The Red Babouches of Marrakesh

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It was our last night there. I didn’t want it to end.

So, it didn’t. At least I did everything I could to prolong it.

We had been out strolling around the square, Place Jemaa El F’na, in the historical medina of Marrakesh. It’s one of the craziest, yet most magical, places in the world. 

The spring weather on that April evening was perfect. 

Sitting down at one of many restaurants that solicited us with the best prices, we enjoyed stewed tajine, skewers of perfectly grilled chicken, French fries, and ice cold beverages. The drinks were free of charge with our meals. That was the restaurant’s incentive to get us to buy their food and not their neighbor’s.

After stuffing ourselves with delicious Moroccan delicacies, we walked around and shopped. Some of us were tired. Others, including myself, considered taking a nice, horse-drawn carriage ride around the square and the infamous Koutoubia mosque. We finally decided against it, and rather, went on a hunt for some special, powdered sugar-covered Moroccan pastries.

We didn’t find them.

But, we found something else.

Our watches had all struck midnight, when we stumbled across a discreet corner of the square speckled with shoes. These weren’t just any kind of shoes.

These were babouches . . . Moroccan babouches.

There were hundreds of mixed-up pairs of women’s and girls’ slippers strewn on wrinkled sheets laid upon the concrete ground. Crowds were gathered. Women, men, children . . . all locals . . . locals know where to find a good deal. And, Moroccans love bargains.

I had learned this truth while living in Morocco for seven years. “Go where the locals go.” That went for everything. Hang out where the locals hang out. Eat where the locals eat. 

This goes for shopping too! Shop where the locals shop!

So, that’s what we did. 

At first, we observed from a distance and then made our way through the crowd. Colors, colors, colors . . . every color of the rainbow . . . solids, stripes, metallic designs, flats, heels, rounded toes, pointed toes. You name it, you could find it.

The challenge wasn’t finding something you liked, the challenge was finding the matching babouche. The vendor had clearly been carrying the stash of slippers in the sheets, tied up in a secure knot, and placed on his donkey cart. When he had arrived at his marketplace that evening on the crowded square, he simply laid the massive bundle on the ground, untied the knot, let the sheets naturally open, and allowed each babouche to rapidly fall into its rightful place on the ground. That place just happened to NOT be next to its twin slipper.

Women and little girls tried on shoes, one after another, smiling with delight when they found just the right one. Then, the treasure hunt began, as they hurriedly scrambled across the sheets, rummaging through the mountain of babouches. Their only objective was to frantically look through the beautiful mess piled before them, hoping to find Cinderella’s matching slipper. Rather, it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack—nearly impossible!

Men stood on the outskirts, watching the women and girls busy at work. From time to time, a lady would try on a shoe and run over to show her husband or brother. Nods and shakes of the head clearly communicated their tastes and approval . . . or lack of. Those males were most likely the ones with the money in the pocket that would open the door, or not, to the ladies’ heart desires.

It was a spectacle, the perfect entertainment for our last night in Marrakech. Although, the fun and excitement of the event quickly became contagious.

“B’shal?” I asked the “Babouche Man” in Arabic? “How much?”

“H’mstash,” he replied.

“H’mstash?” I echoed.

Running over to my friends who were traveling with me, I screeched with delight, “Fifteen dirhams!”

“What? That’s like $1.50! How is that even possible?”

“I know, right?”

The foreign spectators immediately became participants, and we entered the scene. Trying on babouches of every color, shape, and size—big ones, small ones, flat ones, and tall ones, glittery ones, metallic ones, solid ones, striped ones. We laughed with glee! One of our friends sat on a chair in a cafe nearby, watching, chuckling, and taking pictures with delight.

We jumped right in, finding hidden treasures and paying the happy “Babouche Man.” One of my friends bought seven pairs—one of every color, some for work, others for weddings and fancy dates. Another friend bought a stash to take back to our Moroccan friends in Spain who come regularly to our community cultural center. 

I bought one pair. 

I already owned too many babouches from our many years of living in Morocco. I didn’t need more slippers. But, I couldn’t resist the fun, or the crazy bargain. 

I picked one up, tried it on, and knew it was the one. 

Red suede, comfortable on my bare foot, the perfect size. Arabic script-like calligraphy adorned the pointed toe of the slipper. I had to find its twin sister. 

A Moroccan woman was trying on a similar pair.

“These are nice, aren’t they?” I said to her in Arabic. “Can you help me find its match?”

She kindly rummaged through the chaos with me and found the hidden treasure.

“Choukran, my sister,” I said to her in Arabic. “B’Saaha.” 

Saying thank you to her and then blessing her with health was the traditional saying when someone buys something new.

“B’Saaha,” she echoed, showering me with her blessing.

I handed the “Babouche Man” my two coins—a 10 dirham and a 5 dirham. He smiled and joyfully placed my new red babouches from Marrakech in a blue plastic bag. 

“B’saaha,” he said with a smile.

—The Cultural Story-Weaver

Let’s Weave Cultures!

Have you ever traveled to Morocco? If so, how would you describe the magic of Marrakesh? Have you ever tried on Moroccan babouches?

We invite you to tell us your own cultural stories and global adventures . . . as you engage with the world, breaking down barriers, building bridges, and “weaving cultures!” Write about them in the comment box below.

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