Friday, November 20, 2009

Swimming with Bazaar Sharks

Note: There are no pictures of the rugs yet, they were boxed and shipped immediately and no one back home has sent me pictures yet for this blog. I have had this post for over a week so I am just going to put it up. Instead you get the Hagia Sophie and a Bellydancer named Marlena.

My misadventure in Hamburg with the hookers has been, apparently, about the most memorable thing I have written on here. I am not ashamed of my temptation but it is kind horrifyingly amusing when you find out that not only did your Mother read it, but your Father, and Grandmother, and everyone else. I am sure that I shall hear of it for many attended family gatherings to come. What still bugged me about that night was not that I was drunk, alone, sensuality heightened by a night of loud music and dance and therefore susceptible to the siren song of beautiful bodies for sale. No. What stuck with me was that I was so thoroughly schooled and beaten when it came to shrewd negotiation. I stumbled into the situation blindly, and naively and it made a mark of me. Prostitution never bothered me as a moral thing (obviously), since it could be argued that dating itself is often a subtle form of it. However the idea of sex with you being someone's shitty job just turns off the motor, which I was reminded of in my experience in a most unforgettable and humiliating way. The whole ordeal did leave unfinished business, not what you're thinking...heh, but the idea of losing so badly in a contest of business. I got hustled and my nature finds it unacceptable and I have since been looking for some redemption.

That redemption came to me in Istanbul in one of the many Bazaars. There are roughly a zillion rug salesmen and stores in Istanbul. I do not pretend to know exactly who has the best stuff but I did research slightly before my trip. Learning ways to tell if the merchandise is authentic, so that I would know if someone was trying to sell me garbage. If you are unwary and not firm you could be bilked of hundreds or thousands, you could be grabbed off of the street. The entire carpet hustle is based on movement, speed, to make you rush along with them. I recognized it immediately when I found myself in a warehouse near the Blue Mosque.
I was walking around to take in the city at night and a man in a suit stopped me and asked me if I was American. If someone on the street asks you if you are American unbidden, it will be about money. Every single time. "That's right. I said. I am the famous zeppelin racer Dennis M. Boehm."

"Zeppelin? Like bleemps?"

"Nevermind all that. What is it you want?"
He wanted to show me his business, he said, and asked if I would come. One rule I have been espousing to everyone I meet on the road is that you should at least stick your head down every rabbit hole that presents itself. So I followed him. We walked a winding path into an unmarked building that put me on my guard. I was worried that I was being taken to some sex dungeon, the man started to look to me like a pimp. We rounded one last corner down some stairs and I was confronted with walls of carpets. There were twenty some odd Turkish men milling about and the man took me into a show room after offering me a Turkish apple tea, which I refused. Which they brought anyway. He started to show me the double knot rugs and doing the tests I had read about to ensure the quality of material, he lit and singed the edge of one of the carpets and the burn wiped away. This test proves that there is no plastic in the wool or silk. I examined the threads very closely and when I stood up a new man had enetered the room. He was wearing a tight shiny button down, three buttons were undone and his hair was immaculate. The man who had led me into the room, the man in the suit who I never got a name from slipped out a back door. Clearly this new man was the salesman. During the tests I realized why they had rolled out so many rugs on the floor for me to examine.

"Which is your favorite?"
I pointed to the red and white one that I eventually bought.

"Where are you from my friend?"

"The States."

"I love America! Would you like more tea?"

"No thanks."

"Have tea! Bring him another cup." One of the young kids jumped to his feet and left the room.

"You like this merchandise?"

"It's very nice. I really don't plan on buying a rug tonight."

"I make good price for you! Because you did not plan to buy!" I think he fills in that sentence with whatever is convenient. I make good price cause I love America. I make good price because you planned to buy a rug and deserve it. Whatever. He said some instructions in Turkish and more rugs were rolled out. "Do you prefer the double knots? They are nice yes. This one you like, I make special price, 2600 dollars. Usually it is as high as 5000."

"Well that is very kind, but no way."

"We have very nice carpets that are under 1000, if you prefer."

"Oh. I'm not worried about money at all." My tea arrived, as I bluffed. "But I saw another place that had a really nice silk double knit, really pretty, and he had a much better price."

"What was he asking?"

"He only wanted twelve hundred. So anyway, thanks for the tea."

"My friend, you know you will not be cheated (sounded like "shitted") here. These are best quality, if he was asking so low he was giving you trash... all respect my friend. I do not want to see you cheated (shitted). I will make prie for you...2400!" At each offer, imagine his hand jamming nearly into my own, a fast and agressive handshake to make it official. Around you rugs are rolled out and up, kids scurrying by with trays for tea and many looming swarthy skinned anymous spectators watching. I felt as though the salesman was a master teacher and they were all waiting for him to con the American mark. The thought made me slightly angry and caused the competitive nature in me to demand satisfaction.

"I thank you for your concern about my being cheated." There seemed to be a courtly way of going about this task. Like diplomatic negotiations, you heap praise and declarations of honesty and friendship upon one another while trying wring them and fuck them out of every last lira, euro, dollar, spit of land, or treaty. "And I believe very much that you have my best interests at heart. Where was the rug made."

"In Turkey! We have many contacts in villages, this is Kurdish make. I am Kurdish." He sounded proud.

"Excellent. That sounds very authentic, which is what I want. My question is, how much does it cost to manufacture this excellent merchandise? It seems to me that the weavers are not paid as handsomely as 5000 per rug, which is what this one is clearly worth." I indicated my rug. "It seems like the profit margin is very large, and you could afford less of a markup."

He laughed, and laughed. He took my hand. "You are a very wise American man. What would make you happy?"

"I think we should start over, from 1500, and then really negotiate. Otherwise I wish you happiness."

"I do it for 1500!" The hand again. "You have credit card?"

"I have a debit card. I am not paying 1500 for this rug."

"My friend. I will add gift for you, a modest kilim." Kilim is a rug style that is very smooth and has slits in the fabric. In ancient times they were used for the nomadic tents, to allow for air circulation.

"Excellent, lets pick a Kilim." Eventually I chose a green one, with the idea of sending it to my Mother. As soon as I had indicated my intertest in selecting one the room burst into movement again, small table cover kilims were presented to me. I felt like I was doing well. I was having a lot of fun.

"More tea?" I asked. The man spoke in Turkish and a boy slipped quickly out of the room. I really did enjoy that apple tea they make there.

"1500 yes, for the kilim and this..." He indicated my rug.

"No no. I told you I am not paying 1500. I thought the kilim was simply a gift because we are such friends." He squinted. "Clearly I misunderstood." I patted his shoulder. "Thank you for the hospitality." I turned to leave and then I was grabbed. When they smell a sale they will not let you leave, you have to be downright rude to escape. Shoulder off of their hands, ignore their smiling faces, fill your bearing with resolve. It's not unlike breaking up, or telling someone who is manipulative "enough".

"My friend my friend." He laughed. "I like you very much. 1200!" He shouted it as if it were a dramatic happening, and I made my only mistake. This time I shook his hand, total blunder. By the time I had realized what I had done there was somehow already a credit card machine in the room and he was seated at a luxurious looking couch in the room ready for the transaction. I chastised myself via inner monologue.

"Hang on." I said. "What about shipping."

"Shipping is 120 dollars. Your credit card please?"

"No no." I shook my head. "You pay for shipping."

"My friend, please do not dishonor me by backing from this deal. You shook my hand in faith." He was correct of course, but fuck him, I thought. I remembered walking back to my hostel at the Reeperbahn, my belt undone, feeling the humiliation of a wretch and resenting how such a fun night had become such ann unpleasant lesson in the sharp teethed business of separating tourists from their money.

"I shook your hand, yes, but please do not take offense or think for a second I had meant to be discourteous to you. 1200 is a fair price, but I had no considered shipping." I sat next to him. "I understand if we cannot do business, I will leave here thinking well of this place." He eyed me. "What are these?" I indicated the hanging small looking round rugs that hung from the walls, they were paper thin.

"Cushions. Do you like them?"

"I do."

"My friend, I will give you two cushions and shipping for 1200." I looked at him, holding eye contact and pursing my mouth." We shared the sense we were close to a deal. It was the final sprint.

"600" I said.

"I cannot."

"I know. But I will shake your hand and give you my card for..." I trailed off and he laughed.

"You are a very difficult customer." I think he meant it as a compliment. "1000."

"1000." I nodded. "Deal." I shook his hand and dug through my wallet.

Of course this debit card had a maximum withdraw per day and it was Friday and I suddenly realized I might not have a 1000 US dollars at my disposal until Monday. In fact I was $125 short and had to return the next morning to pay the balance. The rug men all smiled, I think perhaps they considered it a good show and me a worthy adversary. I know that I left a little woozy from spending so much, but also energized and pleased and warmly towards all of them. It had taken three hours, several cups of tea, and a beer at the end where we toasted eachother and our health.

When I left I considered I may have gone lower, perhaps 800. But ultimately I felt good, more than two and half times less than the initial offer, with shipping, with a gift for my Mother and cushions to boot. I wanted to find a man on the Reeperbahn and offer to negotiate his encounter with the whores for him. The extra two hundred was worth the feeling of redemption. I would hang that carpet on my wall like a pelt, just as soon as I got home, and I knew it would be on the walls of my relatives for two hundred years. The carpet was magic, not that it could fly, but that it gave enough of a hint of the future that you felt you could nearly see.

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