From One Buckeye to Another

As soon as I walked into the Maasai market, there was an onslaught of warm bodies and an abundance of items for sale.  It seemed there was a never-ending stream of people pushing in close, urging me to buy their products, trying to convince me that I was their best customer of the morning.  Shopping in the Maasai market in downtown Nairobi is not for the faint of heart - and certainly not for anyone who has no willpower.  If you can't stand your ground and give a rather forceful "no" or a very direct wave of the hand, then you'll get eaten alive. By the time you leave, you're on sensory overload and exhausted from the mental marathon you just experienced by haggling your way through the morning, dealing with persistent and incessant vendors.   

I equate the Maasai market to buying anything Amish back home.  You put the name Maasai on it and it sells.  It's rather annoying.  And what's even more annoying is walking into the market and having everyone think you're loaded just because you're an American.  What's also really annoying is when they say it's handmade or unique or that they spent all morning working on it.  I want to be like "Dude, there are ten more of this exact same item in just about every booth I walk past.  And I'm pretty sure you didn't spend all morning making it. Actually, I'm pretty sure YOU didn't make it at all."  I always want to ask them if I have "stupid" written across my forehead. 

As I meandered my way through, I kept my eyes open for a few items I had regretted not buying last time.  I came upon one gentleman's booth (if you can call it that - they basically lay out tarps on the ground and claim an area to lay out all of their goods) and spotted some jewelry that came somewhat close to what I was looking for.  As soon as they recognize they have something you want, the vendors can be relentless about making sure you walk away with.  He saw me glance at a few bracelets with an admiring eye and he pounced. 

"Very nice, yes.  I give you good price.  You are a good customer, I give good price. First customer of the morning, I give you good price."

I looked at him like he's crazy.  "First customer of the morning, really?  It's after 11 - I know you've been here awhile.  I'm fairly confident I'm not your first customer."

"No, no, you are my first customer."  Again, they must think I have stupid written across my forehead.  I try really hard not to be THAT American.

So, we started negotiating.  His first offer?  Fourteen hundred shillings for each bracelet I had picked up, which equals about $15, depending on your exchange rate.  I had six bracelets in my hand.  I said absolutely not, handed them back to him and walked away.  Because now I was annoyed.  I know some poor soul somewhere along the way probably thought that was a great offer and actually gave him the money.

He followed me around the market, determined that I should buy his bracelets.  I ignored him.  You don't want to give me my price, I'm not going to give you my money.  It's a simple concept.

I look at other jewelry and trinkets along the way.  He's still following me. I'm still ignoring him. I made another purchase along the way of a woodcarving I had regretted not buying last time.  (Took awhile to negotiate that one, too.  By the time I was done, we were down to 25% of what he had originally offered.)  I used to feel bad about ignoring them or waving them off or being really forceful, but they can be so dang aggressive about it that I just start to get mad.  They have brokers, too, which are even more irritating.  One snagged me as soon as I walked in and he wouldn't leave me alone.  I finally clapped my hands together and said rather directly, "Thank you, but I do not need your help!"  He left in a huff.  I didn't feel sorry this time around.

So, my bracelet friend is still following me.  He said with a reluctant smile on his face, which was a complete charade, "Okay, okay, I come down on my offer."  He gives me a new price. Still too high.  I know he can go lower.  They always write the prices down on their hands or pull you in close to whisper the price, as if they are telling you some deep dark secret, afraid to say it out loud for fear of the other vendors hearing.  His price was no secret and I'm still not stupid.

My time is running out.  I kept looking, not finding better jewelry from the other vendors.  My bracelet friend had what I wanted, just not at the price I wanted.  I made my way back to him and his booth.  He sees me coming.  I stooped down to look at the selection some more.  I handed him the bracelets I wanted, tell him the price I wanted them at and then added that I'm leaving the market in a few minutes, hoping to pressure him, knowing this is my last chance. 

And then I noticed his hat. 

Up until this point, I had just noticed his faded shirt and jeans and crooked yellow teeth.  I hadn't even glanced at the hat.  And what do I see on his hat?

A big block "O."

Turns out, I've got a Buckeye on my hands.

I tap his hat, smile at him and say I am from Ohio.  He says, "Oh yes, yes, good country."  Yes, I know.  Now give me the price I want so I can go back to my good country a happy woman.  He writes down one final price, the ink in his pen running out.

I said, "I'll give you this many shillings for all of these bracelets - and I'll throw in my pen, as well."  He finally succumbed.  I get my bracelets, he gets my money and my trusty pen.  We shake hands and I walk away.  We Buckeyes like to win.

Just don't make a liar out of me, Urban Meyer.  There is a man in Kenya wearing your hat.  We don't want to damage his reputation in the Maasai market.  ;)