Lovely Sweet, not Hideous Kinky

Dear Mum,

This time last week I was lolling in the Moroccan sunshine, a mirage of orange juice sellers ready and willing to quench my thirst and a host of unrecognisable coins tinkling in my pocket.

Now I am penniless and shivering, the joy of my short lived city break embodied in a Moroccan scarf wrapped tightly about my neck and a fading henna tattoo.

I am remaining faithful to my New Years Resolutions and I have ticked Resolution Number 6's box in Arabic. This was my first trip to Africa and I felt oddly anxious. (I know you felt the same, having recited the ‘I-know-you-know-this-but-I’m-your-Mother-and-it’s-my job-to-say-it’ speech).

Fortunately for me, my travelling companion was my roommate from uni; a seasoned traveller and bona fide African, her parents residing in Kenya.

Swathed in maxi dresses we floated about the city, Nat’s golden tresses catching the amber light as it ricocheted off the red buildings, my pale (and uninteresting) skin letting our glamorous selves down by almost conducting the sunlight, like a living solar panel, blinding all passersby into donning their sunglasses.

(One friend once called me ‘whiter than white.’ After the initial ouch I accepted this as a truth, the proof of which is in all photographs as I tend to blur into one white blob – the sort of image of which is sent into cheap magazines on pages dedicated to paranormal activity).

We were made to feel very welcome by the Moroccan natives and particularly by the Marrakechi men. No doubt this was simply because men carry out the vast majority of business in their culture and upon witnessing two European faces (punctuated by Nat’s golden hair and my freckled, sweating, pink and peeling face) money signs materialise in their eyes, like the cartoons of yore.

In the context of the souks their flattering sales techniques was very successful. We had cash to spend and wanted to stock up on souvenirs. Where better than the Aladdin’s Caves that line the mini malls of Jemaa el Fna?

Flattery was an excellent prologue to our spending. It’s certainly nice to be appreciated.

While some salesmen simply asked us to just look at their stock, others complimented us on our outfits. This had us hook, line and sinker.

One chap, Abdul, called us sisters. “Goodbye, sisters! You’re welcome back to Marrakech anytime.” He was charming (and a totally hunk) and we did return to his stall… twice. Nat bought three leather bags from him.

This was largely down to his beautiful goods, partly due to his beautiful face (and arms), and most definitely because he made us, his sisters,  feel so welcome. He even offered to buy us tea! What’s not to like?

If we weren’t eager to make a purchase, we would assure the salesmen “Maybe we’ll have a look later.” A frequent reply to this was “later alligator.”

Others simply took note that we were English and croaked “Lovely Jubbly!” Whilst this was not a particularly appealing call (the image of Delboy pulling dodgy TV’s out of his yellow car’s boot not being on the top of my holiday wish list) it did make the two of us giggle like schoolgirls.

We were puzzled when the younger salesmen would attempt to attract our attention by yelling “Hey Lady Gaga! Lady Gaga!” or “Shakira! Shakira!”

On the one hand, both are influential women, both attractive, both talented. But as neither of us shimmied down the alleyways, neither bellydancing with hips that don’t lie and neither dressed in meat outfits, these nicknames were somewhat defunct.

Similarly, a food salesman telling us that his cuisine was like Sainsbury’s’ delicacies meant we both recoiled. No offence to the food connoisseur, and no offence to Sainsbury’s, but we were on our holiday and wanted to leave everything British behind us.

(Apart from, perhaps, a cup of tea. Ideally with Abdul).

Yet these were all enjoyable sales pitches. Similar declarations would undoubtedly fall on deaf ears in Lord Sugar’s boardroom. But for two young women looking for a good time in a foreign country we relished these situations.

We were at a scarf souk with a salesman who was determined for us to “Relaxxxxx!” and rest our bags on a side table. If we so much as nudged one of the bags he would order us to “Relaxxxx!” before returning the container to its original position.

We stood, bagless, and he draped beautiful scarves over our shoulders. If it hadn’t been 35◦ I would have bought more.

He took quite a liking to Nat and told us he would buy her for 5,000 camels. We both smiled indulgently.

If this happened in the UK I would have no problem throwing the guy a dirty look.

Indeed, when men in European countries toot their horns (I know I’m stereotyping, but as a rule they tend to be in vans), perhaps blowing kisses or licking their lips as they pass by, I have no problem in flipping the bird in their direction.

Oh dear, I sound like Samantha Brick. 


I must highlight this is not a regular occurrence. But I importantly never pander to their lusts or make use of their flattery by encouraging them to buy me a train ticket. 

But when the tables are turned, and men are flattering you so that you will give them money for a taxi ride, or scarf or leather bag, I confess I really enjoy it and I do indulge them.

Especially if they’re Moroccan.