AP

Bartering in Pakistan

“Five hundred rupees, Auntie.”

I laughed. “That’s robbery!”

The shopkeeper grinned. “Very good quality. Hardly used.”

I looked at the second-hand shoes. “If I were a local, you’d only charge one hundred.”

“Auntie, this pair is an original.”

Welcome to shopping in Pakistan. People had warned me: “You must barter in the markets. Shopkeepers can charge ten times the actual price, especially if you’re white. They have no conscience about ripping people off.”

So, I learned to bargain, especially gaining experience in the second-hand bazaars of Quetta, where I bought clothes and shoes from Pashtun merchants known as kabari walas. They sold discarded goods from Europe, North America, and Australia. If you enjoy a treasure hunt, you’d likely find something good.

Our teenage kids and I would set off like prospectors, searching for name-brand shoes — gold in their school culture up north. We moved from stall to stall, inspecting hundreds of pairs, hunting for the right size, style, and condition. I’d casually show interest in a random pair.

“Excellent quality, Auntie. Real leather.”

I frowned. “You glued the sole and polished over this flaw.”

“No, Auntie, look. Just a scuff.”

We checked shoes inside and out to determine whether they were genuine or fake, and looked for defects. When we finally found a promising pair, we pretended not to care. Then the game began. “How much?”

“Five hundred rupees, Auntie.”

“That’s ridiculous. Two-fifty is still too much.”

“But these are ‘tick’ shoes. Nike! The best!”

“But you’ve put a nail in them to hang them up on the wall and wrecked the cushioning.” I shook my head and walked away.

“Wait, Auntie!”

Eventually, after protest, persuasion, and wounded pride, he would drop the price. Sometimes we went home triumphant, shoes in hand for a fraction of Australian prices. Other times, the victory lasted until the sole peeled off a week later.

I noticed Pakistani women bargaining, and they surprised me by how they pulled back their face veils, spoke boldly, and joked with shopkeepers. “How can you talk so freely with men when you’re in purdah (Islamic practice of secluding women from men, other than close relatives)?” I asked.

The answer came easily. “They’re not men. They’re shopkeepers.”

I learned to relate to salesmen differently from other men in the community and mostly enjoyed bargaining — but I never trusted them. They could charm you, look so honest, promise sincerely, and send you home with a lie. Their initial price was always too high.

Once I felt bad for driving a hard bargain. A friend shrugged. “Don’t worry. The kabari walas never sell at a loss. If you overpay, they say it’s your fault for being dumb.”

I learned to bargain in a friendly way, but with a certain hardness that sometimes went amiss. Ian, on the other hand, liked to relate to shopkeepers so that he could try to share Christ with them, but that meant he paid more. So, I preferred to go to the bazaars without him. But one time he was with me, and things took a surprising turn.

We were 800 kilometres from home attending a conference. The mornings were chilly, and I needed a jumper. After lunch, Ian and I walked into town. Coming toward us was a rickety handcart piled high with second-hand clothes from the West. A thin, ragged man pushed it slowly, calling out his wares to the houses lining the street.

I spotted a heap of jumpers.

The kabari wala saw my interest and stopped.

I lifted one after another — too grubby, too worn, too big. Then I found it. Pretty. My size. Clean. No holes. Trying to look unimpressed, I asked, “How much?”

“Twenty rupees.”

Battle mode engaged. “Ten.”

We played the familiar game — protest, persuasion, compromise. He dropped to fifteen. I shook my head. We haggled some more. Finally, I said, “Ten is fair. My last price.”

He nodded.

Smiling on the inside, I thanked God for providing my needs again so wonderfully. Thirty Australian cents for a perfect jumper.

As I opened my purse, I heard Ian’s voice quietly beside me. “He’s a poor man. Please give him twenty.”

I froze.

Quietly, I pulled out a twenty-rupee note and handed it over. The man took it without comment and slipped it into his frayed pocket.

I had won the bargain — and lost the deal. I bought a jumper and received a lesson I still wear. I knew how to bargain. Ian knew how to see.

Whoever oppresses the poor shows contempt for their Maker,
but whoever is kind to the needy honours God.

(Proverbs 14:31)

– Dorcas Denness