide asked in an unusually humble tone, "Will you like to visit the cooperative where the world famous Fes wool carpets made by the widows and orphans are sold at ridiculously cheap."
Monica interrupted, "No, we are not interested in buying anything. We are at the stage in our lives when we are reducing our possessions, not adding to them."
Ravi contradicted his wife, "Let's go in. There is no harm in seeing the beautiful articles. No one is forcing us to buy anything."
"He is right Missus. There is no pressure. It will be nice to rest for a few minutes and sip some mint tea too."
A very respectful elderly gentleman in baggy white cotton pants, calf length beige tunic and red Fez cap with black tassels came into the porch, bowed deeply and said looking in the direction of Ravi, "Please bless this establishment with your presence. It is the only government certified coop in Fes. Every carpet, big and small, is made by widows and orphans in their homes and most of what an item is sold for goes to them. But you do not have to buy anything. Just look at a few rugs and tell us what you think of them. Your opinion is as valuable to us as your Euros or dollars or pounds."
Monica turned to Ravi and said in a wavering tone, "Let us not fall in this trap. Once we go in we won't come out without parting with more than we can afford."
Ravi was not convinced. He came around Abdallah, put his left arm around Monica's waist and said in the sugary voice he used when he wanted her to do something against her better judgment, "Let's go in for a few minutes. No harm can come out of it. It will be interesting to compare them with Indian and Iranian carpets. You know I am upto any tricks they can play on us."
Monica had her doubts but gentle push from Ravi's arm soon had her in the courtyard. Before long they were sitting on a divan sipping sweet mint tea. A young man in a grey jacket, blue shirt and brown pants came through the back door, introduced himself as Mohamad and after some small talk solicitously asked them the details of their careers and family. When Ravi told them that they had two sons and a daughter he perked up, "How old is your daughter?"
She is twenty five," Monica replied.
"She lives in Canada, I suppose. Is she married?"
"No. She is a career woman. No time to meet men."
"No need to look any further. I am an eligible bachelor. Just the right age, thirty five. I will love to live in Canada where I could ski all year round; not just once a year."
"Give me a picture, I will show it to her. She will contact you if she likes it," Ravi replied.
"Just consider me your son-in-law. You won't find any one better anywhere - fluent in three languages, graduate in Islamic Architecture from the University of Fes. Who could be more qualified?"

In the meantime, a crew of four short and thin but muscular men had brought out several rolls of carpets and were spreading them on the floor. The carpets were huge, thirty feet long, twenty feet wide, one inch thick. Great variety of designs in every colour one could imagine. With each carpet Mohamad named the weaver, how long it took to make it - anything between six months to two years. Wool imported from New Zealand at special rates for widows and orphans of Fes Medina. Carpets kept coming, as did the mint tea and cookies. Clock kept ticking. Abdallah was oohing and aahing at every carpet, "Work of art", "Best I have ever seen", "Will suit any decor" were just some of his comments. Occasionally he would ask Ahmed the price and comment, "Why so cheap? Don't widows and orphans eat?" Mohamed would answer, "It is Ramadan. All carpets are reduced to sell, before new supplies come in."

Monica nudged Ravi every few minutes whispering that it was time to move on, there was a lot to see before lunch. But Ravi did not pay any attention and examined every carpet in detail asking questions about the weave, quality of dyes and expected life of the carpet. The answers were always the same extolling the virtue of the carpet. It was now noon and Mohamed was becoming more excited about the quality and price of the carpet adding new inducements with each passing minute, “Because they are made by the orphans and widows and sold by the cooperative, and Canadians are so generous, there is no customs duty.” “Shipping by air by DHL is included in the price.” “You can sell each of these in Arts auction anywhere in America or Europe for ten thousand dollars.” “Buy three of them, sell two and you will recover the cost of your holiday.” “Buy six and sell four, you will have a long queue of men wanting to marry your daughter.” Spiel went on, Monica continued to fidget and Ravi, entranced, did not budge from the floor with carpets all around him. He had a gleam in his eyes that alarmed Monica. Mohamed was getting impatient as if he had another appointment, “Tell me which six carpets you like, I give you such a good price that you will thank Mohamed for ever even if your daughter does not like him.” Monica went to Ravi, pulled him aside and said quite clearly so every one could hear, “They are pulling wool over our eyes. Don’t be a fool. If you are so struck by these carpets, select a small one that will fit in our bedroom.” The man in Fez interjected now after having been a quiet observer for two hours, “His price for three is a very good deal. It will not be so good for only one.” Mohamed had his final word, “I can’t offer free shipping for one and there may also be customs. If you buy three full size carpets made by widows and orphans for their cooperative, I will throw in these small silk rugs for free. But you must decide soon. These poor workers have to break for lunch.”

Ravi’s resistance, generally solid as a rock, had completely broken down by now. The man who had walked away unscathed from seasoned sellers in Indian, Persian, Turkish and Egyptian markets and haggled in Nieman Marcus in Dallas and Tiffany’s in New York selected six of the most expensive carpets bigger than any room in their house. Mohamed ushered them into a windowless office upstairs lighted by one forty watt bulb and furnished with two dilapidated steel desks, four shaky wooden chairs and an outdated computer where Ravi lamely handed his credit card for the price quoted by wily Mohamed. Fifteen minutes later they came down to the courtyard, Ravi clutching a receipt for twenty five thousand dollars for six large and three small carpets. There was a group of six European tourists, four elderly rather plump women and two shriveled men canes at their sides, sitting on the Divans. Mohamed clapped his hands and announced to them, “MY friends from Canada just bought ten big carpets for their home, please cheer for them.” Europeans looked strangely at Ravi and Monica as they walked towards the gate. Four assistants followed them with heads down. “These poor assistants have no salary or commission and deserve a tip,” Abdallah said to the floor. Ravi pulled out a five hundred Dirham (Fifty dollars) note and handed it to the assistant leading the line up. No doubt the guide claimed a hefty share of that too.

An hour later when they were waiting for lamb couscous for lunch the folly dawned on Ravi and regrets over being mesmerized by a carpet seller in Fes Medina took hold of him. Monica did not add fuel to the fire and left him to stew when she attended to the email. The issue was not mentioned again till they were working on customs declaration at the Calgary Airport.

The carpets were delivered six weeks later after Ravi had paid the customs duty in high four figures. Small rugs were used in bedroom and their home office. They are having a hard time in deciding what to do with the large ones. Enquiries about “Art Auctions” have been inconclusive and carpet dealers have not returned their phone calls. Ravi was quite depressed last time I saw him and Monica’s efforts to cheer him up a little have fallen flat so far. However, I have known Ravi for a long time and he has rebounded from real calamities before. He will get over it too and one day would be bragging about how he turned a bad deal in the oldest Medina in the historic city of Fes into a hugely profitable one.