Bargaining in Malawi

So you want to bargain and buy things in Malawi, eh?  Let me relate a story that happened to me recently.  In Malawi, there are many instances where being an 'Azungu' or foreigner carries specific benefits.  Trying to buy goods in the market is not one of those instances.  Right away you are seen as having money, which is usually accurate, at least more than them.  Before I begin, let me warn you that I am horrible at bargaining and usually overpay, for a couple of reasons.  

1) I usually wait until the last minute to buy what I need and thus don't have time to shop around

2) When shopping, because I am in a hurry (see point 1), I usually don't like to take the time to bargain

3) I just don't like shopping

Yesterday, I took a taxi (grossly overpriced) to the area 2 market to buy a suit jacket.  You kind of need a suit jacket to attend high level meetings and since I have one today (actually had, it was kind of, sort of cancelled which is why I have time to write this blog) I needed a suit jacket yesterday.  

I got out of the taxi and limped (see previous post) to the market.  There are suit jackets hanging everywhere.  I start asking to see some but most are either too large or too small.  I wonder at this because I am the typical size of a Malawian man, so they must all have a hard time finding jackets.  I try a few more market stalls and finally find a jacket that fits well and whose style is somewhat pleasing to my and I hope, while I'm wearing it, other's eyes.  I ask the vendor for the price.  He quotes me MK3800.  That price is ridiculous.  I do my fake, choking, disbelieving look/noises but he is not impressed.  They usually aren't.  They're pretty good at this.  

I tell him the price is too much.  He says we can negotiate and tells me MK3600.  Oh, at this point I should let you know that I had asked the cab driver, as he was dressed well, what the price of a suit jacket should be.  He told me between MK600 and MK1000.  This is a good idea.  Always do some research first.  Although there is always the possibility that they could be wrong.  Another good idea is to go into a store and look at the price there so you can get your BATNA (a negotiating term, Best Alternative To Negotiated Agreement).  

So, I'm at this vendor with this jacket that I like and he has offered me MK3600 as his best offer.  I know this price is ridiculous as most Malawians can't afford to pay that much for a suit jacket.  I say 'No, no, don't give me the 'azungu' price. I want the Malawian price'.  This usually never works, so don't bother.  All you will get is assurances that you are getting the Malawian price.  Then he tells me that prices have gone up etc. etc. yadda yadda yadda.  He asks me for an offer.  So, now is your chance... don't get anchored (another negotiation term) by his initial quote.  Just go for what you think is the right price.  What's he gonna do, laugh?  Another approach is to tell him what the price should be from the get-go, like, "Hey, I'll give you MK600 for that jacket."  This is probably better, but as I said before I'm not the best at this.

So, I offer MK600.  He starts to laugh and there is laughter by those all around me.  Don't get fooled by this ploy!  They love to do this one.  They all laugh as if what you have offered is the most ridiculous price.  You look around and everyone is laughing as if you have told the most fantastic joke in the world.  Trust me, you'll get laughed at a lot.  But stand your ground.  Winston Churchill would have! Don't ask where that came from, I have no idea, but I could tell you this cool story about Winston Churchill negotiating with Italy (or was it Germany?) over the fate of five countries including Malta (where my parents are from) during WWII.  I'm not at all sure if it is true but his stance definitely put him in a positive light in my eyes.  He rejected Italy (Germany?)'s offer by the way...

The vendor rejects my offer, then shows me the suit jacket lining, and brand name, and says that this is quality.  I ask what is the price difference then between this one and all the others.  He replies that they are all the same, which makes no sense, since some of these jackets are horrible looking, some seem to belong in a marching band (forgiveness, please, if you love marching band jackets, but really now...).  I then see a small paper pinned to one of the jackets that says "600".  I ask, if they are all the same price, well that one says 600, so they must all be 600.  He replies that 600 actually refers to British pounds.  So apparently, in this market stall in Malawi, in Area 2, this marching band suit jacket costs 600 British pounds, which is equivalent to 1200 Canadian dollars, also equalling 168,000 Malawi kwacha, which given the disposable income of most professional Malawians (who would be in the market for a suit jacket but probably not a marching band suit jacket) would require them to save up for about 8 months to buy this thing, if they didn't buy anything else within that time period.

"Really? 600 british pounds?"

"yes"

"Pounds? you're serious..." (said in a sarcastic, kind of suave-like manner)

"Yes"

"Do you know how much kwacha that is?"

"---"  thinking...

"Its about 180,000 kwacha"  

"Yes, that is the price"

"So, if thats the price, and they're all the same price, why are these only MK3600?"

"---" grin on his face... his friend starts taking out his calculator to calculate the conversion of 600 british pounds to Malawi kwacha.

"600.  British pounds.  You're sure?"

"Yes".

Okay, at this point I walk away.  I'm tired and I hate getting ripped off, and I'll just find someone else to buy a jacket from, which I eventually did, but still overpaid, but only paid about MK1000, which is at least reasonable.  Now I thought about walking past that first vendor and showing him that he missed out on a sale and that he could have made some profit if he was reasonable, but then I think that this is petty and not very nice, besides vengefulness is not a very admirable quality.  I mean... really, look how Captain Ahab turned out?

I 'kneed' to get better...

Sunday started as an ordinary day. My plan was to go to church, and then over to the golf club where our work was having a social gathering. I had Jeffrey in tow today. When I got to the golf club I found everyone sitting in a small room staring at the front. Apparently we were having a talk about something. Finally, the director walked in with a woman and they started talking about HIV/AIDS. I had no idea we were talking about it, and since I don't speak Chichewa, I still have no idea what was said. I just sat there and watched, but I think the whole point was to keep people in marriages faithful, as a means of preventing the spread of HIV/AIDS.
After the talk we all went outside to play sports. I was playing football (soccer) with everyone and was doing pretty well. I got the ball, and zigged, then zagged, actually managed to dribble by a few people. I was fast. Light as a feather. I was a pheonix rising from the ashes... and then BOOM!. I felt my knee cap kick out of place. I felt it dislocate and then pop back into place as I collided with one of my colleagues. I limped off the field and then had to sit down as I felt faint. The pain was excrutiating. Imagine having you insides turned upside down and twisted, hot coals applied to all parts of your body, having your knee poked with a thousand sharp knives and burned with a quadrillion hot irons, and...well it wasn't that bad but it still hurt a lot. Anyway, to shorten the story, right now, I'm incapacitated, went to the doctor. It looks okay but I'm still limping around. The doctor was actually inside the military barracks which was kind of cool to see. I was even saluted. Well, actually, I think the doctor was but I was with him, so it was still kind of cool. I had x-rays and the doctor thinks it will be okay. Thinks there is no muscle damage. Anyway, pang'ono pang'ono (little by little), we'll see how it goes...

Blog change

Hello, all.  I've been having trouble with my blog software so have had to switch the blog to this page.  Its a bit limited compared to what I was using before, but I'm able to access it from here.  My old software was having trouble connecting due to the spotty internet here in Malawi.

Thanks!  Enjoy!

JP

Drunk Man in Kabindiza

originally written July 14, 2008

I was standing by the hot-cast iron pan, blackened with years of use, placed above a fire surrounded by bricks.  The guys were cooking up some chips (french fries) on the road just outside my house in Kabindiza village.  My friend Kim (another EWBer) was sitting by the house talking with the children and women of the village.  I was talking with Matapata, a health agent from the nearby clinic.  We hadn't seen each other in a few months and we were catching up.  Since most of the people in the village don't speak English, I gravitated toward Matapata as he is one of the few English speaking people in the village.  As we chatted, a drunk man (and I mean drunk!) walked up the side of the rod and stumbled over to me.  He started speaking very loudly (even though I was right in front of him), saying that I should feel free in Malawi.  That I should not judge people on the colour of their skin.  That I should consider Malawi my homeland.  He went on and on like this as everyone else remained silent.  He would jump into a fit of hysterical laughter in between every few sentences.  He then said that I should challenge people in the area.  "Challenge in what?" is what I replied.  He didn't have an answer.  There were times that his slurring was so bad that I couldn't understand his English.  I just stood there with my arms folded.  I make it a policy here not to encourage drunk behaviour and not to play along, because it is a big problem here, especially in the village.  He continued on this line of discussion for about 20 minutes, repeating the same things over and over again.  My patience was wearing thin.

He then started walking over to where the children were sitting with Kim.  I stole a glance from Barrack and he looked worried.  The drunk man was now laughing hysterically and yelling the same things at Kim as he did me, telling her to challenge the children to something.  I walked over and said to him (I later found out his name was Kennedy), Tiyeni! Let's go!  I walked him back to the street, and I tried to talk about where he lived and his family.  He kept yelling at me and I was definitely annoyed at this point.  After some time I thought he had left but I spotted him walking over to Kim again and yelling the same things.  I walked over to him and was ready to tell him where to go!  I was fed up.  But something stopped me...

All of a sudden I got it.  Here was a man who is obviously educated (he could speak English, which usually means he has graduated from high school, I later learned he used to be a teacher).  Perhaps his alcoholism is related to the fact that he feels that his potential has been stifled at every turn by his surroundings.  Now, obviously this is no excuse for anyone.  But, I thought of myself in that situation, would I be any different from Kennedy?  Perhaps not.  And would I want someone pushing me away and yelling at me in front of all my neighbours without knowing my story?  Without knowing what I had dealt with?  With what I was dealing with?  Probably not.  ...but, I needed to get him out of there and away from Kim and the children.  So I walked up to Kennedy and asked him if I could walk him to his house.  He agreed.  We started walking and he was spewing the same garbage about challenging and the like.  I kept changing the subject, trying to discern how much alcohol he actually had.  You know how after you no longer fear something, it appears ridiculous?  Well, I now saw that Kennedy was harmless, and that his unpredictability was not fearsome, but was a tad ridiculous, and I felt sorry for him...

At some point I realized that his house was was further that I had originally thought, and it was getting dark.  I stopped Kennedy at a point where I thought he would probably not come back to Barrack's house, at least tonight.  Zikomo.  Muyenda bwino.  Thank you.  Travel well.  While still heavily intoxicated, Kennedy understood that I was no longer escorting him the whole way.

All of a sudden, it seemed as if his features cleared and he said to me, "Thank you for handling the situation the way you did."  Then he fell back into his stupor and stumbled off.  I was a bit surprised at what I heard.  I smiled to myself and followed the dirt road back to Barrack's house, my heart a little lighter.  The descending sun slowly elongated the shadows to my left, before it disappeared behind the mountains for another night.

Oh Canada!

originally written July 8, 2008

We stood on the beach, a bunch of overseas volunteers, arms linked, sand between our toes, surrounded in darkness.  Two of our group were hunched over mortars trying to light fireworks.  The rest of us were giddy with excitement.  There is something about innocent immature fun that everyone enjoys.  One of us started singing.  The rest joined in.  Our voices are not good.  To be honest, they're bad.  I'm sure someone had a good voice, but they were drowned out by the rest of us myself included.  You know, back in Canada, you only hear the national anthem at hockey games, or when you were in high school.  But standing on that beach, singing my guts out, I was proud to sing it, proud to be a Canadian.  The national anthem never sounded so good to me.  Being in a strange land, far away from home, but still linked somehow...

Every once in a while, here in Malawi, you'll encounter someone with a Mountain Equipment Co-op backpack.  Or a bag with a Maple Leaf stitched into it.  Even other ex-pats often comment... "there is something about you Canadians.  You guys never seem to get ruffled"  I remember talking with one british couple who owns a backpackers in Malawi.  They said, "you know, if Canada wasn't so cold, we'd move there after here.  Its just full of great people."  And you know what?  It is.  Canada is a great country.  Sure we have our problems, Sure we can be better, but I'm proud to be from the land of poutine, boring but good government, maple syrup, big sky country, rocky mountains, great lakes, freezing winters, blazing summers, lacrosse, veterans, english and french (though to my embarrassment, my french is horrible), tolerance, overt politeness (ever notice how WE apologize when someone steps on OUR feet?) and though we didn't invent it, we certainly put our stamp on it, hockey.

So to my fellow Canadians, I miss you.  I love you.  Thank you for being you which has allowed me to be me.  God Bless.  Happy Canada Day!

Walking the Streets of Blantyre

originally written June 22, 2008

The minibus door opens.  I step outside, my footsteps barely audible amidst the bustling traffic and the chatter in the city streets.  My eyes turn right, then left, and I cross the street.  Looking down the boulevard, my view is consumed with a myriad of shops, a collection of concrete and paint reducing in the distance as perspective dictates.  I walk along the sidewalk, passing women sitting at red plastic tables, some with their head in their hands, others looking listless, staring into the distance, waiting for a customer to buy some cell phone units.  In between the tables, men sit, with packs of shoe polish, waiting for a customer.  One notices my dusty shoes, remnants of Lilongwe, and offers to polish my shoes.  "Ee-aye, zikomo", a polite refusal.

As I continue walking, underneath the canopies of concrete balconies, passing stationary stores, hardware dealers, bakeries, I notice a boy walking toward me.  He must be less than 5 years old, and even more striking is that he is alone.  His attire is a direct contrast to the rest of our surroundings.  He is wearing a parka, with the hood pulled over his head.  It is cold this morning.  His eyes catch mine.  I expect a request for money, but the only word that escapes his lips are "Sharp!", a common greeting for children.  A smile forms on my lips.  As we pass, I look back, as he hurries forward with a determination that contradicts his age.

I cross the road again, negotiating a roundabout, looking for an opportunity to pass through the never ending parade of cars, trucks and minibuses.  In the centre of the roundabout a clock stands alone, supported by some strange architect's nightmare.  Its hands struggle to give accurate time, but its efforts are fruitless.  It is frozen in time, a relic of the past.

I turn a corner and pass under a railroad bridge.  The word 'Carlsberg' encompasses the entire side of the structure.  Underneath, I pass a woman, sitting on the ground, huddled in a blanked, its warm cloth pulled over her such that her face is barely visible.  She is shivering.  My feet arrest my forward momentum, and then turn back towards the woman.  The rest of my body follows.  One hundred kwacha finds its way into my hand, then finds its way into hers.  Is it enough?  No.  I continue up the road and see an abundance of minibuses, some idle, some revving their engines, their conductors yelling out destinations, "Chileka!", "Limbe!".  I climb aboard the one I'm looking for.  I fold down the seat and sit down.  I am the last passenger.  The door slides closed.  The driver shifts into gear.  The world passes by anew, in a flurry of colours blurred into homogeneity.