"Bab"
is the Arabic word for gate and, of the 12 gates in the 12 kilometre long,
rose-pink 12th-century wall that wraps around the ancient city, Bab el Khemis
is one of the oldest. It takes its name from the Thursday market where once
camels, horses, mules and asses were sold. According to Arthur Leared, who
travelled the country in 1872, “On the sale of each animal a guarantee that it
has not been stolen, verified by a notary, is required”. How anyone could
guarantee the provenance of a rag-tag assembly of worn out critters, (and you
could probably use the same term for the dealers), many of which had walked
hundreds of kilometres across sand and mountain to end up as camel meat on the
tables in the open-air restaurants of the Jmaa el Fnaa, remains a mystery.
As it is Thursday, and the Bab el Khemis market has been on my ‘must-do’ list
for ages, I saunter off to see what has been described as ‘one of world’s
greatest mixes of junk and treasures’ has to offer. I’m secretly hoping that I
might find a decent second-hand Brooks bike saddle at a bargain price, as I do
at every flea-market I go to. I haven’t as yet, but it doesn’t stop me secretly
hoping.
When I get to the gate I’m disappointed not to see the hordes of hustlers and
cascading bric-à-tat that I’d imagined. What I mainly see is lots of young men
selling mobile phones and accessories. Some are as carefully displayed in small
glass cases as the sparklers Audrey Hepburn saw in the window of Tiffany’s when
she was on her way to breakfast; others are simply tumbled in a ‘pile it high
and sell it cheap', but there’s plenty of action going on. I’m impressed by the
chap who has brought a full home gym to sell, and wonder if he brings it every
week or simply anchors it to a post until the next Thursday. I hope for the
sake of the poor donkeys that he brought it by van, because I’ve got one of
them at home, (left by a previous tenant and carefully avoided by me), so I
know how much they weigh.
I am equally intrigued by a dentist’s chair, circa 1950.
Excellent piece of kit it is, and in fine condition. In fact there were two of
them, so the erstwhile punter would be stuck for choice if he only wanted one.
Perhaps he was considering opening his own clinic and was looking to bulk buy,
and even a pair of chairs nearing pensionable age were a damned site preferable
to most of those you see used by peripatetic ‘dentists’ in the souks, something
rescued from the kitchen, where they simply plonk the agonised patient down
before delving into the dentures with a pair of ancient pliers.
However, it turns out I’ve got the wrong gate. I’m not at the Bab Khemis
- that’s a much grander entrance around the corner. I’m at a side
entrance, but I’ve been sufficiently entertained by what I’ve seen so far that
I decide to dive into the souk and come out by the main gate later, to see if
I’m missing anything. I stroll in through an archway that draws me into a
clattering, banging, screeching, grinding, shower-of-sparks-flying pandemonium.
To everyone else it’s just the daily noise of the metal-workers souk.
Whether it’s something that involves metal in its construction – mopeds,
bicycles, ancient sewing machines – or is something that will be made entirely
from metal – window grills, decorative arches, tables and chairs – there’s
someone here who can fix it or make it. Scattered everywhere are large sheets
of metal, long strips of steel two fingers wide, pencil-thin rolled rods that
are bent and twisted to create intricate designs. Sparks shoot from angle
grinders like spinning Catherine wheels as young men, with no protection other
than a pair of sunglasses and a cloth wrapped around their face (and sometimes
neither of those) cut, burnish and smooth. Everything is covered by a fine
black powder, but this is Morocco, and the dusty monotone is alleviated by the
brightly coloured djellabas of passers-by.
I watch a
group of four men working on different parts of an ornate arch, just over two
metres high and slightly less wide. The main structure is finished, and a young
man draws the curlicue design in chalk on the concrete floor of the workshop
that will be created by the thin metal rods at his side. When he is satisfied
with the design he measures the first section, a shallow curve, and cuts a
piece of the required length from the five-metre rod. With a lump hammer and
his cold chisel, he slowly curves the metal until it reproduces perfectly the
design he has drawn on the concrete. Everything cut, bent, curved and twisted
by hand, and each piece slotting perfectly in place. I’m fascinated and could
watch him for hours, but I’m dying for a coffee.
Turning away from the street of the metal workers I wander down a cluttered
alleyway of wonderful ancient doors, rolls of antique rugs, Lloyd-loom chairs,
exquisitely painted tables, worn and patinated with age, a '50s pram, plastic
garden recliners – and yes, I even see the kitchen sink, as well as one for the
bathroom, along with its bath, toilet and bidet, all in the chunky cut-corner
style of Art Deco.
I also pass men and women squatting on the ground behind a pile of odds and
ends that can have no conceivable value other than to someone who has nothing
of value at all; a Kodak cartridge camera, a pair of stiletto-heeled shoes with
one stiletto, an alarm clock with no hands, odd socks, seven-year old magazines
in Spanish – similar detritus you can see on every flea-market in the world.
I hear the Koran being sung, the beautiful a cappella coming from a
tinny-sounding loudspeaker hung outside a café at an alley junction bustling
with second-hand clothes vendors. Anticipating a hot coffee, the sound draws me
towards a table like the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. Parking myself
in one of those plastic garden chairs that succumb to too much time in the sun
and bend when you lean backwards, I wave at a passing waiter and ask for a café
au lait. It could well be my accent, or he may not speak French, but he casts a
bemused look around the other clients, obviously not having understood any of
the three words I’ve just spoken. “Mint tea,” a voice says in English, but I’ve
no idea which table it came from. Obviously coffee’s off the menu. “Bien,” I
say, and the waiter goes off to get it.
He comes back a couple of minutes later with a glass of
something that looks as if it has been sitting around for a while, probably at
the bottom of a u-bend of a kitchen sink. I reach into my pocket for some
money. “One dirham,” a different voice says. “One dirham!” I think, ten
centimos, cheap in any currency, about one-tenth what you would pay elsewhere.
I hand the coin over – never look a gift glass in the mouth.
“A mange,” says the chap with the grey stubble and wool bobble hat at
the next table. They may not be big conversationalists, but they all helpfully
want to get in on the act. I suddenly realise that I’m sat at a workers caff,
and everyone else is getting stuck-in to bowls of bean soup or something made
from bits of innards whose origin I’d really rather not know. But it’s cheap
and fortifying and obviously pretty popular. No-one objects that I’m taking up
a table with only a cup of mint sludge, so I sit for a while and watch the
second-hand clothes salesman hawking their wares.
Afterwards, I wander into an enclosed part of the furniture makers souk, piled
to the ceiling with beds, tables, fat mattresses and, it has to be said, some
painfully ugly "mogernised" pieces, (that’s not a typo, it’s a
derogatory word a friend invented to cover all the ugliest aspects of modern
design).
One of the things that always amazes me is that in Europe, and most probably in
the US and elsewhere, so much of the furniture is made from composites;
plywood, block-board, chip-board, MDF – sawdust, wood shavings and a lot of
glue – but in Morocco furniture is usually made out of proper wood, the stuff
that actually comes direct from the trees. Okay, some of it might look as if it
has been rescued from pallets, but it’s still wood.
In the wider alleyways you can hear
the rattling sounds of mopeds and small vans long enough ahead in time to get
out of the way and let them pass. It’s not the same with the donkeys and carts,
though. The carts usually have rubber tyres, although nine times out of ten,
worn down to the webbing, and the donkeys don’t exactly make the coconut
clacking sound of horses galloping, given their docility and sedate pace. The
first thing you know that you are stopping someone in pursuance of their
livelihood is when you hear someone shouting, “Balek, balek,” which
means, “Make way, make way,” but is usually said in a tone that more
realistically says, “Oi, you, shift your arse!”
More by chance than design, I find myself back at the door through which I
entered the souk. No, I didn’t find my Brooks saddle, but there again, I have
refrained from being tempted by any of its multitude of offerings. Still, there
is always next Thursday at Bab el Khemis.
Our
guest blogger, Derek Workman, is an English journalist living in Valencia City,
Spain – although he admits to a love of Morocco and would love to up sticks and
move here. To read more about life in Spain visit Spain Uncovered. Articles and books can also be found at Digital Paparazzi.
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