Haggling in Morocco: Camels and Cabbage

The historic city of Meknes begins to hum with activity, and I’m anticipating a morning of haggling. The sun is not yet high enough to find its way to the narrow lanes of the souk; no heat radiates from the stones beneath my feet. The air feels cool; the produce arranged for sale on blankets or sheets of plastic tarp. Today’s quarry? Cabbage.

Why cabbage? We’ve been traveling by camper van in Morocco for a month, and I dream of fresh salad in this place where you will probably never see Bibb lettuce, let alone a bunch of frisée. Brian and I have eaten exquisite meals of lamb simmered with dried fruit and seasoned with cumin, saffron and cinnamon, served by gracious cooks in Tangier, in Fez, and in small towns along the coast, but a head of cabbage, shredded and modestly dressed with a splash of vinegar and olive oil, served alongside a warm loaf of the round, somewhat flat khubz, will be tonight’s dinner. Khubz is the basic white bread found in every village, every city in Morocco. It’s perfect for dipping into oil, for scooping up sauce from a stew-like tagine, and for wiping every delicious molecule of your meal off the plate and into your mouth.

I’m anxious about my morning task, about negotiating the price of a vegetable or two. Like most Americans, my experiences in grocery shopping back home have consisted of selecting perfect pieces of produce grown by anonymous farmers and kept moist in the store by an automatic sprinkler system installed above the bins. After stocking a cart I simply push it to the check-out and pull out a credit card for payment. Prices non-negotiable. The food is clean and polished, the process straightforward. But I’m not in an American supermarket. This is the weekly bazaar in the winding lanes and blind alleys of Meknes, and nobody pays the price asked. Not even for a cabbage, and even for just a cabbage, the haggling process is intimidating at first.

Haggling is more than a way of life in Morocco. It’s a game, a sport. It is a quintessential social activity of the culture, and what’s the point of travel if not to embrace the local customs? To prepare for this foray into the souk, I’ve studied the guide book’s advice. I understand that I must be polite, patient, and appear to be uninterested. Sort of like buying a new car. The wrangling and bargaining are necessary to avoid overpaying, but it is also part of the enjoyment in being here. Also, I’m prepared to be laughed at; that’s part of the process, too, whether you’re buying a cabbage or a camel.

He is a Berber farmer who left his home in the mountains several hours before dawn in the company of others from the village to reach Meknes. Packing themselves tightly amidst the goods they hope to sell, they ride in the bed of an open truck, a jellaba hood pulled over each head. Heat from bodies jostling shoulder to shoulder wards off the cold mountain breeze. Before setting out, he loaded the cabbages and carrots he grows into baskets, taking care to bring them safely to market. The dirt of his field still clings to the vegetables, a small bit of his Atlas mountain valley delivered to Meknes.

Once at the souk, the farmer lays his merchandise upon a flimsy sheet of white opaque plastic, frayed with use, set directly on the stones underfoot. His son joins the horde of young children, running between stalls, darting amid the wares, their laughter ringing off walls. The farmer scrutinizes the goods of his neighboring vendors then casts a critical eye on his own, rearranging the vegetables to show them off as best he can. Rubbing his palms together, he looks down the lane, eager for his first customer of the morning.

For the Berber, this is business but it’s also fun and he has ridden a very long way, down the narrow, switchback roads to arrive at this medina to sell his few pieces of produce, so he wants every transaction to give him enjoyment. The push and pull of the deal are what makes scraping out a living this way worth it. The haggling process also indicates that the buyer respects him and by not paying the first price he asks, by working to get the price down to reasonable one, he comes to respect the buyer.

As a foreigner in the souk, I am afforded a measure of dispensation in my exchanges. The vendors don’t expect me to haggle as long or as tenaciously as a local would. Bartering and haggling over everyday items like food are not part of my culture, so they know that my instinct is to pay what the seller requests.

There is also a language barrier. My French skills are minimal and my maghreb Arabic is absurd. I’ve been told by several Berber girls who stopped by our campsite the week before that I speak Arabic like a two-year-old child. Twelve- and fourteen-year-old girls with hand-knitted stockings, two of the girls wearing jelabas—but comfortable enough with me to remove headscarves while in our VW camper—offered dried dates along with Arabic grammar lessons.

In the souk, a cry goes up from the pack of children: they’ve spotted me moving with hesitation between the stalls. Racing toward me, the farmer’s son grasps my hand and pulls me toward his father. Timid about diving in to the art of a deal, I try to free myself from the child’s hand; I walk past the man, pretending not to be interested. Taking my time, I stroll down the lane to see the vendors’ goods, listen to the prices shouted. Turning to sneak a peak back at the farmer, I decide to head back up the lane, now on the opposite side where other vendors have spread their tarps. I stop in front of the Berber, considering the vegetables on the plastic tarp at my feet.

Silently, I repeat some advice passed on to me about haggling in Morocco:

• Don’t begin haggling unless you are serious about buying.
• Appear ambivalent. If you’re eager or fall in love with an item, you’re screwed for negotiation.
• Be prepared to walk away to get a better price.
• There is no ‘right’ price. Understand that you will overpay; don’t worry too much about it.
• Enjoy yourself!

“How much for a cabbage?” I ask the Berber farmer.

“Ten dirham,” he replies, his eyes sparking at the start of a deal

I calculate. Eight dirham equals one dollar, so a buck and a quarter for this cabbage. Nonsense, obviously, but it’s only his opening salvo.

“Ah,” I say and raise by palm to him to say no thanks, then take a few steps to move off and perhaps deal with another farmer. It’s all part of the dance that is done hundreds, thousands of times a day in medinas all over Morocco.

“Eight dirham,”  he calls after me. I pause, turn back to him and then hunker down, the back of my thighs resting on my heels. On my feet I wear babouche, traditional Moroccan footwear I picked up in yet another market. The tops are made of goatskin leather, hand-tanned and dyed a dark, wine red. The soles are fabricated from tire scraps and you can make out part of the word goodyear on the right sole. Although the shoes have a back, I wear them as they are traditionally worn by locals: the shoe backs folded down inside so that they are put on like a slipper. My trousers are simple travel-style pants, with extra pockets on the legs near the knees, and easy to launder, even in a campground sink or at a village well. I wear a man’s shirt, long-sleeved but lightweight to protect from the near-constant sun. I reach out and pick up one the farmer’s cabbages, holding it flat in my palm.

“For that one, seven dirham,” he says.

I study the cabbage. It’s about five inches in diameter, not large, but perfect for a salad for two.

“It’s a very small cabbage,” I tell him. “The leaves are wilted. It is not a perfect cabbage. One dirham.“ I take care not to be disrespectful while still playing the game of bargaining.

He scowls, but his brown eyes do not; they are crinkled at the corners in bemusement at his customer’s efforts. Because I am a foreigner, the stakes of the deal go up for him and give him an extra measure of entertainment. He snatches up a different, smaller cabbage.

“Five dirham”, he proposes, taking the larger cabbage from my palm and replacing it with the smaller version.

Rubbing a thumb across a bruised area on the vegetable, I frown at a barely visible smudge. I shakes my head at the notion of buying an inferior cabbage. The boys surround me; one stands at my side, casually draping his arm over my shoulder as I crouch. The sun has begun to filter down into the lane and the temperature is rising. Sighing, I return the second cabbage to the pile, glance at the first one, and start to stand.

“Two dirham,” I offer.

“Four dirham,” he replies. The boys are silent for a few seconds.

“Three.” My final bid; I dig into a pocket, holding the coins in my outstretched palm.

The Berber farmer raises his eyebrows, then smiles; he plucks the coins from my hand and replaces them with the hard-won cabbage.

After I the cabbage into her bag, the farmer presents me with a carrot: a gift in appreciation of my time and effort. I thank him, we shake hands, and Brian and I tell the kids goodbye.

No matter how hard-core a traveler you are and how illustrious your haggling talent, a Moroccan vendor will be better than you are. Even a five year old Moroccan kid is better at it than you. If this were an aquarium, you’d be a guppy, surrounded by sharks. Smiling, friendly sharks who love the interaction with you.

Haggling over a cabbage in a Moroccan souk with a farmer from the Atlas mountains is more than just shopping for food. It’s a portal into a culture you come from far off to immerse yourself in; it’s also a lesson in respect, being confident in your ability, and in enjoying life.

Now then, off to search for olives to eat with the salad and bread. Or maybe I could buy a camel…