As I walked through the open-air market in Marrakesh, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I'd never been to Morocco before, and the hustle and bustle of the Souk Semmarine was a feast for the senses. With so many tourists and locals crammed into the narrow laneways, my eyes darted from one distraction to another. While I strolled past their stalls, shopkeepers noisily hawked their wares, begging me to make an offer on everything from cheap jewelry to handbags. The pungent aroma of grilled kebabs, fresh hummus, and fried snails permeated my nose. Everywhere I looked, women in long, full-body burkas or face-concealing niqabs passed calmly by, seemingly unperturbed by the chaos of the teeming bazaar. With my long blonde hair and tight jeans, I definitely stood out like a sore thumb in this conservative muslim metropolis.
After a half hour or so, I grew tired of the peddlers confronting me, and I ducked into one of the shops to try on some head scarves, hoping to distract attention from my obvious Western appearance. When I tried a pretty pink and teal colored one on and looked at myself in the tiny mirror on the wall, the owner came up behind me, smiling at my reflection.
"Very pretty," he said. "You like?"
"Maybe," I said, mindful of the hard-sell personality of local merchants that I'd been forewarned about. "How much is it?"
"For you, pretty lady, only five hundred dirham!"
Knowing the local exchange rate was roughly ten dirham for one U.S. dollar, fifty bucks for a scarf didn't seem out of line. But I also knew that shop owners in North African bazaars were notorious for fleecing unaware tourists and that haggling was an expected and necessary condition of purchase.
"That's more than I can afford," I said, placing the garment back on the rack.
"Perhaps we can make an accommodation," he said, lifting the scarf off the shelf and placing it back on my head. "Since the colors match your eyes so perfectly."
"Um-hmm," I smiled, knowing full well he was just buttering me up for a sale.
"How about two-fifty?" I said, placing my hands on my hips defiantly.
"Ps-shaw!" the merchant scoffed. "That is well below my cost. This is an authentic Moroccan hijab. Other merchants sell this style for much more."
"Well, I guess I'll just have to go check them out then," I said, placing the scarf in his hands and turning to exit the stall.
"Ok, ok!" he backpedaled, catching up with me and blocking my exit. "New price, only for you. Four-fifty. But that's as low as I can go."
"That's not much of a discount," I huffed. "Other vendors have offered far better. Three hundred is the best I can do."
The man threw up his hands, wrinkling his brow with a sad puppy dog face.
"My lady, I wish I could help you, but I'm just a poor merchant with high overhead. Don't you expect me to make a profit?"
"Of course," I said. "But I know most of these items have a high markup. I think you've still got plenty of profit to work with here. Perhaps I'll come back after comparing prices with some of the other sellers."
"Wait, wait," the man said, stepping in front of me again. "I can't have you leave without purchasing something. Four hundred is my best offer. But at that price, you're practically stealing it from me."
I picked up the scarf again, turning it over to look for some kind of label.
"How do I know this is even made here? There's no tag."
"Oh please," the man said, crossing his arms. "Now you insult me. We only sell authentic textiles manufactured in this country. Look at the intricate stitching. This is hand-embroidered right here in Morocco."
"And the fabric?" I said, rolling the cloth between my fingers. "Is it genuine silk?"
The man placed the garment under an overhead ceiling light, slowly tilting it from side to side.
"Can't you see how the patina changes color when you bend the fabric? I would never sell cheap polyester at my store. This is where all the local muslim women come to purchase authentic Arab clothing."
"Okay," I said, shaking my head in surrender. "I'll offer a little more since I can tell it's a quality product. "I will pay three hundred and fifty dirham, cash. That is all I have on my person."
The merchant paused for a moment, scanning my face with a stern expression as if trying to divine my thoughts. Then he burst into a broad smile, nodding enthusiastically.
"Only for you, my pretty American," he said. "And only because I don't want to see you walking around the bazaar in a cheap knock-off sold by the other vendors."
"Good," I said, turning back toward the mirror. "Do you mind showing me the proper way to wear it? The way the local women do?"
"Of course," he said, draping the scarf over the top of my head and pulling the ends softly under my chin, tying them in a gentle knot. "The idea is to cover your hair and tie it so it covers as much of your face as possible. Our culture requires women to express their modesty by covering their bodies when they are out in public."
"Thank you," I said, pulling some bills out of my pocket and handing him the agreed-upon amount.
"Please, come again," the man said, bowing with his palms centered over his chest. "I have many more items of clothing that you would look beautiful in."
"I'll try to come back before I leave your beautiful country," I nodded. "Thank you for your time."
"Safe travels," he said, waving goodbye to me as I exited the stall.
While I continued down the main thoroughfare jostled by distracted tourists, aggressive shopkeepers, and beguiling snake charmers, I realized the thin head covering provided limited camouflage from my fair skin and Western clothing. By the time I exited the packed marketplace, I was visibly sweating and exhausted. I found a nearby cafe and ordered a strong coffee, then found a vacant table in the corner and sat down, nursing my drink.
Most of the patrons appeared to be Westerners, but on the far side of the room sat a lone man in long white robes wearing a traditional headdress, sipping a beverage. I'd always been fascinated by the clothing and customs of native Arabs, and as he appraised the boisterous tourists gathering in the cafe, he peered at them bemused. The man had dark, weathered skin and a closely cropped beard with soft brown eyes and a square jawline. Appearing to be in his late thirties or early forties, he was quite handsome, with the juxtaposition of his flowing cream-colored kaftan and his golden-brown skin making him look like a young Omar Sharif.
As he casually glanced around the cafe, he caught me staring at him, and I quickly looked away. Moments later, my gaze was drawn back to him and this time he smiled when our eyes met. When I looked away again, he stood up from his table and went to the front counter where he placed an order for something. A few minutes later, the clerk handed him two steaming cups and the man began walking in my direction.
"Excuse me," he said, approaching my table. "I noticed you were sitting alone and wondered if you'd like some company. I brought you a cup of mint tea if you'd like to sample some of our local fare."
"Um..." I hesitated, looking around the room to make sure it was safe to be seen in the company of a stranger.
Normally, I'd quickly rebuff someone who made such a bold and unsolicited advance, but there was something about his quiet demeanor and warm eyes that put me at ease.
"Thank you," I said, shifting my chair back a few inches. "That would be lovely."
"My name's Amir," he said, handing me the cup of steaming tea.
"Jade," I said, nodding politely toward him.
"That's a lovely name. It sounds Asian or Moorish, but you look much fairer than that."
"Yes," I laughed. "I suppose my light skin gives me away. I'm from Chicago actually, in the United States."
"I know it well," he nodded. "The Sears Tower, Navy Pier, Millennium Park..."
"You've been to the United States?" I said, surprised by his fluent English and knowledge of my local landmarks.
"I spent four years studying law at Columbia University and traveled throughout the country during my summers off."
"I wondered where your perfect English came from," I said, smiling at his handsome face. "I never would have guessed–"
"That a sheep-herder like me might be so worldly?" he joked.
"No," I stammered. "I meant–"
"It's okay," he laughed. "It's a common reaction I get from Westerners. They either expect me to be some kind of sultan or a terrorist wearing these clothes."
"I'd never judge a person simply on the basis of what they're wearing," I said, furrowing my brow in sympathy.
"That's very wise," he said, peering up at my scarf. "What about you? You seem to be a little more...restrained compared to your fellow countrymen."
I lifted my hand self-consciously to my scarf and chuckled.
"I felt a little exposed walking around the markets with my long blonde hair. I think I was too easy a mark for your local merchants."
The man took a sip of his tea and chuckled.
"They can be a little overbearing at times when it comes to approaching tourists. There's something to be said for exercising a little decorum and good manners."
"I couldn't agree more," I said, lifting my cup in agreement.
"So, what brings you so far from home?"
"Just looking for a change of pace, I guess. I've never been to this part of the world and I wanted to experience the unique culture of North Africa."
"Where have you been so far?"
"Just the medina and a few of the museums. But I'd love to see more of the countryside."
"You mean the desert? There's really only two climate zones in the Mediterranean crescent–the fertile orchards near the sea and the barren plains of the Sahara."
"I guess I'm more drawn to the desert. Maybe it's from watching all those romantic films like Lawrence of Arabia and The Wind and the Lion. There's something about the natural beauty of the red sand and the windswept dunes that seems so peaceful and alluring. It seems to be about as far away from the hustle and bustle of the urban jungle as you could possibly get."
"Have you ever ridden a camel?"
"It's on my bucket list."
"Would you like to join my caravan for a little excursion?"
"Caravan?" I said, widening my eyes. "You're traveling in a caravan?"
"Yes," he nodded. "It's a modest group. A few camels, some livestock, and my small coterie."
"Is that how you get around?" I asked, suddenly intrigued by this mysterious stranger. "Where are you from originally?"
"I was born in Jordan, but I come from a Bedouin family. We're nomads, moving from country to country, buying and selling livestock and living off the land."
"So you really are a–"
"Goat herder?" he laughed. "In a manner of speaking. But as the leader of my tribe, I'm officially considered a sheikh."
"But what about Columbia...?"
"My wealthy parents sent me there hoping for bigger things for me. But I prefer this simple life. There's something to be said for the freedom and stress-free life of a traveling vagabond. I get to meet interesting people in all the countries along the North African peninsula."
"Just like Sean Connery in the movie The Wind and the Lion," I smiled.
"I suppose, insofar as being the king of my domain and living a nomadic lifestyle. So what do you say? Do you feel as brave as Candice Bergen?"
"As I recall, she didn't exactly go willingly into the Sahara wilderness with her would-be captor. And I don't have any romantic intentions..."
"No worries," the man said. "You can stay as long or as short as you prefer, or even just for a day trip through the edge of the desert on one of my camels. I assure you that I have plenty of other distractions at my disposal."
I pinched my eyebrows, appraising the mysterious man in luxurious robes. I had no doubt that he had little trouble attracting beautiful women wherever he traveled.
"How would this work exactly?" I said, crossing my arms. "I've never run off with a strange man into the desert before."
"I understand your hesitation," he said. "My camp is just outside the city limits. You can join my troupe for an authentic Bedouin dinner while you stay with my other wives in a separate tent. If you feel so-inclined, you're free to join us on the next leg of our journey toward Algiers. I'll be happy to pay for your safe passage back to Morocco if that's where you've made return travel arrangements."
I paused for a moment, scanning his face for any sign of ill intent. I'd heard about the legal practice of polygamy in certain Arab countries, and far from turning me off, the idea of being surrounded by other women who could satisfy his sexual needs gave me a certain degree of comfort.
"That won't be necessary," I said. "It shouldn't be too difficult to change my airfare if necessary. But how can I be sure you don't intend to steal me away like Sean Connery and add me to your stable of harem girls?"
"That's not the way we operate," he laughed. "As you probably learned from watching that movie. Honor is the most important character trait among we Bedouin. But of course, I would encourage you to leave a message with your friends and family before you leave."
The man took a menu scrap from the table and scribbled something on the paper.
"This is my full name. I’m well known in most towns along the coast. The last thing I need is the American cavalry hunting me down like in the movie. I assure you, this is an honorable offer between friends. You have my word on that."
"Can you give me a day to think it over?" I asked, still not convinced this was a good idea. But the lure of joining a real caravan through the Sahara Desert was awfully tempting.
"Absolutely," Amir said. "If you decide to join me, let's meet in this cafe at the same time tomorrow. If you're not here, I'll understand and there will be no hard feelings. But if you do decide to come, we can take a taxi to the outskirts of the city where my aide will meet us and escort us by camel to my camp at the edge of the desert."
"How will I keep from falling off?" I smiled.
"It's not as scary as it looks to ride a camel," he said. "There are comfortable and secure saddles, and they walk quite slowly. But if you're still worried, you can always ride tandem with me."
"I'm sure I'll be fine," I smiled, turning my wrist to check the time. "Thank you for your kind offer, Amir. I look forward to meeting you again tomorrow at five p.m. And thank you for the tea."
As I rose to leave, he stood along with me, extending his hand.
"I hope to see you again, lovely Jade," he said, clasping my hand softly. "And keep an eye out for those carnival barkers. Best to keep your hijab on while you're walking about town."
"Will do," I said, heading toward the exit door.
After I left the cafe, I closed my eyes, inhaling the warm arid air of the Moroccan town square. Something told me that my North African adventure was about to take an interesting new turn.
