The Lost Semetic Art of Haggling
Under the arch at the top of the midrachov in Zichron is a little shop that sells hippy-Indian clothes, where my three oldest daughters can often be seen rummaging through the over stocked store in search of something easy and cool to wear for the summer. The owner is used to us by now and knows that his patience will pay. He lets the girls treat his small shop like their own private dressing room while he fusses about trying to look busy and helpful. At the end there will be a sale of a few hundred sheks and a small mound of clothes to put back on the racks. He will have something to do, my girls will feel loved and I will rest guilt-free for the remainder of the week knowing that my princesses have something to wear to the ball.
Our last purchase at his store totalled four pieces of coloured cloth weighing all of 75 grams and barely stitched together at all. He folded them slowly, meticulously calculating the addition of each out loud. “Three hundred and fourty shekels” he said, waiting for my return offer. I stared at him blankly not sure exactly what it was I was supposed to do. Uncomfortable at the awkward length of silence and my obvious lack of response he continued ”I’ll make it three hundred”. “Todah rabah” I replied, pathetically trying to retrieve my credit card from the bottom of my daughters bag. I was grateful to have been let off the haggling hook.
Though presented with many an opportunity in the Middle east, haggling is just not an art I have been able to master. I can’t even do it do it with my seven year old, for whom everything is a deal. “I’ll let you buy me the entire Lego Pirate ship with all its little Lego pieces - that you will have the pleasure of stepping on in the early hours of the morning, if you let me eat ice cream on the couch and go on your computer whenever I want”. ” OK, I say, sounds like a fair deal to me”.
A few weeks ago I found myself in a Jerusalem taxi with my parents on our way back to their hotel from the Kotel. My father inquired about the cost of the ride to which the driver shamelessly replied “Forty shekels”. ‘Forty shecks ‘ I mouthed silently to my mother sitting next to me in the back - ‘that’s outrageous’. It was a twenty shekel ride at most. Excited by the opportunity to exercise my new found citizens rights to haggle I began frantically to search for my courage, but unlike Mulan who went to battle for her father’ honour, this time my silence betrayed us all.
Haggling is an aggressive game of one- upmanship and while I completely understand the premise of ‘get what you can’, it feels dishonest to me. I am reminded of a game we played at College where one party has to spend exactly the same amount of money on a purchase as the other needs to receive for a sale by the end of a certain day. The game commences at the eleventh hour with five minutes left to negotiate. No one in the group simply sat down and said “this is what I have or this is what I need”. We all started to haggle, each team running out of time and all parties ending up in jail or having lost everything.
Last week after a long day of too many grown up activities and broken promises, we found ourselves engaging in the futile art of haggling once again when our seven year old dragged us into the markets of the old city in search of something sharp and dangerous with which to taunt his sisters. Again my silence brought a terrific drop in price. The laser sharp finely crafted be-jewelled and dazzling pocket knife went from more shekels than I can say in a foreign language to less than a pack of Zanex. But there was more - for a few extra shecks he would throw in a sparkling home crafted hand grenade and a fluffy self exploding Katsuya.”Yes” I replied finally finding my voice “but can you also throw in a pack of 5mg Valium and a bottle of Vodka?” And so it was that I left the scene of the crime and the seven year old to work it out for himself.
Moments later he emerged victorious, with Aladdin-like triumph, his new found pocket knife safely tucked into the elastic waistband of his khaki shorts, his rainbow knitted Kippah dancing innocently on his head. Later we will haggle over ownership rights, but for now, I am just grateful that not all of our Semitic origans were lost in the Diaspora.
Our last purchase at his store totalled four pieces of coloured cloth weighing all of 75 grams and barely stitched together at all. He folded them slowly, meticulously calculating the addition of each out loud. “Three hundred and fourty shekels” he said, waiting for my return offer. I stared at him blankly not sure exactly what it was I was supposed to do. Uncomfortable at the awkward length of silence and my obvious lack of response he continued ”I’ll make it three hundred”. “Todah rabah” I replied, pathetically trying to retrieve my credit card from the bottom of my daughters bag. I was grateful to have been let off the haggling hook.
Though presented with many an opportunity in the Middle east, haggling is just not an art I have been able to master. I can’t even do it do it with my seven year old, for whom everything is a deal. “I’ll let you buy me the entire Lego Pirate ship with all its little Lego pieces - that you will have the pleasure of stepping on in the early hours of the morning, if you let me eat ice cream on the couch and go on your computer whenever I want”. ” OK, I say, sounds like a fair deal to me”.
A few weeks ago I found myself in a Jerusalem taxi with my parents on our way back to their hotel from the Kotel. My father inquired about the cost of the ride to which the driver shamelessly replied “Forty shekels”. ‘Forty shecks ‘ I mouthed silently to my mother sitting next to me in the back - ‘that’s outrageous’. It was a twenty shekel ride at most. Excited by the opportunity to exercise my new found citizens rights to haggle I began frantically to search for my courage, but unlike Mulan who went to battle for her father’ honour, this time my silence betrayed us all.
Haggling is an aggressive game of one- upmanship and while I completely understand the premise of ‘get what you can’, it feels dishonest to me. I am reminded of a game we played at College where one party has to spend exactly the same amount of money on a purchase as the other needs to receive for a sale by the end of a certain day. The game commences at the eleventh hour with five minutes left to negotiate. No one in the group simply sat down and said “this is what I have or this is what I need”. We all started to haggle, each team running out of time and all parties ending up in jail or having lost everything.
Last week after a long day of too many grown up activities and broken promises, we found ourselves engaging in the futile art of haggling once again when our seven year old dragged us into the markets of the old city in search of something sharp and dangerous with which to taunt his sisters. Again my silence brought a terrific drop in price. The laser sharp finely crafted be-jewelled and dazzling pocket knife went from more shekels than I can say in a foreign language to less than a pack of Zanex. But there was more - for a few extra shecks he would throw in a sparkling home crafted hand grenade and a fluffy self exploding Katsuya.”Yes” I replied finally finding my voice “but can you also throw in a pack of 5mg Valium and a bottle of Vodka?” And so it was that I left the scene of the crime and the seven year old to work it out for himself.
Moments later he emerged victorious, with Aladdin-like triumph, his new found pocket knife safely tucked into the elastic waistband of his khaki shorts, his rainbow knitted Kippah dancing innocently on his head. Later we will haggle over ownership rights, but for now, I am just grateful that not all of our Semitic origans were lost in the Diaspora.
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muah haha hahah....
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