Rethinking the Word “Shop”
In Moroccan medinas, there’s a store every ten feet. I’m not exaggerating. They’re packed in like stalls at Playland or like the average North American mall, if each store had one-fifth of the frontage.
Most of these shops aren’t ’shops’ in the way we think of them in North America. They’re stalls, with most or all of the inventory behind the counter.
Malta taught me a valuable lesson in shopping outside of North America and mainland Europe: what you need probably isn’t in plain view.
That shift took me a while to make. You just need to hazard a guess at the right shop (few have signs) and ask the proprietor. This week I guessed correctly while seeking un marteau et des clous (”a hammer and some nails”–be careful to use ‘clous’ and not ‘ongles’, for the latter refers to fingernails).
Last week I visited an electronics store to ask about une rallonge (a power bar). They directed me across the street to what I can only describe as “the wire and cable shop”. He hooked me up.
The Shop Comes to You
In our small village on Gozo, the shop came to you. Each morning you’d hear a horn tooting regularly as the vegetable man drove into town. He’d park his truck in the town square, and sell vegetables to the local women (and us). There was likewise a fish man who had a different horn, and also yelled a lot in Maltese. On Tuesdays, the gas man would come through to replace propane tanks. In bigger towns, you’d also see other trucks–hardware, dried goods and so forth.
Like, I don’t know, the language of whales, we’d come to recognize the distinct honks of each mobile seller.
There’s a similar kind of culture of announcement here in Morocco. The gas man says something in Arabic (probably “gas”) as he pushes his laden handcart through the narrow alleys of the medina. Likewise the garbage men call out as they come by to collect the refuse twice daily.
No Queues
Julie just spent ten days back in Vancouver, and we were discussing the radically different retail models. She pointed out that whenever you bought anything in downtown Vancouver–clothing, coffee, groceries–you stand in line. She’s right–I’ll bet there was a queue for 80% of my purchases when we lived in Yaletown.
The opposite is true here. I almost never stand in line when shopping. In fact, ’shopping’ is a bit of a misnomer. You’re pretty much always shopping–as in browsing–when you walk down any street. The wares–particularly for the tourists–are bursting forth from every shop. I should say that “I never stand in line when I’m buying.”
Why are there no queues? Nearly every transaction is cash, and, despite the medina’s dense population, there seem to be more shops per buyer. There’s also far less customization–nobody orders “a half double decaffeinated half-caf, with a twist of lemon”.
If I were busier, I’d probably crave the order and sterility of a Canadian mall or grocery store. We do have a ton of work right now, but few other commitments. Leisurely walks to the fruit and vegetable souk are a nice break from the day job.
I’m not sure what the big finish to the blog post is. This year abroad has really reinforced my ascetic tendencies. I’ll never look at shopping, buying and consuming the same way.
February 4th, 2008 at 9:19 pm
You’ve wonderfully described one of my favourite things about experiencing new cultures. The scenery, landscape, language and landmarks are obviously different, but it’s the daily life differences (like shopping) that can be the most fascinating.
February 5th, 2008 at 10:07 pm
What an enjoyable read. There’s something wonderfully quaint and lovely about the shops and stalls that you mentioned. It makes the culture of the country very much alive. Standing before one stall, you realize that one hundred years ago, this was how the market looked like. This was how people shopped and bought items. I’m probably getting carried away by my imagination now.