We haggled with the taxi driver, agreed on a price, and were taken to the medina, the part of the city that is surrounded by high walls and entered through "babs," the gates that let you enter. We wandered through the dark alleyway where we were dropped off, a little out of our element. We were looking for Hotel Sherazade, which came highly recommended by our guidebook. In the early morning hours, where few shopkeepers open and beggars were not uncommon, it took Derek and I a few minutes to get our bearings. After being hassled by people hoping to make a few Durham by "guiding us," a nice young man saw we were struggling with our limited map and offered to advise us for free...what welcome news!
We got the last room available (since we didn't call ahead) and lounged on the roof top terrace until our room was ready. There was a miserable cat on the other side of the wall, stuck on the ledge, making mournful crying noises repeatedly. We don't know much about cats and assumed that since it had gotten up, it could get down, and was just being lazy since it could hear us on the other side of the wall. Later, a rescue team made up of a concerned French customer and three men from hotel staff came to jump over the fence on the third floor on a tiny ledge to pass the cat over. Guess it was actually in danger...whoops.
We were so tired from the night train that we slept all afternoon, and so tired of travelling that we determined to toss out our planned stop in Chefchouen. When we woke up and walked into the main square down the street (called djemaal el fna) was in full swing. Somewhere, a song was played over and over on loud speakers - we found out later that it was the popular song of the year, and by the end of our stay could hum the whole tune, unsure whether we liked it, or never wanted to hear it again.
We dropped our laundry off to be cleaned nearby; they were ironing with giant hot ironing boards that closed on themselves like a tanning bed. We bought water (you can't drink the tap water here) and had vegetable couscous at a nearby stall.
We moved out to the square and rounded the "souks," the stalls set up in tight, twisting rows full to the brim of scarves, lanterns, earrings, leather bags, camel toys and miniature tagines, piled on one another in a hundred different colors for 10 Durham (a little more than $1) - a tourists' dream world. But I know better. Like a lion stalking its prey, I priced a few items, looked over the buffet, and planned for tomorrow when I would come ready to play the game.
There are two types of barterers - the Tourists, and the Berbers. The former is known for paying the first, or second, price offered, usually justifying their lack of bartering by reasoning that the price they paid was better than they could get in the states, or that these people need to make a living and they're happy to pay a bit more than they might be able to get through haggling, etc. They come away happy with what they bought for the price they pay, and the seller rejoices in the mark-up. Everyone's happy, good for them.
The Berbers are the indigenous people of Morocco, and they are known to drive a very hard bargain. They have gained a tremendous amount of respect for holding their ground and getting the best price, every time. If you are this kind of barterer, you know it, there's no confusion...the seller will usually tell you as much, some 10 minutes into your back and forth discussion over the price. These barterers don't care if they don't get the good itself at the end of the exchange - or at least are very good at making the seller think that. It's a game, and one that is not only accepted, but encouraged, in these kinds of markets. You are one or the other, there is no third option, and I am a Berber. Shopkeepers usually shove my merchandise in the bag with disdain, and I only smile long after I leave. Don't feel too badly for them, though...they usually chase me down the street to finish the sale, and for those who don't, both of our pride is worth more than the exchange. Everyone still wins.
We watched the sun set from a terrace restaurant (when you enter a restaurant, if you look like a tourist, you're pointed upstairs. Everyone else sits downstairs. Odd sort of segregation) with our overpriced mint tea. We wanted a picture of the market at night, but there were dozens of other people taking (or, rather, attempting to take - people don't seem to understand how cameras work in the dark) selfies, so we passed on shoving them aside.
Another miscommunication happened when we bought the tea downstairs and then took it upstairs...and that "refill" and "self service" are phrases that mean something other than they meant. Awkward.
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