Kareema and Kamilia go jellaba shopping

Many, many people in Morocco dress in Western-style clothing, but there are also a good number – especially in Fes – who opt for a more traditional wardrobe, the centerpiece of which is the jellaba. The best way I can describe the jellaba is as a sort of elven cloak: full-length, pull-over, hooded. It comes in all different patterns and materials, from leopard print to the “Moroccan cashmere” a shop owner touted to Sam the other day when we were out shopping (and which I might edit as “glorified felt”).

Given the general awesome-ness of this article of clothing (elven. cloak.), Cath and I decided when we first arrived in Morocco that purchasing one was high on our to-do lists. We’d been putting it off a little, unsure of what we should be looking for and how much we should be willing to pay, when, last week, a giant, goofy jellaba salesman fell into our lives.

Mustapha is the friend of Sayeed, the oldest brother in the family that rents out a floor of their house to Jessie – Cath and my friend from Arabic – and his wife, Cherry. We met him when the six of us went cruising around Fes one night in Mustapha’s father’s Land Cruiser. (In regard to which all I have to say is: Phil Collins, check. Utter surreality, check.)

The first thing that happened when Mustapha – huge guy, huger smile – came to pick us up was a christening: Kamilia for Cath and Kareema for me. Later, when it emerged that he was in the fabric business and we were in the market for a fabric-y product, it was heartily agreed that we would come by his shop in the medina that week to check out the goods.

The shop is small. Rolls of fabric line the walls and teeter in piles on the floor; they appear to be organized by quality, by which I mean gaudiness: drab browns and greens in one corner, silver sequin zebra stripe silk sparkly pink embroidery in another. There’s a mirror against one wall and on the chair next to it is a booklet reminiscent of those found in hair salons in that I could never imagine anyone requesting the sort of extravagant designs featured therein.

We’re with Jessie and Cherry again, and Mustapha greets us all with his trademark grin before introducing us to his assistant, “Big Raja,” an adorably short and round woman padding around the stacks of fabric in flip flops. She is about the same age as Mustapha – late twenties – and gossips in Arabic with us about boyfriends.

Once we’ve sat in the shop chairs for a good hour or so, just chatting, it becomes clear that the shopping process will consist maybe only 10% in actual shopping. The selection of fabrics, for example, takes twenty minutes, but lunch in the backroom is a solid forty-five. And it’s only after our hands are all greased up from french fries and eggplant and kefta (ground beef) that the tailor shows up.

I’ve never had measurements taken before, so it is a kick for this tiny woman to flit around me as Cath and I specify that we're looking for the fit of the jellaba to fall somewhere “bayna waasiya wa sexy” – “between loose and sexy,” that is, excessively tight-fitting.

Once the measurements are recorded and another cup of tea poured, we resume our efforts to pin Mustapha down on some kind of price. Ballpark, even. No go. Fixing prices is really not a part of the Moroccan business game. If you’re not haggling, you’re faced with the awkward situation of having a personal connection with the seller, who invariably insists, “Pay what you think it is worth.” Pay what I think a jellaba is worth? A tailored Moroccan jellaba? … Can I phone a friend?

Finally we manage to get an idea from Mustapha of the cost of the fabrics we've each picked out, as well as the appropriate-ish amount to cover the sewing costs. When I return alone the next week to pick the jellaba up, however, I find myself back in hazy-land.

First off, it is clear that the emphasis of my interaction with Mustapha is again to be on our friendship and not our business. He brings out the jellaba quickly enough and praises my beauty effusively but shies away whenever I try to bring up the question of price or indicate wanting to pay him. So we sit and drink tea for an hour, maybe more. Just the two of us, watching the passersby out the big shop door, shooting the breeze in our broken English (him) and Arabic (me). Eventually Big Raja comes back from her lunch break, and I make my move.

“400 dirham?” I offer, since this is more or less what we had discussed the week prior. “Okay, no problem,” he says with a smile and shrug but with a high pitch to his voice that lets me know I’ve undershot the figure. “450?” “Yeah, yeah, no problem.” I set out 500 on the table, and he takes it.

At the current exchange rate, 500 Moroccan dirhams is the equivalent of approximately 65 U.S. dollars and 80 cents. Doesn’t seem too bad to me. Besides, as Mustapha kept trying to emphasize, this was not an experience not about money but rather about people: Mustapha and Jessie and Big Raja and, now, Kareema and Kamilia.

I don't what it is, but there's something about these things that brings out the wearer's inner thug.

Rod, Sam and I, looking dapper in a wedding jellaba, Moroccan cashmere and turquoise, respectively.