Shaving is one of those moments that a man should take to himself. A manly ritual.
For that reason one of the top things on my mind when I arrived in Marrakech was getting a straight shave. The kind where the barber uses an old fashioned single-bladed razor to give you a close shave. It feels like the kind of thing a real man should have done at least once in his life.
After three days in Marrakech I finally work up the balls to go into a barber shop. I’m not sure why it was so tough, but a barber shop can be an intimidating place. I found the same thing in Brooklyn. There are certain neighbourhoods where the barber shop is a bit of a social hub kind of like in the old movies. Marrakech was no exception.
I walk in, interrupt the barber’s conversation with a local who is hanging out shooting the breeze. I do my best to ask for a shave in French. The guy knows what I mean. I get sat in the barber chair.
Please don’t cut my jugular. That’s all I ask.
I lean back and put a lot of trust in this man.
He proceeds to butter my face up in a way that I didn’t know was possible. Using a brush he lathers the shaving cream up into my whiskers and makes sure not to miss a spot. I’m feeling pretty pampered at this point.
The barber says little and goes about shaving my face with efficiency, but great care.
The barber shop is borderline third world. It’s dingy, narrow, and lit by the terrible kind of overhead neon light tubes that casts a greenish glow. In North America you would be hard pressed to find lights like this now anywhere except maybe a roadside taco stand in the middle of El Paso.
I hadn’t shaved in over a week which means this process is needlessly painful, but still as the barber cuts a swath through my coarse facial hair I can’t help but think how great this is. This is what men used to do, but all of this in my culture has been replaced with disposable or electric razors. We rush through this process now. It’s no longer a part of the day to enjoy, it’s just another thing to get done.
The razor cuts very close. It feels dangerous and manly. I bet this is how Clint Eastwood or Paul Newman would shave back in the day.
After the barber is done he wipes my face applies after shave that stings like no American after shave could, and then applies salve to the little cuts that are now all over my face.
I look prepubescent. I keep touching my face as it literally has not been this smooth in probably 20 years. Wow.
The barber thanks me and charges 3 Dirhams. If my math is correct that is about 35 cents Canadian. I insist on giving him 10 Dirhams. That is a generous tip by their standards, but really not very much considering the service I received.
I exit the barber shop feeling like a new man.
Upon leaving, Random Street Hustler guy approaches me. I politely blew him off on my way into the barber shop hoping he would have better things to do than to wait for me.
Apparently he did not.
He wants me to come to his brother’s shop across the street. There is a great view from the roof to take photos. This is my last day in Morocco, so despite Hustler’s craggy old face and terrible teeth that indicate some level of suspicion, I decide to live a little. I know this is going to cost me some money, but hey, I really haven’t spent much here.
I go into the shop across the street where Hustler introduces me to his brother. Brother is less craggy looking, actually, he looks pretty good, like maybe he has been living a pretty good life. I recognize quickly that these guys are not brothers.
I go up to the roof to take a photo. The view is actually really lame. I snap a picture anyway of the most interesting angle I can get of the street through some barbwire.
I am invited for some mint tea. This will become the most expensive mint tea I have ever had.
Moroccan Mint Tea is basically hot water, sugar, and muddled mint leaves in a small glass. I like it so much I have seconds, and it’s at this time that I’m semi-obliged to give in to Brother’s pushy offers to try on some garb.
He’s telling me of his people, the Berber people, and his trip down from the Atlas mountains to run this shop. I’m thinking that this guy probably travelled down from the mountains by Land Rover, but I try to be polite.
I try on some Berber garments. Indeed, the loose fitting full coverage outfit would be great if I was herding sheep in the middle ages, or if I were wandering the dessert like Lawrence of Arabia, but for me it’s not really practical.
I’m not sure how I went from thinking that to getting forced into bargaining with Brother for how much I was going to pay for these. My blood is boiling a little. I think of bolting for the door, but the Canadian in me decides to be polite.
He opens the bidding at 1500 Dirhams. Instinctively I have no idea how much that is. I write my counter offer on the pad of paper while I am still trying to process the figures. He laughs, tells me how great the quality of the outfit is, and then counters at 1250.
I’m trying to put it all in perspective. How much was the taxi I took from the airport? 100 Dirhams which is about $12 CAD. How much is a taxi in North America. How much would I pay for a pair of jeans? I am thoroughly confused.
In the end I walk out paying 500 Dirhams for this Berber outfit that I have no idea what I will do with. I have a feeling I just got fleeced, but have no idea to what extent. I work out that I’ve payed about $60-70 Canadian for this outfit. I try not to let it get me down. In perspective it’s not a terribly large amount of money, but it continues to irk me.
I walk by a fabric shop a couple hours later and see that you can buy a yard of fabric that looks exactly like my new outfit for about 35 Dirhams — less than $6.
That night I’m back at the Riad Clementine chatting with the owner and ask him what a typical wage for someone working in the Medina would be. He tells me minimum wage is about 50 Dirhams and that is fairly common.
“50 Dirhams per week?”
“No, 50 Dirhams per month.”
Crazy. These people make about $6 per month, and to top it off I basically paid ten times the amount of a normal worker’s monthly wage for a piece of cloth. I feel very stupid, but chock it up to a lesson in the school of hard knocks. Before travelling to new regions in the future I will be sure to get an idea about the typical costs and incomes of the locals. Without this information you are a sitting duck.
I don’t feel Marrakech was unsafe despite travelling alone. It is not the type of place where somebody would have mugged me, but there are plenty of street hustlers looking to make a buck, and they will squeeze you hard. If you are dumb enough to give them your money, they absolutely will take it. It’s not robbery, just stupidity on my part.
At the end of the day this experience did not taint my view of Marrakech. I loved being there and all of this was part of the adventure. The only thing that continues to bother me about overpaying a petty con artist who obviously preys on ignorant tourists, is that I gave him a substantial sum of money for being a crook, but I gave the barber who makes an honest living next to nothing. If I was going to throw my money around I would rather have given it to the guy who was running a legitimate business. Unfortunately this is sometimes how the world is.
Before leaving the Riad Clementine on my way to the airport I decide to leave my remaining Dirhams as a tip for the 8 staff that work at the Riad. They were all so fantastic that I didn’t feel it was enough, but it would amount to about a half months extra pay for each of them. I guess that is one way to make a wrong into a right.
The barber shop at night.
