Am I Shopping, or Are You Just Trying to Rip Me Off?

Here in Malawi the shopping responsibilities have pretty much fallen to me. Jen doesn't like the way they look at her, and I don't really blame her. Actually, I don't blame her at all. So she makes the lists and I do the legwork. Unfortunately, I'm not very good at two things about this whole shopping thing. First is that I can't pick a cucumber apart from a zucchini, and the second is that I don't remember any of her instructions unless she writes them down. Oh, and I don't know how to tell if fruit is good or rotten. And I don't remember the prices I pay from the time I pay them until the time I get home. And I—but that's enough for this post, I think. Keep this list of points of emphases in mind, because I won't. Oh, and we're just going to skip straight to the second, because there's nothing else to say about the first, other than that it's true as creation.

So. Let's get at it. I generally go after we come home after school. I change out of my slacks and button up shirt and dress way, way down. Pretty early on I took to adding a bandana tied around my head under my hair to keep the overgrowth (this isn't a problem anymore) and sweat (this is) out of my eyes, and also because it makes me look so totally hip and cool. I blend right in; since I started wearing it, they hardly even notice I'm there anymore. Other than that I just wear shorts, flip-flops, a T-shirt, and maybe my light long sleeved thing to keep the sun off of my fluorescent-white arms (the larger percentage of me that is covered, the more I blend in—I've considered going as a ninja, but can't find enough black hand towels anywhere).

Then I throw on the backpack, stuff several million kwatcha in my pocket (okay, it's only a few thousand but I still feel like some big crime boss every time I go shopping because I'm carrying thick stacks of bills all rubber banded together in my satchel or pocket, even though it's worth only about eight bucks), and venture out the door. I walk down the street like a talking mime, my hands flailing all over the place as my eyebrows tap dance and my mouth moves non-stop. They generally do something in return. I'm not sure if that's good or bad, but at least they aren't glaring at me (most of the time). 

I head down the street that the hospital is on and turn left onto Glen Jones Road. Blantyre is set up on a triangle of three main roads. Glen Jones forms the top, Victoria Avenue runs down at as close to a right angle from it as you'll find in Malawi, and then Haille Selassie Road connects the two in a semi-straight line. Anyway, I turn onto Glen Jones, and navigate past the minibuses. These things are, in the words of Mr. Priester (an American sociologist who is married to the only cardiologist in Malawi), “a menace.” They drive anywhere and everywhere they please, and worse, stop anywhere they please, and worse than that, don't stop unless they please. So I always have to watch out around this eternal congregation of them, and anytime I cross any road because, come to think of it, no one stops unless they please when driving. They will run you down. All the way past the buses the drivers say, “Hey Boss—where you going Boss?” And “Limbe, Boss, Limbe? This bus for you.” It wouldn't bother me if they didn't call me “Boss.” I hate that. Even the little kids begging for money look at me with mournful eyes and plead, “Please, Boss, please. Hungry, Boss, I hungry.” I've seen them digging in the trash for food. I don't know what to do with those little guys...

But to get back to the minibuses, I just say, “No, no thank you Friend, not today.” They seem to like that. “Okay, Friend, thank you Friend, maybe tomorrow, Friend,” they say and let me go. But I wish they wouldn't start with “boss.” Ugh. Maybe they'll all get to know me enough to remember before long. (Since my first draft of this near the beginning of our time here, a lot of them have begun to know me, and have dropped the “boss.”)

Then, almost directly after the minibuses is Victoria Avenue cutting away to the right. This street has almost everything we ever really need. There are all sorts of great little stores that are dirt cheap if you'll take the time to figure out which ones have what, but as I think we already covered, I can't remember squat that isn't written down, so I always forget they even exist and head straight to the bottom of the hill where People's Market is. 

Now, People's Market is fine, and we can pretty much get everything there, but it's WAY more expensive than if I shop around, or at least so Jen tells me. But I don't know what “shop around” means, and all price tags look the same anyway, so I just go to People's. On the way down, everyone stops and stares. I would like to think it is because of my rugged good looks, but I have been forced to believe otherwise by the cries of “Hey! American with height!” that all the street vendors call out after me as they follow me down the street. It's like I'm the Pied Piper or something. But instead of my skill leading them on like rats, they are more like sharks drawn to the sounds of a thrashing, wounded animal. I'm convinced that a neon sign flashes above my head that reads, “Stupid, Gullible White Boy.” And let me remind you that here, the locals can't be made to understand the difference between the words “white” and “wealth,” so they all assume I carry around stacks of US dollars and bags of gold coins. 

I had managed to ward these piranhas off for a long while, but on a recent trip I fell victim to one's attack. A short, friendly man came right up beside me and said, “Hello, Friend—remember me, Friend?” “NO,” my brain said as my mouth went, “Yeah! Yeah I do.” I dunno. Maybe I'd seen him before; maybe it was that he hadn't started with the infernal “boss” like everyone else. It doesn't matter, though. I had said it. “Yes, Friend,” my new friend smiled, “You going buy Peoples'?” “Yes, I'm going to buy groceries,” my mouth informed him before my brain kicked in and I added quickly, “But not very many. No, no. Only a few. Just a few groceries. Not many; just a few.” “Ah...a-few,” he said, smiling wisely, “You friend, buy from me, this?” He held up an arm draped with bead necklaces. “Oh—no no. I have not much money now (my English—and my accent—go bad when I'm down there),” I faltered. I couldn't just say “No thank you, Friend,” and walk away like usual, could I? Not after talking to him! Surely not. “Come now...we friends!” He smiled disarmingly. “Wait! No we're not—not real friends; just sort of friends, as in there's good will between us,” my brain responded, but my mouth apparently decided that it had said friend, and by the kwatcha in my pocket, it was going to prove it (because we all know that friendship is a monetary relationship [see note]), and said, “Well...how much?” “Good, good, Friend.” He smiled again. “These are ebony, from mountain. I can sell for five, six hundred kwatcha (“Doesn't look like you can sell any,” my brain quipped.), but for you, because you my friend, I sell for three hundred,” he smiled up proudly at me. “No, no,” I said, my brain regaining control, “I have not much money now; I need buy groceries.” He looked crestfallen, then regained his composure. “You name price. You my friend; you name price.” “One-fifty,” I said, my brain beginning to lose control. “How 'bout two hundred—you happy, I happy: two hundred.” “Deal,” my mouth said, taking control again. I didn't have the correct change, and neither did he, so he met me down at People's and I paid him then. He tried to weasel me into giving him another fifty kwatcha because “you my friend,” but I was already disgusted with myself and said, “No. No thank you, Friend; I have no more extra money,” rushed out between two oncoming minibuses, and escaped. (It's true, by the way, when I said I had no extra money. We really were running dry.)

Anyway, there's not much to tell about People's. It's like an Albertson's, except smaller, and it's refrigerated section is rather less refrigerated. You pick your products, pay the [outrageous, by Malawi standards] prices and leave. If you ever come, never go there for fruit and veggies. Ever. Come to think of it, Jen says not to go there for just about anything, because you can get almost all of it somewhere else for much, much cheaper. But I of course can't remember where those somewhere's are, so I just go to People's and get ripped off.

The one place I do remember to go to is the people's market (not to be confused with People's Market). It is a big open-air market where all the small-time farmers gather together to sell their produce. You can get honey for almost half what it costs at People's. You can get a big bunch of the best bananas in Malawi for about US 30 cents, if you don't settle for the vendors out front. Took me a while to figure that out, but finally I found a man way in the back of the network of canopies who was just awesome. I feel all warm and fuzzy whenever I think of him and his bananas and all the kwatcha I save (almost US twenty cents!). Hey, now; it feels like a lot when you're dealing in kwatcha. 

 

I often considered putting on a fake British or Australia or South African accent so that I would blend in better because there are very few Americans here, and our accent is apparently considered almost entirely indecipherable and fully uncouth. But I never had the guts to try it, and now they all know me.

Haggling is probably one of the most fun things over here. It is so much fun and so satisfying. If I could only remember even the general prices I paid for things between trips, I imagine I could be pretty good at it. I have a feeling that I am going to be very frustrated when I go back to America and am again trapped by brand names and absurdly high set prices. 

My first haggle was with the banana dude outside the canopies. I walked up and said, “How much?” and he said, “One-hundred for this, fifty for this.” I said, “One-hundred? Don't you think, maybe, that's kind of a little high? ...Maybe?” Longs silence. How about, um, eighty kwatcha?” Hopeful smile. I had no idea how much bananas should cost, but knew my mistake when he snatched the bunch up and all but chucked it at me, holding his hand out eagerly. As we walked back home, I became more and more convinced that I had been ripped off. He probably priced the bad bananas high and the good bananas low, too, knowing I would go for the high price, which, of course, I did.

Since then it's gotten a little better, but about half of them smile in an amused fashion when I begin to haggle, as if I'm a small child trying to act like his daddy does. One responded to my offer of one-eighty with an annoyed look and the words, “No. Two-hundred better.” I grinned at him and said, “Two-hundred better for you; one-eighty better for me.” His annoyance bordered on wrath and he stared mutely at me. I walked away.

But I've found that indiscriminately refusing to buy from the first few sellers after talking with them lowers everyone's prices dramatically. Also being overly picky about the produces' firmness helps. I usually end up wandering around the entire market several times trying to look like I know what I'm doing. I think that that banana guy (as well as a potato guy and an onion guy) are my best friends here.

By the time I'm done with the market, my backpack is stuffed, and I'm usually carrying a bag in my hands. Jen's precious tomatoes invariable get smashed inside the backpack underneath all the potatoes and onions. Then I go to the supermarket, and by the time I'm done I generally have two or three bags in each hand. Then begins the long slog back up to our house. You see, Victoria Avenue is built going down a big hill that gets a lot bigger on the way back. By the time I get onto Glen Jones, the sweat is pouring down my face and I'm breathing like a cow. People no longer respond to my now pitiful attempts at friendliness. They just look at me, with no attempt to hide their disbelief/disgust. The vendors are most relentless at this point. Not only do they try to get me to buy things even more mercilessly, they ask for a loaf of my bread, or a package of rice. And I am barely able to resist them. This embarrassing lack of physical fitness has spurred me into a state of exercising semi-regularly, if running once a week and doing five or six crunches every five days can be called semi-regular. But I am genuinely distressed at my loss of fitness. Just not enough to do anything about it. So I come home and drown my sorrows in six or seven sandwiches, lie down on the bed and do nothing, and then eat supper a few hours later.

NOTE: Mr. Priester loaned me a book about African economics, and, apparently, friendship is equated by money. A friendship in which you are not willing to invest money to help your friend is a shallow one. The one who claims he or she needs help is also the one who is able to decide who's need (the potential “borrower's” or the potential “loaner's”) takes precedence. This whole philosophy leads to Africans buying things in small quantities so that they honestly have none to share (even when this costs way more), and wasting their money as soon as they get it so that they have none to share. This explains why they ask for my food when I walk by with what looks like six or seven loaves of bread. They do not understand when I tell them that if I give them my bread I will not have any by the end of the week. They also, of course, don't understand that I am a volunteer with little money (it is still more than what most of them get, though.) Anyway, there's your foreign culture psychology lesson of the day. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what my moral responsibility to all these hurting and hungry people is...I have figured out that I can't just avoid them/not look at them (I tried it; big no-no internally), but what about money? If I gave money to everyone who asked I'd starve, but still... Right now, I'm just making sure to take a little time to exchange customary pleasantries in Chechewa with them, and express concern for their well-being. Apparently, giving the kids money keeps them out of school, because it allows them to be bread winners for their families, so I don't do that. But the old women and the disabled people are increasingly likely to get something.