Bargain Basement Bitch

After today, I am totally convinced there is a cruise ship headed straight to Hell with my name plastered on its hull. It will ferry me toward the flickering, flaming hacienda of eternal torment at top speed.

But at least I’ll be wearing hand-made African clothing purchased at a mere fraction of the price I’d pay in the US. That’s what I’m usually saying to myself while I bargain for better prices at the local market. Sometimes, it’s only good, common sense to protect yourself from being ripped off. Case in point: the other day, I stopped by one stall to look at some pots. You have to be careful over here buying things like pots, because many of them are, shall we say, of inferior quality.

I weep when I think of my Calphalon pots and pans boxed up and sitting in a storage locker back in suburban Maryland. I’ve been reduced to picking over aluminum pans that look like they’ll melt when you turn the burner on high. And let’s not even think about the noxious fumes they give off while you’re cooking, or the “no scratch surfaces” that peel every time you scrape a spoon across them.

It’s like all the cookware manufacturers in the world got together and said, “Let’s send all our cast off, useless and clearly hazardous reject pots to Africa. We’ll only get half price for ‘em, but the way those people have babies over there, we’ll make up the difference in no time flat.”

I finally found two that looked acceptable and asked the lady for the price. A steal at 15,000 shillings, or about 9 USD. But you can’t let vendors think you just reach into your wallet without caring about the price….they’ll nail you for a sitting duck. So I said, “Sounds good, but I’ll just look around first.” Then I walked over to the next stall. The merchandise was basically the same, so I thought the same two pans would be about the same price, or maybe just a bit higher or lower. The vendor, a man this time, looked me up and down, paused a minute, and then said, “28,000.”

Now, I only got a 450 on my SAT math score, so I ain’t exactly a math whiz. (My sister Marilyn scored, like, 760 in math, or something equally outrageous. I’m the moron of the Jones clan.) But even I know that 15,000 for the same two pots is a better deal than 28,000. And I know he only priced them that way because he knew I was American. That made me mad, and I took a few minutes to explain that he must be outta his durned mind before huffing my way back next door.

But when I think about it, I realize that in most transactions here, the pennies I bargain for in Gulu mean almost nothing to me. I’d spend $4 dollars on a magazine back in DC, when $4 could feed a family of four for a couple of days here. And I can afford to pay 2 or 3 extra bucks on an item here, so why do I always try to get a better deal….when I could probably help pay some kid’s school fees by paying the price vendors quote me?

Part of it is plain old American stubbornness, and our manic need to be the smartest person in the vicinity, especially when we’re traveling. So what if, most of the time, we don’t know the language or customs of the people we’re dickering with….we’re AMERICAN. We “bring the noise” when it comes to shopping, and the collective might of our purchasing power must be respected at all times. Bottom line, don’t try and play me for a sucker when I could probably get you to sell your children to me for a coupla hundred bucks.

Well, not all Americans are that crass, and I’m certainly not. But I’ve decided we do need to feel smart a lot more than other people do. That’s why I haggle at the dressmaker’s, or try to get the banana ladies to sell me just half a bunch at a bit less than half price. This is me at 6:30 PM: "Look, it’s the end of the day, these things are getting kinda brown anyway, and you’ll only have to carry them home, so you might as well get SOME money for your troubles."

And as I walk away from these outings, I always sense that those women are standing together watching me, wearing the iPod and the Skechers, and DKNY jeans, carrying a wallet full of shillings, and I bet they’ve found the Luo phrase to use when muttering,

“Bargain Basement Bitch."