Regrettably, markets life have begun to sink in superstores, authentic clones scattered planet. Just cover your eyes with a handkerchief., get on a plane and let yourself be carried away. Without taking into account its users or the language they speak, we would possibly seriously doubt where we are, if in Capetown, Managua or Alcorcón. The cancer of globalization has reached such an extreme that it is not difficult to notice – and smell – that, even, has already broken into the markets of Arab countries.
I am fascinated by the countries that overlook the Mediterranean from its southern and eastern shores.. Also those who hide behind them. North Africa, Tunisia, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria… Some, inaccessible today due to the serious conflicts and the marked democratic shortage that they suffer. They have never failed to enliven my senses. I have sometimes suspected that, if reincarnation is true, perhaps in the distant past I must have been an arrogant cat sitting on a tower of manuscripts in the den of a second-hand bookseller. Of course, in one of those bazaars, for me, so cosmopolitan. Like the one who looked at me firmly and from point to point in the souq de Marrakech a few months ago. Unmoved by my Western barbs.
If reincarnation is true, perhaps I was an arrogant cat sitting on a tower of manuscripts in the den of a second-hand bookseller
In any case, the souks seem to have retained their idiosyncratic haggling, transaction in which the tourist always has the upper hand, stall after stall and staging after staging of its owner. Without even realizing it and returning home so happy.
That cat that perhaps I once was – who knows if during the reign of some majestic sultan after the fall of Constantinople –, must have died, at the end of his seventh life, in some passageway of the old bazaar Istanbul. Fed up with the same old refrain of dealings.
The souks seem to have preserved their idiosyncratic haggling, transaction in which the tourist always has the upper hand
But, in my present life, when I go back to a souq, I never cease to admire the insinuating murmur of its salespeople; always men, never women; always sewing their bargains with words and smiles. I then put aside my fatigue and immerse myself again in its colors and textures., aromas and flavors. And also in the prayers that, from the minarets, they mark the hours punctually.
Occasionally, I can perceive in some alleys how one of the five senses dominates the remaining four in such a way that it ends up annihilating them.. I could even name them: saffron journey, ottoman violet passage, alley of striated mud…
I never cease to admire the insinuating hum of its salespeople.; always men, never women; always sewing their bargains with words and smiles
It is true that the sense of smell has suffered and is suffering from profound demonization., fruit of puritan inquisitions. But, if we still don't have a completely damaged nose because of it and the pollution, we could give ourselves without fear to a genuine “polyaromatic” tasting in any market. We would thus rediscover the fragrance of anise and cinnamon or the vehemence of cardamom and mint., going through the vigor of ras al-hanout, surprising combination of more than thirty-five spices, whose formula is jealously guarded by its skilled alchemists.
If in some alleys light and color rule, The eyes come alive, spurred on by the silver work – which is provided as a dowry by marriageable young women – or the fabrics dyed with the old purple of Number and the red of the cochineal.
We could indulge ourselves without fear in a genuine “polyaromatic” tasting and thus rediscover the fragrance of anise and cinnamon or the vehemence of cardamom and mint.
But, Oh if it is the sense of taste that controls the crossroads! How can you oppose honey-soaked pistachios on puff pastry in Istanbul or fragrant Moroccan fritters?? Possibly all prevention of eating them will disappear, despite the danger of not being able to enter the size later 42.
To recover common sense after such a drunken life - how can you forget the feel of a cardinal-colored silk scarf or the scuffle of a craftsman beating copper??–, it will take more than a thousand and one nights.
How can you oppose honey-soaked pistachios on puff pastry in Istanbul or fragrant Moroccan fritters??
Those insensitive to the enjoyment of the senses probably see a certain thunderous air in the souqs. As is also perceived in the stranger in the tank top, Nikon around the neck and mobile at hand, shorts and rubber sandals. Buyer par excellence of this pile of Babels that are the bazaars. Although, unfortunately, a considerable number of what is sold there today, We can find them in street markets and large commercial areas.. Possibly made in the dark tabuco, in both cases, from an Asian country. How, if not, match the same scarf in Denia and Safi or the same straw hat in Florence and Tunisia?
Someone will tell us that not everything has been mastered in them. But the metamorphosis is there and it seems unstoppable. It can be guessed even in the sellers themselves.. Before, sitting at the door of their treasures, They remained imperturbable without even glancing at the passerby.. like my cat. Now, They are inexhaustible pursuers of those who risk their tickets..
Unfortunately, a considerable number of what is sold there today, We can find them in street markets and large commercial areas.
Yes, remains the soul that the argan oil gives off in Essaouira, ginger in Damascus and fruit juice Aleppo. Or the claim of the Tuareg who invites us to enjoy a tea with mint in his boutique in the Rabat bazaar to show us his tapestries and ceramics.. The one that reminds us so much of a nomad tent in the middle of the Sahara.
If my cat was smart and not so proud, I'm sure he would leave the top of his tower of books illuminated with gold leaf from time to time.. Tired of lying eternally, would not stop walking its proud tail through all the alleys of all the bazaars in the world before its definitive disappearance.
