In the souks of North Africa, the average pasty-legged, slightly sweaty,
affable Englishman doesn’t stand a chance. It’s the affability in particular
that’s the problem.
A carpet-seller says good morning, we say good morning back; he says, would
you like to have a look at my carpets? And half an hour later, we’re
wondering how much excess EasyJet will charge for a probably fake antique
rug we never wanted in the first place, bought at a price four times the
going rate.
Backpackers have got the whole unseemly process of bartering down to a fine
art. They delight in arguing over pennies for hours, reckoning themselves to
be travelling geniuses. I hate backpackers. For the rest of us, the
predisposition to be unfailingly polite is a real hazard.
But I have found a solution.
Fleewinter, a tour operator arranging trips to Marrakesh, can now provide the
ultimate accessory: a personal shopper. I once had a personal shopper at a
posh Manhattan department store. In no time at all, he had picked out a
$5,000 coat, some very camp $300 shirts and a scarf made of alpaca eyelids.
I concluded quite quickly that you don’t need a personal shopper in a posh
Manhattan department store. You do in Marrakesh. They don’t have May I Be of
Service to You? desks or signs saying Men’s Overpriced Shoes: Level 4. They
just have lots and lots of alleyways full of the world’s most persistently
expert salesmen.
Ten minutes in and Kati the personal shopper was proving her worth. Harriet
and I had given her our list (various important birthday presents, something
for a wedding, shoes, jewellery, saffron and, crucially, a leather weekend
bag). Now we were using her in much the same way a policeman uses his riot
shield.
My wife, Harriet, saw some shoes she liked. Instantly, the shoe guy pounced.
Harriet asked how much and he replied nine hundred million thousand pounds.
Harriet looked a bit concerned. A bit concerned is just the sort of genteel
expression that gets you nowhere in Marrakesh. Wheel in Kati, our surprise
weapon.
She opened with a snort of derision.
This was the same snort you give the BT Broadband customer-services department
nine months into trying to sort out why your broadband is still rubbish,
except it’s on the phone and nine months in, not in person in the first 20
seconds.
“You give me your price, then,” replied the shoe guy, looking a little wary.
Kati offered one dirham. It was the shoe guy’s turn to snort.
“Well, you’re being silly so I am too,” she countered. Then things got heated
– so heated, I assumed they were going to start fighting. Much snarling,
much wagging of fingers, a quick circling with knives drawn and even the
accusation that we were stealing the food from the shoe guy’s starving
children’s mouths. Then, in the same second, a fair price was reached.
Handshakes. Back-patting.
All sunshine... like the end of a Nurofen ad.
“Come again soon, you old Berber,” said the shoe guy to Kati with an
affectionate prod as we made to leave. It was the ultimate compliment.
KATI HAS been an Englishwoman in Marrakesh for almost seven years. At first,
she took friends out shopping when they came to stay. Then friends of
friends. Then it became more official. Today, she is the movie-star’s choice
of guide for the souks. Leonardo DiCaprio and Cate Blanchett have used her
services (she refused to tell me if they were any good at bartering). So has
a guy who spent £12,000 on four carpets in one morning, which I was fairly
determined not to do.
Harriet, on the other hand, was getting a bit overexcited in the jewellery
souk. As was Kati. Our riot shield had a hole in it. We came away from one
Aladdin’s cave £200 poorer after some unhelpful girly giggling over some
Tuareg necklaces.
Shoes and jewellery? Tick. Annoying Moroccan drum kit for abandoned toddler?
Tick. Saffron? Tick, but only after Kati sent a guy off from his shop to
another shop to bring the best. I bought five grams for £10, which is half
the price it is in Waitrose, and I bet our stuff is better. The fact that we
won’t use it, that it will grow old and weary in the back of a cupboard,
next to the Rajasthani chilli oil, the Chilean high-altitude tea and the
whole bottle of rum I once needed a teaspoon of for some homemade ice cream
that never set is irrelevant.
AT THE leather-weekend-bag shop (they really do have very specific shops in
Marrakesh), the leather-weekend-bag guy produced 19 inappropriate bags in
eight seconds when I pointed at one I thought I might like. I smiled weakly,
which is as bad as looking a bit concerned. In Moroccan culture, people are
blunter, more direct, down the line, honest. When, for example, Kati went to
the hairdresser last week, the hairdresser said, “You’ve put on weight.”
Imagine that at Toni & Guy. Unfazed by the 19 bags, Kati removed a
tissue calmly from her handbag, spat on it, rubbed it on the handle of bag
one and showed us a big brown mark.
“It’s oil. The finest oil,” said the guy. “Yes, and will it look good all over
a white shirt?” replied Kati as she stormed out. I stormed out with her,
then stormed back to get Harriet – who’d found a handbag.
Three shops later, we found a bag I liked for approximately a tenth of what it
would cost in London. Even though it passed her tissue test, Kati thought it
a little heavy, so we transferred by taxi (she even makes sure you don’t get
conned autovehicularly) to a fancier leather-goods place in the new town.
Much more Italian but much more expensive, so I said I would go back, on my
own, later.
“Just make sure you pay half what they ask for it,” advised Kati.
Fellow English shoppers, I bought that bag: £130 they wanted, £75 I paid. I
behaved like a spendthrift backpacker in the interim. Handshakes at the end,
all friends again. Lovely job. And then, feeling confident, I decided to
wander deeper into the souks, got horribly, bum-clenchingly lost and had to
pay a boy £5, no £1, no £3, okay £2.50, to lead me out. Still, with a
kick-start from Kati and two full days more to explore, we came away
agreeing Marrakesh is gorgeous and not the least bit difficult, not if you
know how.
Back in Kent, the only problem is that my wonderful bag smells so much like
old cow udders that we’re having to keep it in the shed. If it doesn’t stop
smelling soon, I’m going to have to go back and ask for a refund. I’m sure
that won’t be a problem.
Matt Rudd travelled as a guest of Fleewinter (020 7112 0019, www.fleewinter.com),
which has three nights at the Riad Dar Charkia (www.darcharkia.com)
from £380pp, based on two sharing, including EasyJet flights and transfers.
Half a day with Kati costs £45. A more relaxed full day is £90
PS. Help. Any reader with a degree in leather stink solutions, please e-mail
your tips to travel@sunday-times.co.uk
Bartering school
Cadogan (0845 615 6793) is offering haggling classes on its holidays to
Marrakesh. It says they cost £20pp, so we called up and offered a tenner.
“Sorry, we’re not prepared to haggle,” was the reply. That’s hardly entering
into the spirit of the thing, is it?
In M'kech this summer I noticed that souk traders were less prepared to haggle than they were a few years ago; things were significantly more expensive, too. Depressing to see the credit crunch has made it that far afield. My best buys are always olive oil soap, hamman gloves & Thuja stuff.
Lauren, Staffordshire,
Showing somebody the right way to go is part of the normal courtesies of human life. I know it is difficult in the farther reaches of the Marrakech souks, but we should try to resist this financial corruption of normal interactions. People without $5 to spare have should receive considerate help too
janey, Norwich,
Haggling is fun! At least according to this annoying ex-backpacker! The best deals we got were on things we really weren't bothered about buying. If you walk nonchalantly out of the shop saying you'll go elsewhere, the shopkeepers are very quick to chase you and negotiate to a much better deal.
Lisa, Bath,
be prepared to haggle for hours and enjoy a beautiful peppermint tea or 7. Talk of 30 quid for a handbag is ludicrous and a waste of an airfare. No more than 5 quid - if you can stomach the stench of the tannery in Tangier then you know where the leather has come from. 5 quid tops.
Ian Jessup, Manly, Australia
The shop keepers had very little interest in haggling and if you did in fact offer a very low price to their high they would come across like you spat on their mother......
My advice, go somewhere else......
As background, I've lived in Africa for 20 years and can haggle pretty well....
Tom, Dakar,
If you make your purchases in the artisans cooperatives you relieve yourself of the haggling ...everything is priced ! If you buy multiples of some object it is customary to ask for an additional discount on volume . Save youself the fee of the consultant and buy yourself a nice massage @ the Hammam
Dan O'Neill, Stillwater,Minnesota, USA
The leather is insufficiently cured - and is probably not of Morrocan origin. The stink will never leave and will probably get worse.
You were well and truly ripped-off.
£30 for a really good leather bag would have been sufficient.
I suggest that you give it to a charity shop or put it out for the rubbish men to collect.
John Roberts, Seaford, England