How I learnt to stop worrying and love haggling

Sophie Fontes

This week: in Marrakech’s medina, finally realises that bartering is a dance, not a fight

There was a reason I had left present shopping until the last day: I am bad at bartering. Even after three weeks in Morocco I still became flustered when asked the inevitable question, “What is your best price?” Always starting too high, I not only deprived the seller of a little bartering fun (it is their national sport, after all) but always managed to rip myself off in the process. This was the first time I had ever travelled alone, and in the past I had always relied upon a savvy companion to haggle in the markets for me. I couldn’t return home without feeling I had moved up at least one bartering level – just above “daylight robbery”, but still below “provides a challenge for locals”. It was just a shame I had to face off with the world’s best salesmen in order to do so.

Marrakech shopkeepers are both feared and revered for their sales techniques and, according to an online article I read, if they’re not getting angry, you’re not doing it right. This alarmed me. I decided the best way to protect myself was to act deeply suspicious of all attempts at charm, and try to avoid folding like a flannel at the earliest sign of provocation. The shop was

unusually quiet amid the hustle and bustle of the medina street. I was drawn to the rows of traditional leather slippers carefully arranged outside, their colours as rich as a renaissance palette. The owner appeared at my side suddenly and beckoned me into the shade of the shop. Gesturing I take a seat, he began to scurry back and forth, offering me slippers of all shapes and sizes, colours and patterns.

“Les bleus? Très beaux! Les rouges? Très beaux!” He continued to chatter excitedly in French,

We took it in turns to feign outrage at the number proposed

exhibiting the same levels of enthusiasm for every pair he thrust into my hands; lovingly stroking the soft leather, indicating the quality of stitching, slapping the sole against the palm of his hand to demonstrate its sturdiness. If I expressed interest in any, he would bend down on one knee, kiss each slipper and slide it on my foot, laughing at his performance. He reminded me of a mischievous elf. I knew I would have to ask prices at some point, but I was too busy delighting in this one-man show to employ a poker face.

We wrote our best prices on a scrap of paper, passing it between us and taking it in turns to feign outrage at the number proposed. It was painless and charming, bolstered by our inability to speak the other’s language. Haggling didn’t have to be about the competition, I realised, it can be a dance, not a fight. I owe all my newfound confidence to that man, and every time I wear my new red slippers I will think of him, not least because the pointed toes strongly resemble a pair of elf ’s shoes.