The Baboucheman

I heard someone yelling “come come, size 9, come.” I stopped and looked around.

My wife and I were walking the historic lanes of Fes el Bali, Morocco. Without the satellite dishes atop buildings, it could have been the 14th century. It was still early in the day so there was shade to be found as we admired the historic medina. The quiet murmur of commerce waking up was occasionally interrupted by a loud yell. The first time we heard “BALAK” we had but a few seconds to hop on to the curb as a fast-moving donkey cart thundered past us.

Now, this “size 9” shout caught my ear because that was my shoe size. My exact American shoe size.

I finally saw a short man in a beige djellaba with his arm raised and grinning at me from across the street. Behind him were rows and rows of babouches inside a small shop with whitewashed walls. He was about 15 feet away but I could see him pointing in the general direction of my feet as he yelled “I know, I know”. I had so many questions. So, we crossed the street, much to his delight.

He welcomed us to a long bench as he sat on a pillow across from us. He had two pairs in front of him that he pushed towards me. When did he pick them out? While we crossed the street? This was quickly becoming less of a business transaction and more of a magic show in my mind.

Before I tried his wares, I needed answers. How did he know my shoe size? How did he know I was from America? He spoke very little English and shrugged off the latter question, but had a large vocabulary when it came to footwear. He said he could tell my shoe size based on my height and the way I walked. The way I walked? Classic magician misdirection, I thought.

One pair felt broken in, but was a tad loose, and the sole was very thin, like rock-climbing shoes. I felt the cobblestones as I stepped outside to try it out. As I tried the other pair, the Muezzin call for prayer began.

This was our first time in a Muslim-majority country, and we were not sure what to do. Many years ago, my Mom and I bought a Kashmiri carpet in Bangalore and we walked into the store in the middle of the whole staff praying. We waited for them to finish and it was business as usual. I asked the Baboucheman if he wanted to pray and we could wait. He surprised us with a lucid reply in English that suggested he has had to answer it before – “In Morocco business is older than religion. I’ll catch-up later. Allah will wait because I’m a good man.” My capitalist heart swelled with pride and shortly thereafter the Baboucheman pocketed the full, unbargained price for two pairs.

It was warmer and busier as we stepped back into the sun with the slippers and a lesson in salesmanship.