The Souk and The Basket
For some kids on a summer day a trip to the Souk ( common Arab name for the market) might not have been the ideal way to spend a morning—especially when a neighborhood soccer game was the alternative— but for me going to the Souk was the highlight of my week because I got to spend time the entire morning with my dad and my mom.
In Morocco, there are neighborhood Souks that sell everyday essentials and then there is the Thursday and Saturday Souk. It was at these Souk’s that travelling merchants from nearby villages brought their goods by camel or donkey in a laden caravan. The Souk was held in the old historical part of the city, called the Medina. The narrow streets of Medina made driving impossible so we would have to walk from the other side of town to the Souk. The woven basket was an essential thing to have for your time at the market, making larger loads easy to transport back to the other side of town. The basket is woven from locally grown palm, reed, and alfalfa grass and differs in shape and size. Though there was an evolutionary change of fashion in Morocco throughout the years, the woven basket remained the same humbled item. I felt a great deal of responsibility when my mom handed me my small woven basket for herbs and spices while she and my father would fill a much larger one with butchered meat and produce.
Walking through the winding narrow alleyways and maze-like streets of Medina, I could always tell when we were drawing nearer to the Souk, the smells and sounds of the market would hit me before we had fully arrived. Once immersed within the Souk my senses would come to life surrounded by the noise of merchants haggling with buyers, overwhelmed with the rich smell of spices, and the colors--- olives in every shade of the rainbow you can imagine, fruits and vegetables so vibrant in their color they did not appear real.
After wandering through the sprawling Souk, my father would sit at one of the outdoor cafe's for a refreshing cup of mint tea while my mother joined a few of her acquaintances by the towering walls near the entrance. It was custom for women to meet by the outskirts of Medina to share gossip, exchange recipes and recount to each other their recent heartbreaks. My job was to keep an eye on the baskets of goods while my parents were mingling. I stood in a corner a few feet away from my mom eavesdropping on her and her friends’ while simultaneously watching the various merchants going about their tasks, I felt a sense of wonder and amazement at it all. Sometimes I would begin to daydream but the strong scent of the spices, herbs and fresh fruits from my baskets would bring me to reality.
It’s only after we grow up that we recognize all the experiences that helped to shape us into the people we are today. The basket was not only a vehicle for transporting goods but to me it also happened to be a reminder of my grandmother who impressed upon me her love of herbs and spices for healing and flavoring food. The woven basket I keep in my house now still transports me from grown woman to young girl, trotting behind her parents at the market. I dedicate this blog The Woven Basket to all the beautiful women that have believed in me and held my hand when the world seemed cruel. Those that have rejoiced with me at my table savoring simple meals brought to life by my spices and dried herbs that I keep in my humble woven basket.
