Haggling

We are heading to the market. The excitement levels are high as we anticipate buying woven baskets, handmade jewelllry, colourful sarongs and bags, authentic looking masks and god knows what other African delights and cheap tat to fill our now empty luggage for the return journey.

Gwen has been struck down by a tummy bug. The first malady of the holiday (if you don’t count my earlier near nervous breakdown) and she is too sick to contemplate lifting her head, never mind an adventure through dusty, chaotic Kampala. This should be her morning, as she would relish the adventure of rifling through shelves and picking through bowls of crafts . Alas, she is lying on the sofa with a damp towel on her head and a deathly white sheen on her face.

The momentary pang of guilt at leaving Gwen in her hour of need is a dim and distant memory as Joseph pulls up at the market. It’s taken almost an hour to get here despite it being just a few miles away, but again we have underestimated the traffic, the grid lock, the noise and mayhem which seems to be a permanent fixture on these city roads.

Before opening the doors for us, Joseph advises us to look for a good price. ‘Down, down’ he says, his hand gesturing where our bidding should start: rock bottom.  He assures us he will stay nearby and gives a final reminder about how to barter:

‘Neg-oh-ti-ate,’ he says encouragingly, carefully annunciating every syllable.

Gleefully we hop out of the bus and commence our treasure hunt with military precision. We start on the left and gradually work our way clockwise through the stalls. Claire and I have already agreed our strategy: undertake significant reconnaissance; limit any eye contact; give no clear indications of our likely purchases; collate relevant data pertaining to costs and supply and complete comparative price analysis: commence purchasing at the outlet offering best value for money; tick purchased items off wish list. We are determined, focused and we have a plan.

‘Lady, lady’.

The hands beckon and I’ve made eye contact. Disaster. I enter the third stall from the left and the carefully considered plan of action is out the window. Once they have you in their reaches, the women seem content to leave you to browse, confident perhaps in the quality and range of their produce. Grateful for the absence of fawning and incessant prodding, I relax and meander through the market at will, all strategies blown to the wind. I overhear Claire chatting to some women about colours and what might suit her sister best, and am thankful that we are both crap at this. Ciaran is mooching, largely disinterested in the goods for sale but happily chatting to people about how long they’ve worked here, what hours they work, how business has been.  Then he spots some security guys and he heads off in their direction, sorted for the next hour.

I have a list in my head of who I want to bring presents home for but I know I should have written it down. I’m bound to forget someone. The kids; the office; my great niece; Yvonne, without whose calming words I would never have got on the plane……

I spot a pile of t shirts, plain but in a variety of colours, with ‘musongo’ written across the front. Musongo means white person; whitey; not of colour.  I’m sure there’s a more insulting translation which would be more apt, but for the life of me I can’t think of one. I’ve been loitering in PC circles for far too long.   I pick out a couple of t-shirts, choose a bag and some key rings, and holding them all out, I ask for the price.

Fifty thousand they tell me.

‘No!’ I feign shock.

‘Yes, mam, is very good price. Good price for you’, they insist.

‘No. Thirty?’ I suggest.

Now it’s their turn to act shocked.

This goes on, with each of us incrementally inching closer to the other with every innocuous bid.

It occurs to me that we are now haggling over the equivalent of about fifty cents, and I am over come with guilt. Christ, what am I doing, arguing with these women over a few pence when I’d readily pay five times the amount for this stuff at home? It’s nothing to me, but very significant income for them.  I am about to call surrender and am reaching for my purse when Joseph appears at the entrance. He says nothing, just takes it all in, and then stands to one side, like my very own sentry on guard. I look at the women then back at Joseph and put the purse back in my bag as I commit to another few minutes of haggling. I’d rather sleep restless with guilt than risk disappointing Joseph because of my lack of negotiating skills.

I emerge triumphant, swinging my bags of swag and enthusiastically tell him what great prices I got. He just nods sagely and takes the bags from me to store in the bus. I can’t tell is he proud of me?

We have one more stop after the market before heading home. I need to buy Paddy a proper soccer jersey – the Ugandan football team top, and the ones in the market are not of sufficient quality to pass muster. So Joseph says anyway. So he strides off with the three of us running behind him, terrified of being left behind on these crazy streets.  We march down narrow alley ways, where I’m quite sure dead bodies are found at night-time lying amidst the rubbish bags thrown out randomly by the multiple fast food outlets; we jog up steps behind him, thankful that he is at least a head above almost everyone else around so we are unlikely to lose him; and we cower beside him as he leads the way across the streets where its hard to tell which direction the traffic is meant to be going, who has right of way, or when its relatively safe for us to cross. Finally, we reach the sports shop, t shirts stuck to our backs, streaks of dust on our faces, and by now, getting seriously interested in the local bathroom amenities.

The jersey is bought in extra quick time, given the now many demands on our attention, and we must now face the trek back to the bus.  Standing partially out into the street, trying to judge the gaps in traffic and estimate when we might be able to cross without any significant damage or collision, I have a mad impulse to put my hand in Josephs’, to have a big warm hand encircle mine, to feel safe and minded.  I was 16 when my dad stopped walking me to the school bus stop.  We held hands until I was 12, and after that we walked with linked arms. So much more sophisticated.  I didn’t know then that I would never again feel my hand so small in another’s. That I would never again feel so protected.

Back at base, we excitedly unpack our goodies to show Gwen and Mir.  Gwen is now vertical but still not looking too hot. She does her best to congratulate us, to ooh and ahh, and tell us what great choices we made, but you can tell it’s a struggle.  Joseph takes her arm, supporting her back into the house.

‘You still sick?’ he asks gently.

‘Oh, I’m doing better, thanks,’ she mumbles, somewhat abashed by his attention. ‘I’m definitely on the mend.’

‘What you need,’ he says with a big wink, ‘is me to nurse you better.’  He laughs heartily and Gwen totters a bit, possibly from the enduring weakness, but it could equally be a rush of blood to the head.

Christ, I stride past them up the stairs.  Some people will do anything for a bit of attention!