“Madame! Asseyez-vous!”
Kamal was running around, at a speed only Moroccan merchants can, from back to front in his ‘atelier’, trying to make a deal with some customers when I entered.
Making sure I was not going to escape from his small packed store he simply, without any hesitation, pushed me in a chair, that I think had mainly 1 purpose: ‘Sit and wait for your turn’.
“Tea?” he asked without waiting for the answer.
2 days of WhatsApping and many phonecalls later to get clarity had only made the fog in my head wanting to thicken and clarity could only be restored by action: going there!
Subject of the matter were a series of coloured berber pots.
My client wanted 20 pieces of each.
One would say ‘simple and clear’.
The answer could either be a yes or a no.
That is... ‘simple’, when you’re genetically wired this way ...
But simple, normal and bien sûr, are words that I learned over the years, couldn’t be more divers in context and content in every culture than ... well than what actually!?!
They often are the obstacles in trading, the cause of many frustration and even the tipping point of any durable relationship, being it professionally or personal.
For me, it had always been a point of curiosity. What caused and what was that thing that gave the same words such a different reality....
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From sourcing to shipping. But first with understanding the culture…
“30 days”
That was the answer I got. ”30 days because they will be sent from an area near the Algerian border”
While I could live with this answer, I was not convinced we were on the same track...
“Kamal, if they come from so far away, who checks if the colours will be the same. Who will check the size? Who will count the pieces? After all, we can’t afford to have pieces missing or wrong size. Do you understand what I mean?”
After this I got many answers and photos that made the fog in my head as high as the snowy Atlas tops in front of me.
So, here I was, sitting in a chair layered with some old blanket to cover the seemingly quite agressif history this vintage piece had gone through, trying to catch his attention as he now was chasing another client.
His eyes were wide open every time he looked at me. Making sure he hadn’t forgotten about me.
After all, I was a friend. A friend who eats couscous with him and the family after every container. And friends, well... friends wait till it’s their turn...
Long enough to write this post.
Hoping the fog will lift soon and we can make a small village close to the Algerien border happy with an order on 120 pots.
Inchallah.
This word is of an understated value here.
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