MAY 28, 2007 -- I don't know about you, but when I've spent a morning riding elephants, I like to follow it up with a good solid four and a half hours of shopping. And who better to shop with than a Brazilian woman named Pilar. Pilar is a prolific and fearless shopper. I think she bought out half of India in the five days we were there. The girl takes no prisoners when she barters. She can wait out, outwit and talk down the slickest of salesmen. I was just an innocent bystander who occasionally with conviction belted out the phrase: "Yeh, what she said."Like soldiers assigned to retail detail, we swooped down on the marketplace and secured the area. Weaving and dodging the aggressive street hawkers, we ducked into shop after shop. Shopping in India is quite a production. It kinda reminds me of how people in the olden days used to make social calls to neighbors' homes on Sundays. In each shop, the owner invites you to sit down and have a hot chai or cold soda. You might browse the shelves for a minute, but ultimately you'll take a seat and the shopkeeper will bring everything to you. If it's tapestries you like, he'll bring out a variety of them in different colors and patterns. If you like a certain style, he'll show you more of the same; likewise, if you don't like a particular design, he'll put those aside. When you've narrowed it down to what you would like to purchase, the bartering begins with your opening line: "How much for all of this?" And if you're Pilar, you follow that up with the qualifying statement, "And make it a good price."
Typically the salesman will ask for double, even triple, the amount he would actually take and still make a profit. That's our cue to protest and make a counteroffer; then he scoffs at us and says he can't make a profit at that price. He reminds us of the craftsmanship, the quality, and then he makes another offer. Now it's our turn to scoff. We come up on the price just a little and say "That's it. That's all we'll pay. If you don't take this offer, we don't want the [purse/scarf/tapestry]." The shopkeeper will hold his ground, saying he couldn't possibly let the [purse/scarf/tapestry] go at that price. He'll come down just slightly -- maybe 25 rupees worth and say that that is HIS final offer.
This is where I usually wave my white flag and surrender. Particularly when I convert the rupees to U.S. dollars and realize that I'm still paying a dirt-cheap price whether I settle at 300 or 400 rupees.
But not Pilar. No, Pilar will call the salesman's bluff. She will stare down her enemy, arms folded across her chest, her face devoid of any signs of weakness. "No deal," she'll say. "I'm not paying that much." And then she'll deliver the clincher: "I was just at a shop down the block and they were charging half of what you're asking. I know what you're asking is too much. I will give you [X amount] or nothing. Do you want to make a sale or not? If not, I can do my business elsewhere."
In the end, Pilar typically gets her price, and I ride her coattails, getting good prices because she did the talking. We shopped all afternoon. I bought embroidered pillowcases, elaborate tapestries, beaded sandals, woven blouses, silk pashminas and two painted elephants. Our merchandise was stuffed into black garbage bags. Wandering the streets of Jaipur, we must have looked like two confused ladies who couldn't find the dumpster.
As the hours wore on, I couldn't believe how dirty we got. Moving between the scorching sun in the streets to the shaded coolness of the shops (no A/C, just big fans and a few window units if you're lucky), I must have acquired three or four layers of dried sweat and grime. My sandaled feet were grayish black and my fingernails looked like I'd been working on cars all day. The city streets in Jaipur (and in Agra and Delhi, for that matter) are riddled with waste -- crushed soda cans and plastic water bottles, food wrappers, cow poop, monkey poop, goat poop, camel poop, elephant poop -- that's a lotta poop!You'll even see (or smell, rather) urine from time to time. In India, men frequently and openly assume the V-legged stance and let er' go. I had to get used to that; it's not every day that you walk past men doing their business --- sparkling arches springing forth from open flies.
Indian men do EVERYTHING in the streets. It's where all the action is. Need a shave and a haircut? Barbers line the sidewalks, setting up a simple table, chair and mirror. Need a shower? Join your brothers and uncles on a cement slab, where you'll find water hoses and buckets with sponges and soap. Want to catch a quick cat nap? You'll find rickety cots made of rope and wood. Toothache? No problem. "Dentists" lay their medical tools and salves on blankets and do their handiwork right their on the sidewalk. Just look for the little handmade signs with the big toothy grins.
And, of course, there are a million things for sale in the streets: milk, vegetables, meats, fruits, tires, ice cream, coconuts, cotton candy, cigarettes, hardware, shoes. Commerce is everywhere you turn. Indians are always, always, always working, hustling, conversing, arguing, laughing, moving, running, begging, hammering, chopping, doing whatever they can to make do and survive among the masses. Humanity is in your face at every turn. I was humbled, awed, digusted, moved, touched and entertained. Most of all, I just felt alive. Very, very alive. 
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