The Market Place
The human tsunami was carrying us in a surf of flesh. Tourists who had forgotten their deodorants at home, locals in acrid smelling wool garments, camels in a blissful ecstasy of fouling the air with the left-over gas of munching rotten cabbages in some fields, donkeys carrying panniers full of the cabbage that even the camels did not fancy, dogs being kicked around, fat cats darting from every direction and having a fight with whoever or whatever was available..The smells and the noises assailed our senses. I can’t remember if my feet were on the ground. I had purchased, at a vast price, two sprigs of mint that I had shoved in my nostrils. The proximity of the tanning quarter and its horrific stench warranted that precaution but I did not understand that having some greenery up your nose could impair one’s vision.
I nearly stepped on the two cobras. Their hoods were fully spread and they did not seem to display an acute sense of humour. Their master was crouching on the ground and dishing the kind of music that would have made me equally bad tempered. I glanced down at the basket. It was empty so the fiends were out there under my feet. Even when you know that those cobras had their fangs out long time ago it is rather unnerving to meet two of those eye to eye. I like snakes in general, but not so near my face and with no room to manoeuvre. The ground around the basket was full of coins and I nudged the man of the house for some shrapnel one is wise to carry in some parts of the world.
I hissed to the cobras: ”Look you guys! I am throwing some coins at your master and I’ll throw more if you get the hell out of under my feet!!“
The master of the hounds acknowledged my offerings and played a high note. The cobras undulated back into the basket. In gratitude I threw another coin at the charmer only to hit one of the brass cups of a water seller in full regalia. A scramble ensued until a camel decided it had had enough and sat on the coin. The charmer started screeching again on his flute and the faithful pets pounced on the intruder, full sails deployed. The human wave stopped to watch the outcome. It was swift and to the point: The camel gazed at the two menacing snakes and directed a bull’s eye of spit towards them. Everybody got a bit and some woman tourist started screaming. I was very tired and nearly told her that the camel‘s offering was a vast improvement on the aura she was exuding to the rest of us. Thankfully I avoided another full scale confrontation when the human current moved on to the next attraction. A typical story teller was in full flight. Even without understanding the language, the mimics, expressions and gestures of those market tellers let you invent your own plot. “What does he say?” asked another female traveller sporting a pair of shorts that would have suited my friend the camel better and a typical estuary accent to compliment the lot.. I looked at her. She seemed as bright as a dim bulb so I said to myself “Why be difficult when with a little extra effort one can be impossible?”
I told her that he was telling about that big ship that sailed from Egypt to Morocco when the Sahara desert was still a big ocean and when whales where so big and so many that the ship had problem finding open waters. I was praying for the teller to make big round gestures and he did. The wattage in the woman’s bulb got slightly brighter. I carried on: " Eventually the sea dried up and the whales had to grow legs to survive on land. After many centuries (the teller was counting on his fingers by then) they became camels. The ship is buried under the sands of the desert and was never found.”
There was a lull in the teller’s story and in the crowd. The woman turned to me: "You speak and understand Arabic then?”
“Not a word”.
There was a power cut and her bulb dimmed to zero. We moved on through jugglers, food stalls offering huge vats of snail stews, Harira soup, brochettes, and lamb on charcoals. All that cooked on open fires and dished out on plates and bowls dipped quickly in a bucket of water. You have got to have a strong immune system to sit down on those benches and tuck in what is in fact very nice food.
We were in the market place of Djemaa El Fna in Marrakech.
Our European market places used to be very similar. The hustle and bustle of humans and animals, the smells, the sights, the sounds, the colours of peasant clothing, of fruit and vegetables, of flowers from real gardens not greenhouses, of cheap materials sold by the arm length ( no measuring tape, you knew that from the left arm of the seller folded to his breast bone to the tip if his fingers of the right arm fully extended you were buying a good metre of cloth), of the exotic feathers of bantam cockerels sold for breeding, of rabbits in cages sold live for the pot or as domestic pets..Sometimes there was a magician or an organ grinder with a little monkey making faces at us children.
There were mountains of butter cut with a wire taught between wooden toggles. It was weighed exactly on old fashioned scales. Then it was patted expertly into a perfect rectangular shape and the special mark of that particular farm was pressed on the top. Once at home the butter was attacked corner by corner as to leave the top design as long as possible. The hygienically packed butter of present days has not the same appeal somehow. There were fishes on crushed ice, slabs of meat on marble counters, heaps of cheese on trestles and any other kind of comestibles everywhere. Children, dogs and cats were stealing from everywhere. There was little difference between our markets and Djemaa El Fna square except that in ours the men retreated to the nearest café to acquire the “market day” red faces whilst the women either laboured to sell the products or struggled under the weight of purchases.
The resurgence of “farmer’s markets” in our neighbourhoods in
The concept of the Rastro (flea market is an approximate translation) has fared better than the so-called Farmers ‘market. The Sunday Rastro in Mojacar (
Even so it has changed since David the Sailor started it many years ago. The unwritten law was that only second-hand items were allowed to be sold. Now, the ubiquitous hand-made jewellery stalls and the South American gaudy knitted garments have swallowed the space leaving very little room for the genuine cheap second-hand bric-a brac.
Like every year, Antequera hosted the travelling Medieval Market a little while ago. Held in Coso Viejo, the best location for it in town, it fell flat on the atmosphere for the same reason that the Farmer’s markets fail to attract more punters. Too much modern rubbish. Not enough genuine research on what it was like in those dark days.
That market missed the point by yonks. Even a camel would have been welcome, with or without the cabbages.
Jocelyne
P.S. Bored children or grand children? Read them a story. My stories and drawings of Mister Bear adventures are on www.spanglefish.com/listing.asp
Look for the little Spanish flag and click on Mister Bear.
