mindy woodhead
 
 
 
Every village has a market day every week in a nearby central village or town, and at these “souks” people from outlying rural areas bring their vegetables, and various other characters bring a myriad of other strange and wonderful delights. When I came to visit my site before getting sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer, the girl I was replacing took me to see our souk. To my untrained eye, it looked pretty shabby and bleak. I had been nervous to return because no women go there. I have been encouraged to go, because there are no norms to which foreign women need adhere. This time as I rode up the hill in the typical taxi filled with 7 Moroccan men and me, past all the donkeys and scooters, I had high hopes for my culinary treasure hunt. Cooking 2-3 meals a day for the last 2 months, I have become intimately acquainted to my town’s gastronomic offerings and limitations. My eyes have been acutely transformed into huntresses of new herbs, spices, vegetables and nuts. So atop the hill there sits a sprawling marketplace. The rest of the week this perch overlooking a valley of gardens, and hillsides of villages, is empty awaiting Tuesday’s potential. As I pass through the gates, though now I am not sure if they are real or imagined, the expanse of booths and hundreds upon hundreds of head of men take notice of my arrival. I make a pass through the entire souk, intimidated by the attention, and nervous about the prospect of bargaining over a few dirhams a kilo, as any respectable connoisseur must. I am looking for walnuts, almonds, peanuts, dates, raising, parsley, any herbs, ginger, sunglasses, and spices of any variety. All of a sudden I think I could make this pass around and just keep walking back home. It would be easier. I could ease the burden of carrying so much attention; after all there is a supermarket in Agadir with a sterile, western feel and fixed prices. Just then I see a middle aged man with gentle eyes behind piles of almonds and walnuts, weighing out half a kilo for his very old costumer, and living with complete apathy over my existence. I feel empowered; I could potentially ask him the price without an ordeal and conduct a purchase without an interview. It goes well, and his opening price is lower than my prepared counter-offer, so I agree to it. Walking away with almonds and walnuts, I want to try it again. I return to a part of the market with booths of spices, which I passed quickly during my nervous power walk. I see another middle aged man, who seems only slightly amused to see me. I feel like the younger guys who sneer and click at me will charge me more for the power, and I always lose bargains with older stall owners over their clever senility tactics. The second booth I approach has huge mountains of spices in every color, and the man uses a scooper attached to a stick to gracefully sweep up the spices and sweep the appropriate money out of your hand from ten paces. After finishing my business at that booth, I felt I had my groove. I knew the kind of booth-owner to look for, and I know that it matters more to me than the booth’s offerings. I got most f the items on my list, and decided I had better go before I started having too much fun. A woman in a sunhat surrounded by hundreds of men is one thing, that same women grinning could be dangerous. The fruit and veggies are very fresh here, but I’m learning that buying them daily is more necessity than novelty. The lettuce wilts within a day; the carrots feel soggy, and the oranges shrink back from their skins. So I will continue to buy my food every day from my veggie guy across the street. Now I know, though, that every Tuesday morning I can restock on nuts, herbs, spices and dried fruit for the week. Though I imagine it will always take me one pass around the parameter before I get my bearings. Or rather my nerve.
A Thousand Men and Me
Tuesday, March 18, 2008