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.

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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?

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