Touts, hustlers, scammers, wheelers, dealers or accomplished salesmen? You be the judge. In Morocco, a sales men's opening price for any service rendered or product sold is at least three times higher than the fair price. If you are good at bargaining, which I happen to be, you quarter the price, confidently state the new, much deflated number and smile sweetly while they glare at you as though you insulted their grandmother. "No, never in a million camel rides" they say dramatically, with 
their hand on their heart, a frown on their face, but a twinkle in their eye. "Now, my friend", they implore "give me your real price, a democratic offer." This can be tricky, because the truth is, you don't know if you really want the rug/lamp/eggplant/shawl/snake/spice. You were really just curious of the price, but now if he accepts your offer, you are stuck buying the item.What makes browsing even more difficult is that 99 percent of these salesmen have graduated with honors from the Guilt Trip School of Sales. When you come in to the store and ask to look at one rug, they start to systematically wreck their showroom by climbing ladders, pulling out dozens of rugs, throwing them everywhere. This is when the guilt starts to set in. Then they offer you tea, and they won't let you refuse. You sit and chat and have your nice mint tea. They tell you that their favorite tourists are Americans. The guilt builds. An hour of rug explanation ensues. It's too late to say "I'm just browsing" and walk out. The guilt is insurmountable. If you have your wits about you, you don't start bargaining, you just say thank you and run. If you do bargain but the price is still too high and you tell them you may come back tomorrow, you are in for a nasty goodbye. They will eventually let you go, but not without some choice words and the final Moroccan sales attempt " One dirham today is worth 10 dirham tomorrow" .
If you can look beyond the somewhat exhausting daily harassment focused on
tourists, you discover an enticing country filled with intriguing people. To stroll inside the maze-like medina walls of Marrakesh is a treat to the senses. Bright colors glitter from the shoe shops, lamp shops, and silver stores. Local women glide through the streets dressed in vibrant robes and head scarves, revealing only their sultry eyes. The smell of curry, spice and fresh baked bread floats from the many food stalls. Snake charmers, fortune tellers and witch doctors beckon you toward them. If your strapped on cash, you can entertain yourself day and night in Marrakesh without ever spending a dirham.
tourists, you discover an enticing country filled with intriguing people. To stroll inside the maze-like medina walls of Marrakesh is a treat to the senses. Bright colors glitter from the shoe shops, lamp shops, and silver stores. Local women glide through the streets dressed in vibrant robes and head scarves, revealing only their sultry eyes. The smell of curry, spice and fresh baked bread floats from the many food stalls. Snake charmers, fortune tellers and witch doctors beckon you toward them. If your strapped on cash, you can entertain yourself day and night in Marrakesh without ever spending a dirham. Legend of the stu
nning mountains of Morocco eventually loured us from the city and into the small villages of the High Atlas. We arrived in Imlil, a small Berber village at the base of the mountains and prepared to set out on a three day hiking trek.Unfortunately, there are dozens of local men claiming to be certified guides, insisting that its impossible to trek alone. Of course they levy a heavy charge to guide you through the mountains and refuse to give you even basic directions without payment. Shrugging off their offers, and our annoyance, we set off alone, confident that where there are villages, there are beds and food. Money talks, even in the High Atlas mountains. The scenery was beautiful and the villages perched on the hillsides blended perfectly into the slate surroundings. Although we didn't hire a "certified guide", we had dozens of child- guides along the way, who demanded much less for their services.
nning mountains of Morocco eventually loured us from the city and into the small villages of the High Atlas. We arrived in Imlil, a small Berber village at the base of the mountains and prepared to set out on a three day hiking trek.Unfortunately, there are dozens of local men claiming to be certified guides, insisting that its impossible to trek alone. Of course they levy a heavy charge to guide you through the mountains and refuse to give you even basic directions without payment. Shrugging off their offers, and our annoyance, we set off alone, confident that where there are villages, there are beds and food. Money talks, even in the High Atlas mountains. The scenery was beautiful and the villages perched on the hillsides blended perfectly into the slate surroundings. Although we didn't hire a "certified guide", we had dozens of child- guides along the way, who demanded much less for their services. 
At the end of the trek we hopped into a grand taxi (an old, beat up Mer
cedes stuffed with seven passengers) and headed to the coast. After a few days of relaxing in the charming fishing village of Essaouira, we packed up our bags, strapped our new Berber rug to Brig's backpack, and left Morocco with the happy knowledge that we managed to escape without buyer's remorse.
cedes stuffed with seven passengers) and headed to the coast. After a few days of relaxing in the charming fishing village of Essaouira, we packed up our bags, strapped our new Berber rug to Brig's backpack, and left Morocco with the happy knowledge that we managed to escape without buyer's remorse. 
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