You'll Never Win Bargaining with Moroccans
Shopkeepers in Morocco are known for chasing people down the street, making them cry, and always coming out ahead on a deal. Moroccans believe that while ‘Westerners' may be sophisticated, they are all just plain stupid. It's a warning that all travelers should heed, but I feel like I am better than the average tourist. I study up on the places I'm going, I pack conservative clothes to respect the culture, and I always learn a few stock phrases in French and Arabic.
I was ready, but when I left the group, along with my friend Paul Alvarez, I was unprepared. It was an average day in Marrakech where people conversed in Arabic, French, Spanish, and occasionally English (meaning inflated prices). Shopkeepers called out to anyone who looked at their goods, and at every hearing of “Belak,” people scattered out of the way of donkeys carrying miscellaneous objects through the narrow streets.
The section we were walking through was mostly made of spice shops populating the tiny stalls. The spices were all displayed in large four-foot cones, with vibrant reds and yellows directing the eye, and whiffs of paprika filling the air. A young Moroccan, about fifteen in age, then caught our attention. He spoke to us in Spanish, French, and then finally English, which perked up my ears.
He stopped us at a random spice shop and began to show us a plethora of objects. A weed with tiny sticks that can be pulled off for toothpicks, a clay stone to clean feet with, and an array of spices. Before we knew it he was sticking paprika, cumin, curry, and lord knows what else under our noises. It was all spectacular.
In the process we barely noticed that he was leading us farther and farther into the shop. Inside there were even more spices, henna, and massages for around 5 euros. The shopkeeper, a middle aged Moroccan, greeted us with a smile and a friendly, “bonjour.” It was the kind of smile that world guidebooks warn travelers about, but it was also remarkably disarming. As Paul later said, “It doesn't matter how friendly they can be, the bottom line is to make money.”
In a country like Morocco, with an unemployment rate hovering around twenty percent, small transactions may mean the difference between dinner or an empty stomach for some shopkeepers. Professor Saveau explained to us in a pre-travel meeting that 10 Dirhams (approximately 1 Euro) may be more important to them than it will ever be to us. Despite the sympathies both Paul and I felt, we were not going to get taken advantage like any ‘normal' tourist.
Inside the spice shop, they began to show us postcards from around the world and guidebooks in which the shop was mentioned. While we were staring at this, they began mixing up argon and rosewater to make a facemask. Before I knew it, our young guide began applying this pink liquid to my face. I tried to resist, but he was able to sooth my worries. He sat us down and explained that it would take ten minutes to dry before he could take it off.
There I was, with bright pink on my face, sitting in a Moroccan spice shop. They might as well have written sucker on my forehead. They offered us both mint tea, a popular and very delicious drink that they also call Moroccan whiskey. We both declined, not wanting to drink in front of Muslims fasting for Ramadan.
The shopkeeper began to converse in French with Paul. Paul assured me that the conversation was about American views of the Arab world and not about my pink face, but I have to take his word for it. Paul was thrilled to be able to converse in French because he felt he “could go one level up from being an American tourist.” It was as Paul called it, “history opening to us. In a museum, you get the same story every time you go there,” but this was something different. This was the true cultural interaction that can't be taught in classrooms, but must be experienced first hand.
After their enriching conversation, and the pink was removed from my face, the real game began. With a freshly exfoliated face, I decided on two musk soaps and palm size sandalwood for incense. The shopkeeper, insisting that he was impressed with us as traveling American youth, gave us each ‘gifts' of cumin, toothpicks, and the clay stone for our feet. Paul asked for 200 grams of argon to give to his mother as a present.
Now we were ready to haggle, but the game had already been won. We had already been there 15 minutes, talked to the shopkeeper, and been given gifts and facials. We couldn't easily walk away from this. His initial starting price for me was 270 Dirhams (approximately 27 Euros). After five minutes of exhausting price switching and sob stories from both sides, I had walked out of the store with two soaps and a piece of sandalwood for 250 Dirhams. Paul fared no better, paying the same price for his argon. We walked out of the store dejected. As Paul said, “I especially felt cheated because I had an exceptional conversation with the owner. When it comes to business, everything got put aside.”
After the spice shop, our fifteen-year-old guide followed us and began to take us to a Moroccan rug shop. I have always wanted my own Moroccan rug, but our only encounter was with our tour group at a shop where they wouldn't go lower than 200 euros for the smallest of rugs. No one bought anything there because we knew we could do better. Now, after the spice shop, we both felt we had learned a lesson and were wiser for it. We were prepared to not be swindled again.
The owner of the shop greeted us again, but without the same worrisome smile. He began conversing with Paul, this time in Spanish, once again leaving me on the linguistic sidelines. Paul translated to me as the owner talked for ten minutes about his shop, the building, and Morocco . Finally his employees began rolling out rugs. Large, intricate designs met our eyes with awe as we continued to explain that we could only afford the smallest of rugs.
Finally they laid it out- my blue Moroccan rug, with its intricate pattern and exotic look. It was 15 feet away and they didn't need to move it closer for me to know it was the one. The haggling started immediately when he sensed the excitement in my eyes. “270 Euros” was translated to me. I countered with 100, much wiser from our last experience. He scoffed and countered 260, and I stayed firm. Then inspiration struck me. I spoke to Paul and had him translate, “We are with a group of 25 rich American students and they were looking for rugs. We are the poorest in our group, but they all have a lot of money and if he gives us a good price, we'll bring them all.”
He was visually calculating in his head, and when I finally countered at 120 Euros, the deal was made. They began rolling my carpet up and into a sack that I could take through the airport. Everyone who later asked the price, including our Moroccan tour guide Nasir, was impressed. I had taken something that most tourists couldn't get for less than 200 Euros and I got it for 120.
Upon returning to Lugano, I was telling my girlfriend Jane my triumphant story about haggling Moroccans. I was exaggerating every detail of my proud victory. As I began to unroll my carpet, she began to laugh. As small stains and dirt marks appeared on my rug, I knew I had been sold a used rug. In my room, my rug sits under a table that holds my soaps, my sandalwood, and a very important lesson on Moroccan trade.