Haggle hard for souvenirs in Marrakesh

WHEN it comes to tackling the bazaars of Morocco, you're never too young to learn all the tricks to buying what you want at an agreeable price.

marrakech

"BEZAF!" Sam barks.

The merchant cocks his head. "What did you say?" "Bezaf - too much," Sam repeats, shaking his head and looking at the small chest the two are haggling over. It is decorated with henna-dyed camel bone, trimmed with an ornate copper border. Sam sways side to side. "OK. Then give me 2500 dirham ($290) for it," the merchant says. He is wearing a pair of bright yellow, point-toed babouches - traditional Moroccan men's slippers. Sam's swaying turns into twisting, then squirming. He looks at me. He shrugs. I shrug. He shakes his head. Without another word, he marches his 1.3m frame past me and out on to Rue Riad Zitoun el-Jedid, deep in the Mellah section of Marrakesh. Once away from the shop, he stops, turns to me and lifts his blue eyes from under his bangs. "That was a good one." Sam is my son. He is eight. We've come to Marrakesh, the swirling heart of Morocco at the base of the Atlas Mountains, at the urging of Sam's friend Mohamed. The two met when Sam became entranced with a lamp that hung in the window of Mohamed's shop back home, which sells all things Moroccan. The two got to talking - and then haggling. "Make me an offer, Sam," Mohamed told him. Sam bounced all over the shop, touching everything as he shouted out prices. "He reminds me of myself when I was his age," Mohamed told me. "With a little practice he could become a good haggler." The lamp now hangs in Sam's room. We read the stories of Aladdin and Ali Baba under its glow. We've become regulars at Mohamed's shop. "You need to come to Morocco, to Marrakesh, to the souk," Mohamed told me. "I go often to buy. I'll show you around, teach Sam my tricks." And so we do. We rendezvous with Mohamed over a cup of mint tea at a table outside the tiny Cafe ben Youssef, deep in the medina, the old city of Marrakesh. It was around this labyrinth of narrow lanes that the kings of the Berber Almoravid dynasty established their capital in the 11th century. Mohamed grew up on these mean streets. Street savvy with one eye always on the action, yet an innocent full of open-hearted generosity, Mohamed is Marrakesh in microcosm. We're sitting in an area bordering the exotic stalls that make the souk, along with the back-alley workshops that supply the wares, a world-famous marketplace. Across the wide lane sits a shop overflowing with used tyres. Mohamed jumps up. "Let's go, Sam. We have work to do." I chase after my loose-limbed son and this olive-skinned man with the salt and pepper hair. Mohamed darts like a shark around corners and into doorways that lead to more winding lanes and hole-in-the-wall shops. Sam shadows his every move. His bargaining tutorial begins. "Everything in Morocco is open to negotiation, Sam. When you hear a price, the first thing you say is, 'Too much bezaf' - then walk away. When you see something you like, maybe a lamp, you inquire about something else. Then, as you walk out, you ask, 'And how much is that lamp?' as though you just noticed it and don't really care. "And wear something Moroccan; it lets them know you've been around a while," Mohamed says, returning to his tutorial. "Sometimes try not giving a counter offer. Make them continue to lower the price." Eventually, Mohamed leaves us to hone our skills and vanishes into the crowd. Unescorted, we're easy prey; Sam is a magnet. Merchants beckon; many offer him small gifts. We enter a fairly large stall. Swords, decorative and lethal-looking, hang beside soft fabrics; large camel bones covered in writing sit beside massive copper lamps. It is here that Sam spots his first ornate box. "Look, a treasure chest!" It's made of wood and painted red and gold. He opens the lid, then closes it. "Cool." Then he spots a tall, cobalt blue, tear-shaped vial trimmed in tin - an old perfume bottle. "Four hundred dirham," Abdul, the shopkeeper, pronounces. Sam nods, says nothing. "Give me 300," he says. Sam begins to fidget. He eventually agrees to pay 200 dirham. I'd say the bottle is worth about half that. Clearly, the negotiating skills need work. "Just to get started, Dad," Sam reassures me. After another hour in the claustrophobic marketplace, Sam announces: "I'm feeling trapped." Beyond the adobe walls that ring the old medina lies a different Marrakesh, a city of wide avenues laid out by the French during their colonisation. In this ville nouvelle, or new town, traffic moves with an approximation of order, and several large parks break up the ochre-coloured architecture. Marrakesh has no park nicer than the Jardin Majorelle. The garden, designed by French landscape painter Jacques Majorelle, opened to the public in 1947. Designer Yves Saint-Laurent acquired it in 1980; his ashes were scattered in an adjacent private garden after his death in 2008. After an hour, we're ready for refreshment. We find our way to Avenue Mohammed V, Marrakesh's attempt at Euro sophistication, where Mercedes sedans mingle with mopeds. A few blocks away, up a flight of stairs, lies yet another world. Cafe du Livre is a Western wonder, down to the copies of the New York Review of Books and the Joe Jackson song playing on the radio. We finish our cheeseburgers and fries and are ready to beat it back to the medina quarter. Late one afternoon, again lost on our way back from Djemaa el-Fna, we happen on Rue Riad Zitoun el-Jedid in the old Jewish section of town. It's here that Sam spots his treasure chest. The merchant, Khalid, tries to entice Sam to overspend. My son walks away. And it's then, on the street, that Sam stops. "No, that's the one." Back we go. "You have returned. Very good." Khalid opens his arms. He pulls the chest back down from its perch and places it on the floor. Khalid speaks. "Give me 2500." Sam shakes his eight-year-old head. "Eight hundred." Khalid nods slowly. "You're very good." Sam stares back at the merchant. There is no fidgeting, no swaying, now. "I'll take 1800 dirham," Khalid announces. "One thousand." Both are silent. Neither blinks. What happens next happens fast. "Fifteen hundred, and it's yours." "Twelve hundred." "Thirteen hundred." "Yes!"  Khalid sticks out his hand. Sam grabs it. The deal is done. Mohamed will be proud.   "Like" Escape.com.au on Facebook Follow @Escape_team on Twitter