the grand socco market

I love markets— the smell of spices, the colourful displays of fruit, vegetables, and fish— and of course, the often humorous and musical shouts and calls of vendors. The best part of visiting a local market is the discovery of something new, something unique to a place. For instance, the goat cheese artfully wrapped in palm fronds that I was told is typical of the Rif region:



We were so charmed by the above gentleman that we bought a jar of flowery, creamy honey as our souvenir of Tangier. It didn't take long for that jar to empty itself!

a market in dakhla

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust when you enter the market— a humble cement structure with a pock-marked roof of corrugated metal. Harsh sunlight filters in through holes, patterning vegetables, meats and plastic goods with spots of brightness. The air inside smells of spices, earth, and flesh. I wanted to photograph the vendors in their various styles of dress; some in the ordinary street clothes that have become so ubiquitous no matter what country you are in, and some elegant in their cerulean-hued Saharan draa. I wanted to photograph the women gliding by in their patterned melhfa, the metres of brightly coloured fabric artfully wrapped around their bodies, as they selected the perfect oranges or teapots. Alas, each person I asked turned me down, and I was not about to snap away without their permission. The best I could get was an overview shot from a distance:



Maybe one day...

giant carrots, pyramids of olives, and the camel butcher

impressions of the medina

colours and distractions

I went to the colourful Salé pottery market today intending to photograph the artisans at work, but did not get very far— there were these reed baskets you see, and a stunning Saharan carpet that the entrance to our apartment was meant for. I got a little distracted.

the olive man

I bought a two-and-a-half kilo can of black olives and that large jar of amber-coloured thyme honey from this man, on the side of a winding road between Ayvalık and Troy. His stand was in a string of corrugated metal shacks which offered all sorts of other delights— pomegranate molasses, jams, pickles, and of course, Ayvalık olive oil. I'm a sucker for a smiling face, and it was his grin which made me his customer.

After the briefest of chats in my best Tarzanca (Turkish slang for broken Turkish), he gave me a little pochette of dried thyme.

for the eyes and nose

batroun

merchants and thieves

To the left of the Spice Bazaar stands a ramshackle animal market, which both disturbs and fascinates me. Sad creatures, mostly birds and bunnies, in cages too small for their bodies... but then there are the leech sellers and the thieving Laughing Doves. Seed merchants guard their abundant sacks with plastic scoops, with one eye out for any feathery intruders. The minute their attention is pulled toward a friend, customer, or çay glass, the doves descend.



They feast in a gluttonous frenzy, often immersing all but the tips of their tails into the seed sacks. When the plastic scoops start waving in their direction, accompanied by expletives, our little thieves casually fly to safety, where they watch in mockery for another chance to dine.

faces of the market

Pensive brows and distant eyes
among hand-carved spoons, hammered metal
mounds of fiery red pepper, purple sumac, rose petals
the fragrance of laurel soap, piled high
in pyramids of green and earth.

floating market