8/11/2019 Fool For A Day

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YOUREGOINGTHEWRONGWAY.ITSCLOSED.

There is no blending in here. Youre either a suckeror youre not. Today, I am the fool, pulled alongby an invisible tether, pockets picked clean by myown hand. The chatter is aggressive. An elaboratecoax disguised as help. Its all designed to lead

you down passageways that twinkle with identicaltea sets and platters and carved gurines. Everyturn feels familiar yet drags you farther away. Thedrift is oceanic, imperceptible, no guiding star, noshoreline. All of this, I will know,tomorrow.

Today, I am going the wrong way and it isclosed. I choose to follow the smiling man whomatter-of-factly muttered both. In Marrakech,the capital city of Morocco, you roll like a pinball,

bright and obvious as the silver trays hanging fromthe dealers booths. Lost in the maze of shimmer-ing things, there is always something to buy andsomeone to sell it to you. Inside the citys souks,tightly coiled as an intestine, you might trudgefor miles, convinced you havent seen the samething twice. After a few circuits, youll be spotted.

An impromptu guide will take you the wrong waywith such condence, it will feel like theright way. After all, there is no wrong wayif you dont know where youre going in therst place.

Do you like the cats?

So it was the cat that betrayed me.I slow my gait to glare at the tiny breathing

bodies nestled beneath the butchers booth. Thekittens pant, eyes closed, in a small pile of furry

vulnerability. But I am t he prey. The air smellsof freshly killed poultry. A larger cat strolls byproudly, a hop in its step. A smooth, round, pinkpiece of chicken esh, plump like an organ, dan -gles from its teeth. I stop. I look. I reach instinc-tively for my camera.

In swoops a local to guide me to where he iscertain I must be. The markets are closing soon, hesays. The Berber craftsmen will head back homeafter they nish preparing the leather. Today is thelast day before they leave for the Atlas foothills,

not to return until next year. I must not miss it.This is what he tells me. I dont believe him. Buthis certainty about everything is seductive aftera day of aimless, hot, panicky wandering. I willnot know anything for certain until tomorrow.So I follow.

Do you know the Berber gas mask?I am led to a door. He introduces me to another

man, also certain of everything, pulling me along anarrative theyve rehearsed for who knows how long,for people just like me, from around the world,

whove stopped just long enough to look at a cat,getting caught up inside the melody of the sell.My questions are discouraged, talked over. I mustnot interrupt, or the song might fall away, the spellmight lift.

Instinct brings a hand to my nose, a futileeffort to block the odor of ammonia rising fromcement reservoirs lled with soaking animal skins.The Berber gas mask is, in fact, a bouquet of cutmint, held up to the nose to fend off the stink.Seeing my own hand dangling pathetically infront of my face, they both smile and produce this

gas mask, hitting their cue, encouraged by mysmiling gullibility as I inhale deeply from the leafybundle of green leaves, relieved.

Dont be afraid. It is just over here.Price might be the most mysterious thing in

this city, a secret held tightly l ike dealt cards. EliasCanetti, in Voices of Marrakesh, wrote about thispuzzle as far back as 1968. In Canettis mind, this

bargaining has all the weight of a complexphilosophy, this skepticism of mine nothingbut a byproduct of my origin from a land

where the price ethic prevails.In his book, the Bulgarian novelist

FOOL FOR A DAYBUYING INTO THE STRANGE CITY OF MARRAKECH

TRAVEL COLUMN

WRITTEN BY GREGG LAGAMBINA

PHOTOGRAPHED BY GTZ SCHWAN

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waxes about the unfathomable riddle of price,how no one knows in advance what it will be,not even the merchant. No gas mask necessaryfor this Canetti either, because for him, the smellof the souks is always pleasant. But I have cer-tainly smelled shit and I am most denitely aboutto get fucked.

You are not following the tradition! How muchwill you pay!

My second guide leads me to a third, themint now wilting in my clenched st. Like abaton in relay, I am handed over, taken to a backroom where rugs are hung and the smell of n -ished leather is oral and clean compared to thechemical stink of the pits lled with pigeon shit

where the skins are s oaked, one of many steps inthe long process to make these goods that nowlie before us.

So I have been led to a shop. (Where else?)Handcrafted belts and bags collapse down the

walls in a leathery spectrum spanning light tans todeep burgundy. I am told to sit, offered mint tea,and asked what pleases me, what I might buy. Anotebook is pushed across a table and I am askedto write down how much I will pay.

I stand. I object. I tell this third stranger I amnot interested in purchasing anything. I am toldthat I am not honoring the tradition. I must name

a price. I repeat the price is zero, for I want noth-ing fornothing and that I must go, now. I movefarther away, jostling the small table with myshoulder bag, spilling some of the tea. I becomeugly, the look of tourism all over me, spraying theroom with American irritability like a red, white,and blue skunk. I begin handing out 200 dirhambills just to be done and gone. I stumble backwardthrough the doorway and int o the narrow passage.I want to go home. But I no longer know wherethat is or how to get there if I did.

I will take care of everything.Ina Krug stands in the doorway of The Great

Getaway Medina, a refurbished palace-turned-design hotel she opened in the historical section

of Marrakech. How I found my way back to herdoor, I will never know. It is a mystery as complexand elusive as the price of a Berber rug. But overthe next four days, she will take care of everything.

There is a rooftop breakfast (including herhomemade cherry preserves) with views of thedistant Atlas Mountains. In the evening, a tagineof aromatic kefta is served by candlelight in thedining room festooned with oor pillows and acorner replace. Colorful birds chirp from theirornate cage. Her newly adopted puppy Ruby(named for the Cat Stevens song Rubylove aftershe was found along the beaches in Essaouira,

where the singer once frolicked)glowing fountain water that casts ows up the seven columns and athe hotels center courtyard.

Opened less than a year ago wChristian, The Great Getaway is a German-born Inahair wild witeyes as blue as indigo tilewill tmotorcycle ride sealed her love forthat almost scared me off for good

Shell arrange for her driver tnearby Agafay Desert to spend a nia resort owned by a friend, whermy rst moonrise, watch a hill comdescent of what seems to be hund

herded into a valley for the nighthe morning to a sparrow pecking mirror.

She saw that look on my facand became determined. Not to snot to make sure I wrote well oto make me see what she saw whMarrakech and decided to build manent out of hervisit. So, if you

you feel the swindle begin to swellugly as I did that rst day. Do notfor Ina.

Youre going the right way. Its o