Going Shopping

I wanted to get some scarves for the women at home. We negotiate with a cab driver to take us to the market, wait for us and then drive us to Lensa’s. On the way over our driver made a call to a friend who could show us where to buy the best. This is normal in third world countries, and while I find it a little annoying, I understand the need to make a living off of wealthy foreigners. His friend has told our driver to meet him at a parking garage. We have all our stuff in the trunk of the taxi and we’re both a little anxious about returning to find it gone. Scott decides to bring his computer bag with him.

We head up the ramp of the driveway to the street with his friend. It is raining. Hard. Really hard. Water is streaming along the curbs several inches deep and several feet wide. We wait for a few minutes. I decide to take a picture of Scott and our driver. I don’t say it, but I view it as a small dose of insurance against our bags going missing. Finally, I suggest that Scott stay with the taxi while the friend and I get to work.



The market consists of several square blocks of buildings, each with a covered walkway around the outside. Some appear to have stores inside in addition to the stalls on the walkway. Everyone is huddled in the covered walkways. We sprint across the street, jumping over the streams on each side. We walk several blocks until we finally find the shop. It is full of scarves. The shop is small, perhaps 12 feet across in each direction, with glass cases all around. They offer me a stool and a soda. I take a seat, but decline the soda. First they show me the standard white scarves with a few stripes of color at the end. Those are not what I’m looking for and I point at a stack of the more colorful scarves. I start flipping through the stack pulling the scarves that I think the girls will like most. I’m getting one each for my wife, my three daughters and my niece who is already staying at our house in Chicago.

I casually ask how much the scarves are. The owner tells me that he can give them to me for a special price of 120. I fulfill my first negotiating obligation by saying with a hint of disbelief “nooo.” I continue my sorting for a few moments before asking how much for five. For five he can do 550. I don’t respond as I hand over the stack of rejected scarves. I offer 350 for five scarves. “Oh, no,” he says, “I have no profit margin then.” I try to make sure that I have one scarf that I think each girl will like and that they are all distinct. “Okay, these five for 500 he says as he takes them from me and starts to put them into a bag.” “440”, I say. He fulfills his obligation by telling me that I’m “a very good negotiator,” but he assures me that he can’t take less than 500. I take a step towards the door and he relents. “Okay, okay, okay. 440,” he says with a smirk.

Five scarves for about $50 is fine by me. I later resist the urge to ask Lensa for a benchmark. My philosophy of negotiating small purchases in foreign countries requires me to accept overpaying and to resist the urge to discover by how much. My guide takes me by a jewelry stand, but none of it is particularly interesting. I suggest that he have his friend drive to meet us to save time. We stand outside where the rain has let up almost completely. A few minutes later the taxi comes. I give the guide ten birr and jump into the taxi. I wonder how much the shop will pay him. I briefly wonder how I could create an incentive for the guide to get me the best price, but decide it’s not worth the effort.