orientalism

the romance of buying a carpet is, i think, one of the few pleasures left for the would be voyageur. it is, like romeo, not the idea of actually having a carpet, but the idea of going through the process of bartering, that has an attraction equal to arabian nights, a harem bigger than ala'adin himself, and being fed dates next to an oasis caravanserai.

it is the dusty incense emanating from the fabrics worn by the feet of camels, sultans, and serving girls that first entices the non buyer into a cave of orientalist fantasies- the rusted copper bells jangle on the door covered by american express and visa signs- no matter- the ancient eye of the traveller does not let himself be transported back to reality-it stops as soon as the shoes are kicked off and the tea is poured.

even better, when the blinding old man is not even arabic- that the play can be acted out with someone from 'kashgar' or 'ashgabat', or 'samarkand'- these are names worthy of buying a carpet in themselves. and so it begins. like a dance, one has to be careful not to hold too tightly, or brush too closely, or step on toes. it is a game of dominoes played out in a cave covered with blood red warmth, and the handiwork of the unseen- and one where only the lowest doubles will match.

the names start to come- this is turkmen, or kyrgyz, carried by my own hands from the finest bazaars of central asia. it is too much. the senses are overwhelmed. the sellers grandson, darting here and there for more tea, the silver spittoon, fresh tabacco for the pipe, the one of many sons translating the lip sucking, tooth clicking head shaking responses, the agreement non agreement here you are robbing from me take it i cant watch only for you and no profit for my small family-

and finally a handshake. more tea, and a carpet in a bag.

me, i was too clever, for no carpet did i buy. only some saddlebags for a donkey. now i must just find the donkey.

rx