Whenever I go to India to visit my family, it always reminds me how sheltered I am as a result of having grown up in Australia. There are certain skills you pick up when you live in a busy, crazy whirlwind of a city like Mumbai, like how to jump onto or off of an already moving bus. Or how to squeeze your way through a dense crowd without losing your companions. Or how to cross a street that looks like a game of Frogger.
My family has some l33t sk1llz0rZ, and I’ve always been kind of envious. One of the things I was always in awe of was the playful art of bargaining. I would follow an aunt or cousin to the street market at Linking Road, with the mission of finding me a nice new salwar kameez or pair of chappals. I would be under clear instructions not to point at anything or to talk in English. All expressions of interest in an item were to be mumbled discreetly while keeping my gaze and trajectory full steam ahead.
When I saw something I liked, my aunt would stop and give it a casual and critical once-over, as if it might do. Maybe. If the quality was okay, a starting price would be sought and the parrying would begin. There would be gesturing, incredulous expressions, laughter, and sometimes my aunt would tell me we were leaving and we would start to walk away. That threw me off the first time, until I realised it was part of a wider strategy. Finally, a deal would be struck, and I would have my nice new bag/chappals/t-shirt.
Once, the stall-keeper told my aunt that he couldn’t give her his best price, since she was obviously buying for the NRI (non-resident Indian) tagging along with her. Please note, I was wearing a salwar kameez and chappals, and hadn’t opened my mouth a millimetre. And yet the stall-keeper had deduced from the way I walk that I was a firangi. These guys are smart.
In Morocco, I had decided that I wanted to buy something in the souk for my parents, and possibly something for myself. Although I could pass for a Moroccan in appearance, I obviously didn’t even have any traditional clothes or native speaker of Arabic to hide behind. Also, I have no poker face. None. I am really bad at things like this.
It was likely to be as much of a mismatch as Rocky Balboa vs. Apollo Creed, but maybe, just maybe I could go the distance. And if I went the distance, I would know for the first time that I wasn’t just a bum from the neighbourhood.
We skulked around the alleyways of the souk for a while, scoping out what was on offer. As we walked past, the stall-keepers would cycle through languages till they figured what we spoke: “Buenos dias. Bon jour. Hello?”
We went up to a stall that caught my eye and disinterestedly shuffled through the piles of smaller items. The stall-keeper had eyes like a hawk, catching me out every time my gaze lingered involuntarily on something. “You want this one? How much you want to pay? For you I make special price.” He somehow coaxed me to the back of the stall where the larger bowls and tagines were. I saw one that I instantly loved and knew Amma would love too. I tried to look and sound indifferent. “How much for this one?”
“400 dirhams.”
This was going to put my acting skills, which have historically proven poor, to the test. $50 would probably be a fair price for this bowl in Europe or America. But I somehow managed to emit a laugh, repeat “400 dirhams?!” and contort my face into a look of incredulity. (At least, I think that’s what I looked like. For all I know it came out as a look of “I have no idea wtf I’m doing omg”.)
I had decided earlier that I would settle for 60% of the starting price, so I made a quick calculation in my mind and counter-offered 150 dirhams. Now it was his turn to look incredulous. “I can’t give you this for 150 dirhams. Sorry. This is too low. 350 dirhams, that is a fair price.”
“180,” I countered, boldly. He didn’t raise an eyebrow, but his facial expression said “Bitch, please.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Overcoming my usual desire to break all uncomfortable pauses, I squirmed and waited out said pause until he came down to 300. I inched up to 200.
Then he pulled a classic move. “I ask my boss,” he said, “wait here,” and disappeared into the narrow passageway between his stall and the next one. Sean recognised this as a gambit loved by car salesmen everywhere, and pointed this out to me while trying not to crack up.
Finally, the guy was back. “Ok, we make a price between 200 and 300. You tell me.”
“220,” I said, still holding out.
He held out his hand for me to shake. Yay! Success!
I stuck out my palm, and as he pumped my hand up and down, he said “250”. And gave me a mischievous wink. Oops!
I had to laugh. The guy had made me shake on 250 without me knowing any better. I was dealing with a veteran, and he couldn’t have even been out of his teens yet. I conceded my paltry $3 of ego and laughed along with him. I had my bowl for $30, and that was okay with me. My mum would be proud of me for trying.
As he wrapped the bowl in tissue paper, I asked the stall-keeper a little bit about himself. He was a student, he said. He had lived in the medina all his life, and when he wasn’t studying, he helped his uncle run the stall over the last five years. Which means he must have started doing this when he was 15 or so. That blew my mind. When I was 15, I probably didn’t even know how to order a pizza.
It might take a little longer to buy something in the souk, but it’s definitely rewarding. I’ve never felt post-buyer’s high the way I did that day. From now on, buying from a normal store is never going to feel this satisfying!
(P.S. Tips and feedback from bargaining veterans welcomed :] )
