If I learned anything in Otavalo, home to the largest outdoor market in South America, it was that neither Verónica nor I were barterers. In a situation where haggling and compromise were expected, find yourself a different set of traveling companions, because Veró and I were polar opposites on this issue of economic etiquette.
Veró, a.k.a. La cobra, low-balled the artisans and squeezed until they oozed under-priced merchandise. She’d offer a price and then wait, impaling the seller with a look of wizened skepticism that made more than one buckle at the knees and slash prices. None of the usual tricks impressed or distracted Veró from extracting a bargain: emphatic polishing, maternal-like urging, and trailing after her through the aisles all failed to convince her to accept an initial offer. Like a princess surrounded by eager-to-please attendants, Veró brushed off their entreaties with a regal indifference.
I, a.k.a. La patética, couldn’t even get a vendor to drop from an asking price of $7 to $6. After such a resounding defeat, I was haggle-whipped for the rest of the day and instead deputized myself as Veró’s accomplice, recoiling at high prices with proclamations of “¡Ay! ¡Se cuesta un ojo en la cara!” (an idiom from her phrase book that we found too delightful not to use). I was also adept at doling out looks of astonishment upon hearing a merchant’s asking price, visually affirming that Veró was not born yesterday and would not be extorted. I then switched those looks of astonishment to Veró herself as we left the stand, she with her purchase safely tucked away and at over 40% below the asking price. She became my juxtaposition, further accentuating my haggling inadequacies. Veró didn’t barter; she conquered.
The bulk of my day in Otavalo therefore consisted of comical bouts of misunderstandings and embarrassing corrections, from having my articles amended by a waiter (“Está el Coca-Cola fría?” “Sí, la Coca-Cola está fría.”) to going back-and-forth in the spirit of Who’s on first? with a merchant, both of us saying the same price (“Dos dolares.” “Dos dolares?” “No, dos dolares.”) and not understanding that we were in agreement.
So by the time the drizzle came and we turned our meanderings in a homeward direction, my incentive to bargain was fairly deflated. I had one last gift to get, however: an alpaca blanket for my mom. As we wove in between stands stacked shoulder high with ponchos and throws, sidestepping the occasional deluge of rain built-up in the overhanging tarps, I braced myself for one last round of haggling. The blanket I settled on was pulled from the depths of a mountainous pile by a petite Otavaleña. Let the bargaining begin!
La Otavaleña: “Diez y ocho.”
Veró jumped in (I had beseeched her to support my final feeble effort): “Doce.”
Dang, that was a 33% cut. Veró’s got bartering balls, she really does.
La Otavaleña: “Diez y seis.”
Ok, my turn. I grabbed the reins from Veró. “Cuarenta.”
I recognized my mistake almost immediately. Almost. The amiable grin of the vendor and Veró’s expression of horrified amusement clued me in. I’d mixed up 40 and 14. Gee willikers.
“¡No, no!” I laughed, reaching over to touch the vendor’s arm in deference to my error. She laughed with Veró and me, joking that she’d take $40, if that’s what I wanted to pay. I corrected myself, “Catorce. ¡Catorce!” repeating it a few times for clarity and emphasis, abashed and amused by my continued uncontested ability to blunder my way through a conversation. My pride had once again taken a hit, but I wouldn’t have traded my mix-up or the vendor’s good-natured reaction for any price.
Because a moment of humanity is not only universally understood . . . it’s priceless.
I restricted my photography in the market to remain inconspicuous and respect the artisans. This shot along one street of La Plaza de Ponchos was one of only four photos I took in Otavalo.
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