“If I had a dirham for every tourist that came through….”
Fez Medina 2009: A bored shop girls stares at me as I photograph the shop where she works.
The shop sells perfumes, medicinal herbs, soaps, argon oil, cochineal, (used as rouge) and other mysterious concotions bound to make the love of your life notice you. Pieces of ambergris are stored in screw topped jars, to be opened and wafted under your nose. If you seem dubious, the shopkeeper will take out a chunk of ambergris and rub it on your arm, liquid brown eyes will implore you to inhale the exotic fragrance.
Moroccans know how to make a person part with their money. It’s ingrained. The longer a woman lingers, gazing at the myriad jars holding those powerful potions, the more money she will hand over. The shop keeper…not this girl, she looks like it might take dynamite to get her out of her chair…does a dance around the tiny shop, keeping a close eye on his prey’s reaction. At the first flicker of interest, he will pounce, and you won’t leave his shop without parting with a bit more money than you had planned to spend.