Oubliez mon Visage

It was inevitable. And it’s happened.





Moroccans, we’ve been told, are verbal combatants. Rarely do disputes come to fisticuffs; instead, disgruntled parties invoke the verbal equivalent of the poisoned pen – the xx tongue? We see altercations in the street all the time and the etiquette is quite charming actually. As voices are raised to a terrifying pitch between two men, a crowd invariably gathers to see what all the ruckus is for. The unwritten code is that someone from the crowd will step in to separate the angry parties should things escalate beyond insults. As we described before, the streets of the medina are very narrow, so when a fight breaks out and a crowd of 20 or so gathers, you can imagine the traffic jam it causes. Just last week, though, we witnessed a fight of similar proportions, however, two men on the outskirts of the scuffle were politely making a path through the sputtering crowd for two elderly, veiled women. They took almost no notice of the commotion - the epithets being hurled, the angry gesticulating – as they walked past with just the briefest of nods to the crossing guards who’d cleared the way for them.

Another quick backgrounder before we get to “the inevitable”: We’ve told you about simsars and agence immobillieres, the Moroccan equivalent of real estate agents. Well, unlike in the States, here it’s customary to play the field a bit with agents. The reason is that Morocco doesn’t have an MLS or any collective listing service, so each agent has his or her own properties. So, the concept of a “buyer’s broker” just doesn’t exist here. Nor are there seller’s brokers. Basically, the buyer’s broker gets the full 5% commission; 2.5% paid each by the buyer and the seller. Therefore, the best way to ensure that you’re really seeing all that there is on the market is to work with a number of different simsars. In the 50 or so houses that we saw in Fes and Marrakech, we had only three cases of being taken to see the same place by separate simsars.

So, in addition to working with several simsars that Hamoud arranged for us, we sought out a couple more on our own, including a two-person team Ab’dila and Hajib. We found them through a sweet-faced souk seller named Moulay after several rounds of mint tea (see Mint Tea entry). He worked us very smoothly – casual, concerned inquiries about our house hunting, fatherly advice, and so on. I’m sure that hooking foreigners up with his simsar acquaintances is a great side business for this guy and we were happy to be taken in. At the very least, we’ll get to see more places.

Ab’dila and Hajib, over the course of a total of five hours on two separate days show us some ten places. Given the late stage in our hunt, we were very specific about what it is we want and articulated this to them at the beginning. The first two rental places they show us are okay, but after that it’s a quick downhill slide. I think they trudged us around to see everything they knew about, including vile studio apartments with Turkish toilets when we’d been very clear that for a rental we wanted three bedrooms and a Western bath. Our less-than-enthusiastic responses to the latter rentals meet with off-hand shrugs by A&H. At the end of day two, when we’ve determined we aren’t going to find anything with this pair, we call it quits and agree to call one another should a good place come on the market or should we have a change of heart about anything we’ve seen. Fine, done. Not so. Before parting Ab’dila tries to get us to pay him for the “keys” to the homes we’d seen. He claims that he and Hajib have to give small tips to the homeowners to unlock their places. Total shit, we say, and refuse to pay. (When we tell Hamoud about this later, he affirms that this is a prime example of “Marrakech, Anarkech,” and that key tips are not done. After all, the owners want their homes to be shown, especially to eager foreigners.)

Now, like in the States, a simsar gets paid a commission upon the close of a purchase (2.5%) or a rental (one-month’s rent). Regardless, it’s a pretty hefty sum, and for the most part these guys are closing deals within a day or two, unlike the months that a buyer’s broker might spend with a client back home. Despite this, and in order to keep the simsar working hard on one’s behalf, occasionally a petit cadeau (i.e., $$) is offered to keep them incentivized. We’d intended to give A&H a token thank you, despite neither having found us anything, nor really having listened to what it was we were after.

Cut to a week later. [Note: We’ve received news about Dar Noury and have been mired in paperwork and banking mishigas for days.] We’re walking through the souk one night on the way to the Place for our bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice for tomorrow’s breakfast when we here, “Hello, my friends.” It’s the friendly souk seller, wanting to check in on our search, etcetera. We exchange pleasantries for a bit and tell him about Dar Noury. Just as we’re leaving, Ab’dila pulls up on his bicycle, his saffron babouches gleaming in the fading early evening light. “So,” says Moulay. “I hear you never paid Ab’dila and Hajib for all of their work.”

“Yes, we’ve been meaning to give them a petit cadeau,” we say with a hint of chagrin (cut us some slack, we’ve been busy), handing over a healthy sum to Ab’dila with a warm shokran or “thank you.”

“That’s not enough,” Ab’dila says with disdain, gesturing for more bills. Moulay jumps to his defense (and his own, seeing as he surely gets a cut!), saying we should pay more for the two days’ work.

At this, Samuel explodes. He grabs the bills back from Abdila’s hand and says, “When I give a gift, I expect a thank you, not to be told it’s not enough. If you don’t like my gift, I’ll just take it back.”

A shouting match ensues. We argue that A&H had worked – and not very well, mind you – with us for only five hours and that they stood to gain a lot of money had they showed us a place we’d liked. The fact that it hadn’t worked out is just the cost of doing business as a simsar. And don’t even get us started on the lowly crap we’d been dragged through.

In the hot Marrakech summer, nightfall brings the souk to life, so our dispute is high drama in a well-trafficked spot. Arms flail. Voices rise, rise, rise. Stares and sneers get nastier. Our foursome paces and stomps in a mounting huff. A small crowd closes in around us. Their alliances to our dueling sides are palpable and add extra electricity to the air. Ab’dila and Moulay are a manipulative tag team, entreating us as friends one minute and bellowing about their poor treatment the next. It’s pure comedy. And if it weren’t for the fact that the Medina – a place we soon hope to call home – is a small “village” in which we hope not to harbor enemies, this might be fun. It’s certainly sport, that’s for sure.

Finally, the larger picture dawns on us and we capitulate, handing over another big bill. Never one to forfeit the last word, however, Samuel levels a glowering, “Oubliez mon visage!” to Ab’dila and Moulay. Forget my face, forget you even know me. It’s a pretty harsh remark, especially in the convivial souk world, where regulars stop to chat with souk sellers as a matter of course. It draws some hurried apologies, cries of mon ami and conciliatory back patting from our opponents. Evidently, in this war of words, Samuel’s won a game, even if the match has gone to the locals.

Oubliez mon visage. A phrase . . . and a face that won’t be forgotten anytime soon.

Quick aside: Fig season has arrived in Morocco. Check out these beauties!