photo: © Ben Seelt
If there are tanneries anywhere, you have to photograph them. I just couldn't find them in the maze of alleyways, so I asked around. A friendly young Moroccan man immediately offered to walk with me and show me the way.
"This is my cousin," he says a few alleyways later. "He'll take you the rest of the way and make sure everything works out."
The cousin isn't alone, so now four of us make our way through Marrakesh's dark alleyways until the city opens onto a site of grimy, steaming concrete vats. Equally grimy men spend what must surely be their shortened lives soaking foul-smelling wet hides freshly stripped from the animals.
I receive a thorough explanation of what is happening and learn that the colorful, photogenic dyeing of the leather takes place in a city three hundred kilometers away. That's a pity, but why not come inside for a cup of tea? "This is my uncle," says the cousin.
The welcome is warm and the tea is sweet in the uncle's leather shop. What interests me most? Jackets, bags and poufs in various styles are pulled from the shelves and dropped in front of me.
I decide it is time to explain at length that I am not the usual tourist waiting to be fleeced, but someone who is working too—someone who only takes pictures and has no intention of buying anything.
That's no problem at all, they assure me. Since I don't care for poufs, I turn my attention to the bags. You have to look at something, after all, and they are beautiful bags. Indestructible camel leather and unquestionably fine craftsmanship, I have to agree. If you were to buy a bag, which one would it be? That one, I say, and feel a finely woven net closing around me.
The ‘good deal’ bag has since traveled to many countries. I have never regretted buying it.
Would I write on the slip of paper how much I might pay for the bag, in the wildly hypothetical event that I wanted to buy one? I don't want to insult you, I protest, but that is dismissed as an impossible outcome. He has a slip of paper too. By comparison, it shows an amount three times mine.
Two rounds of six slips later, I suddenly find myself the bewildered buyer of a beautiful golden-yellow bag. Am I happy with it, the uncle asks over another cup of tea. I have to admit that I am: such a magnificent bag for next to nothing. We shake hands; the uncle is happy too. Among all that leather, things become very convivial indeed.
Since photography is difficult with a camera bag and a huge travel bag, I walk back to my hotel afterward.
On the way, a local man I have never met addresses me. He bluntly asks what I paid for the bag. I name the amount, at which point he pats me on the shoulder, says ‘good deal,’ and walks on.
I realize that tourists earn respect when they refuse to be cheated, and reluctantly understand that I have joined their ranks.
I took the photographs the following day instead. The ‘good deal’ bag has since traveled to many countries. I have never regretted buying it.
