Bargaining
We decided to go shopping in Chicken Street, which is where all the antiques are sold. Well…supposedly they are antiques. Sometimes they purposely make things look old so they can yield antique prices. A “50-year-old carpet” can easily be a 5-week-old carpet run under the tires of a car 50 times.
Bargaining is a necessity here, especially if you’re a foreigner, which made things interesting considering neither Wazhma nor I like to bargain. We first went into a shop run by a friend of my uncle’s. As my uncle’s niece, I felt obligated to buy something, but there wasn’t anything that caught my eye and we quickly left the awkwardness. We walked further down the street through pairs of men with sideways glances and furtive stares. I had my protective bubble turned on so I didn’t notice rude comments such as “have you no shame” my sister later mentioned to me. Ignorance is bliss, right?
I was drawn to one particular shop that had bright blue lapis pieces lined along the window. Inside was an old man with a white cap and light brown eyes--clear like tea. Even in the waning light (the electricity was out of course) his jewelry glittered and the strong colors were drawing me in. I felt myself retract into my shy six-year old self. “Dammit!” I thought, “Not again!” I couldn’t even ask the prices I was so shy and remembered my mom prodding me, “Just ask!” I glanced at my sister hoping she would start, but my otherwise chatty sister was conveniently silent. After 10 minutes of circling the store, knowing exactly what I wanted, I started the negotiations. I’m sure the old man made a killing, but somehow I could tell from his eyes that he had a hard time ripping me off. After all, he himself had two daughters.
A beggar child came to the door, dirty, with hair tousled about. The shopkeeper told him to go away and lamented about all the beggar kids in this area.
“It’s hard for people like us not to feel bad and give money, but it teaches them the wrong thing. They should be in school or learning skills for work, not begging,” he said.
I liked this man. He had a sweet face and good philosophy. I took his picture as he told me both his parents and grandparents were jewelers and he learned his trade from a very young age.
The next shop we went into was run by a handsome man about my age. By this point I had gotten warmed up, and the shy six-year-old went to bed. I remembered my mom and her bargaining skills and wished she was here to charm the shopkeepers with her infectious laugh and beautiful eyes. I knew I had to up the ante and make my momma proud :).
A few stone pendants etched with gazelles caught my eye. Wazh wanted one with a lion on it but they shopkeeper said he was all out. Still he tried looking for one, trying to pass a horse off as a lion and a camel for a gazelle! We had some good laughs about that. In the end I was able to bargain with him for a good price. The poor guy was outnumbered by female strength and had difficulties combating our bargaining. He would tell my sister the price and I would ask for less. Meanwhile my uncle’s wife was clamoring in the background about good prices in her sweet and high-pitched voice. We finally set on a price, and I gave him a $100 bill. He said,
“Ohhhh this is so old…and the corner is torn!”
Apparently Afghanis are deducted for each blemish on the bill. This torn corner would cost him about 20 Afghanis. Wazhma managed to find a cleaner Benjamin and the shopkeeper was happy but looked somewhat dumb struck by our recent transaction.
Satisfied by our shopping, we decided it was time to go home and we called someone to pick us up. The problem was we’d have to wait another 15 or 20 minutes before the driver came. I wanted to go into more shops rather than waiting on the street, but Wazh felt guilty because it was almost time for the shopkeepers to break their fast, so we waited on the corner. Bad idea.
An old beggar man on crutches asked for money with his raspy voice, but I didn’t have any small bills to give him. Plus when you give one they all come out of the woodworks and swarm you. I stood there uncomfortably and a small boy selling mini Korans approached me. I wasn’t quick enough, and the bastard slipped one into my hand. This is the game they play. I tried giving it back and he backed away, giving me the most mournful look—his eyes were like a black hole sucking my energy. Finally I convinced Wazhma and Salma to go into the shop and escape. The boy lingered by the doorway and I saw some new boys sitting a few feet away. I found some money and called the boy in trying not to call the attention of the others. What started as a happy shopping day ended in feeling drained. It is emotionally draining seeing the poor and not knowing what to do about it. So you give them money one day. Will that really solve anything or keep them in a cycle of begging?
After we got home, my dad decided he wanted to have a party and invited friends over and some musicians. One was a tabla player and one played harmunia, which looks like an accordion but sits on the floor like a piano. Many of these friends were expats working in Afghanistan. They represented Los Angeles, Virginia and Germany, and a generation lost, finding its way. They didn’t belong to the West and they didn’t belong to the East. They certainly don’t belong in the new generation of Kabulites that are not familiar with the education, cleanliness, and openness of Kabul’s yesteryear. Old Ahmed Zahir tunes filled the house as they chimed in and danced one by one. Meanwhile my dad was snoozing on the chair—still recovering from jetlag. But the man sitting next to him made sure my dad’s tea did not go to waste. I was reminded of an old black and white picture my dad has hanging in his office at WSU in little ole Pullman. He is sitting cross-legged on rugs with his friend in a smoky haze. It looks like they’re having a party, similar to this one. I felt like was being warped back into that time—a time that no longer exists, but somehow does among all the “Afghans” of that generation.
Bargaining is a necessity here, especially if you’re a foreigner, which made things interesting considering neither Wazhma nor I like to bargain. We first went into a shop run by a friend of my uncle’s. As my uncle’s niece, I felt obligated to buy something, but there wasn’t anything that caught my eye and we quickly left the awkwardness. We walked further down the street through pairs of men with sideways glances and furtive stares. I had my protective bubble turned on so I didn’t notice rude comments such as “have you no shame” my sister later mentioned to me. Ignorance is bliss, right?
I was drawn to one particular shop that had bright blue lapis pieces lined along the window. Inside was an old man with a white cap and light brown eyes--clear like tea. Even in the waning light (the electricity was out of course) his jewelry glittered and the strong colors were drawing me in. I felt myself retract into my shy six-year old self. “Dammit!” I thought, “Not again!” I couldn’t even ask the prices I was so shy and remembered my mom prodding me, “Just ask!” I glanced at my sister hoping she would start, but my otherwise chatty sister was conveniently silent. After 10 minutes of circling the store, knowing exactly what I wanted, I started the negotiations. I’m sure the old man made a killing, but somehow I could tell from his eyes that he had a hard time ripping me off. After all, he himself had two daughters.
A beggar child came to the door, dirty, with hair tousled about. The shopkeeper told him to go away and lamented about all the beggar kids in this area.
“It’s hard for people like us not to feel bad and give money, but it teaches them the wrong thing. They should be in school or learning skills for work, not begging,” he said.
I liked this man. He had a sweet face and good philosophy. I took his picture as he told me both his parents and grandparents were jewelers and he learned his trade from a very young age.
The next shop we went into was run by a handsome man about my age. By this point I had gotten warmed up, and the shy six-year-old went to bed. I remembered my mom and her bargaining skills and wished she was here to charm the shopkeepers with her infectious laugh and beautiful eyes. I knew I had to up the ante and make my momma proud :).
A few stone pendants etched with gazelles caught my eye. Wazh wanted one with a lion on it but they shopkeeper said he was all out. Still he tried looking for one, trying to pass a horse off as a lion and a camel for a gazelle! We had some good laughs about that. In the end I was able to bargain with him for a good price. The poor guy was outnumbered by female strength and had difficulties combating our bargaining. He would tell my sister the price and I would ask for less. Meanwhile my uncle’s wife was clamoring in the background about good prices in her sweet and high-pitched voice. We finally set on a price, and I gave him a $100 bill. He said,
“Ohhhh this is so old…and the corner is torn!”
Apparently Afghanis are deducted for each blemish on the bill. This torn corner would cost him about 20 Afghanis. Wazhma managed to find a cleaner Benjamin and the shopkeeper was happy but looked somewhat dumb struck by our recent transaction.
Satisfied by our shopping, we decided it was time to go home and we called someone to pick us up. The problem was we’d have to wait another 15 or 20 minutes before the driver came. I wanted to go into more shops rather than waiting on the street, but Wazh felt guilty because it was almost time for the shopkeepers to break their fast, so we waited on the corner. Bad idea.
An old beggar man on crutches asked for money with his raspy voice, but I didn’t have any small bills to give him. Plus when you give one they all come out of the woodworks and swarm you. I stood there uncomfortably and a small boy selling mini Korans approached me. I wasn’t quick enough, and the bastard slipped one into my hand. This is the game they play. I tried giving it back and he backed away, giving me the most mournful look—his eyes were like a black hole sucking my energy. Finally I convinced Wazhma and Salma to go into the shop and escape. The boy lingered by the doorway and I saw some new boys sitting a few feet away. I found some money and called the boy in trying not to call the attention of the others. What started as a happy shopping day ended in feeling drained. It is emotionally draining seeing the poor and not knowing what to do about it. So you give them money one day. Will that really solve anything or keep them in a cycle of begging?
After we got home, my dad decided he wanted to have a party and invited friends over and some musicians. One was a tabla player and one played harmunia, which looks like an accordion but sits on the floor like a piano. Many of these friends were expats working in Afghanistan. They represented Los Angeles, Virginia and Germany, and a generation lost, finding its way. They didn’t belong to the West and they didn’t belong to the East. They certainly don’t belong in the new generation of Kabulites that are not familiar with the education, cleanliness, and openness of Kabul’s yesteryear. Old Ahmed Zahir tunes filled the house as they chimed in and danced one by one. Meanwhile my dad was snoozing on the chair—still recovering from jetlag. But the man sitting next to him made sure my dad’s tea did not go to waste. I was reminded of an old black and white picture my dad has hanging in his office at WSU in little ole Pullman. He is sitting cross-legged on rugs with his friend in a smoky haze. It looks like they’re having a party, similar to this one. I felt like was being warped back into that time—a time that no longer exists, but somehow does among all the “Afghans” of that generation.
posted by Gazelle at 12:57 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home