Notes on the Bazaar

Yesterday, June 10th, I went with Pat and Jodie to the bazaar again. Though this was my third time “into town”, I felt as though it was my first. The previous times, both before the cross-country trip to Murree, I was blinded by jetlag and terror of making a wrong step which would unwittingly start a riot or provoke someone to shoot me. Initially I kept my eyes on the ground or on Pat’s back, which was immediately in front of me at all times, and clutched my headscarf as though it was my only protection from martyrdom. I marveled at Pat’s fearless navigation the labyrinth of tunnel-like streets and ruthless haggling with the universally male shopkeepers. I marveled, but I kept my eyes down.

While in Murree, however, I went into town with Paul and Esther, Paul’s niece who is roughly my age. Esther, instead of cowering as I did, walked straight and tall, her shrewd eyes spotting roving bands of young men in time for her to steer me clear of them. “You are as good as a brother!” I laughingly remarked, grateful that she always positioned herself between me and danger and that she even lent me a steady arm as we walked down steep inclines or patches of slippery gravel.

“If someone touches you, make a fuss,” she told me. “Yell at them or something; otherwise they will think you like it.” I was dubious. The last thing I wanted was to make a scene. Wasn’t it safer just to slink away quietly? But watching Esther I realized that women in this culture are expected to be strong. Men who might behave inappropriately, staring or trying to touch you, are considered weak to temptation. Women compensate for the predominant weakness of the men by practicing extreme modesty etc. In the same spirit, if a man transgresses the bounds of polite society, a woman is expected to stand up for herself by upbraiding or physically lashing out at the man; passers by on the street would be expected to take up the woman’s case yelling at the man until he is sufficiently ashamed. Pat told me that once, when she had felt hands on her behind, she had turned around and socked the first thing she found. It turned out to be a rotund woman who had accidentally brushed past her. The woman was surprised, and slightly winded, but congenially understood Pat’s actions. So, watching Esther and remembering Pat, I slowly began to stand tall and go about my business with more confidence.

Because of this, when I went to the bazaar yesterday it was like going for the first time. I looked around, eager and curious. I breathed in the air, smelling the spices and smoke and animals. Beyond the appearance of a village market with only home grown vegetables and plastic trinkets, the bazaar offers a vast variety of wares. During the three hours we were bustling around the various shops, stands, and booths, we were able to buy pharmaceuticals, a bicycle, a washing machine, knitting needles, and a cell phone. On previous visits I had bought shoes, bracelets, cloth, and taken that cloth to a tailor who took my measurements to sew me “tailor made” clothes. One can also buy hena, celebration banners with money sewn in, guns, perfume, or an infinite variety of fruits, veggies, spices, sweets, and meats.

Each shop has one kind of thing, for example, bracelets. No outfit, unless exclusively used around the house, is complete without matching plastic or glass bracelets. You need maybe twenty on each arm but don’t worry, the whole set costs less than a dollar. The bracelet shop will be comprised of three walls of floor to ceiling shelves of boxes of bracelets in every color; the fourth wall, of course is open to the street. One only needs to say a color or present a cloth sample and the shopkeeper will pull out several boxes of possibilities mixing various combinations (ex. red, gold, black). Once you choose a variety that suits you, the shopkeeper finds the right size by squeezing your thumb into the palm and gently easing the bracelets across. I don’t know how they do this so effectively. Every time I try myself to get these same bracelets on or off, I end up with bloody cuts from the bracelets which snap in the process. When the shopkeeper finds the right size, he (it is always a he) wraps up the whole stack of 40 glass rings in newspaper.

One of my favorite kinds of shops is cloth shops. Again, the walls of the store are full of floor to ceiling shelves all containing of bolts of cloth. Customers come in and point out cloth that interests them and a shopkeeper pulls it out, slaps it down on the counter, unrolling several yards to be inspected. All cloth comes in sets of three (to be made into pants, shirt, and scarf). All three are brought down and unrolled together so pretty soon the counters are covered in cloths of all colors, fabrics, and prints. If Pat is the one shopping, she very well may not find any combination to suit her exact inclination or may be not be satisfied with the price. In that case, she will raise her hand and politely say, “Nay shookria, teek!” (no thank you, ok!) Then she will walk on to another of the endless rows of seemingly identical cloth shops, leaving the luckless shopkeeps to re-roll their wares and turn their attention to other customers.

Pat likes to find the best quality item for the lowest price and is willing to spend time, effort, and wheedling to get the best deal. This often means checking several (3-7) shops, meticulously examining their offerings and testing their prices. We had to go to every electronics dealer in Mirpurkhas checking washing machine prices before going back to the first store we'd visited to make a purchase! But when she finds a reliable merchant, she is very faithful. There is one tailor to whom Pat brings all her business. His shop is across from a nick-knack store in a dingy but quiet corner of the bazaar. His shop appears bare compared to other shops since it contains no wares, just five or six ancient sewing machines (the kind that is hand powered by spinning a metal wheel) and a lone manikin hanging from the roof to indicate the talent of the tailor. When we visited to drop off cloth to be turned into suits, the tailor sent one of the young men lounging in the shop off to fetch us glass bottles of Mountain Dew to sip while we perused magazine of clothes options. Pat explained to me that the sodas were this shop keeper’s way of thanking us for being such faithful customers. Two days later, when we picked up the new clothes, I saw why Pat favors this tailor. The three suits were tastefully and expertly made with creative necklines that complemented the fabric and matching sleeves all for only $10 each.

The shoe shops were my particular favorites. A shoe store window will be filled with an infinite variety of sandals. They come in all colors, all kinds of straps, beaded, jeweled, all kinds of heels, and all unbelievably pretty. I don’t usually put much thought or care into my shoes but the price of $2-$5 for a pair caught my attention. All one has to do is to point at an example shoe in a glass display case or give a color and the shopkeepers will pull out five or six boxes of shoe-variations on what you liked. The only difficulty is that people in this country are proportionately two thirds my size. Though the shopkeepers estimated by looking at my feet, few of the pretty little sandals fit me. Still, over the various visits to the bazaar I have found several pairs that suit me. I’m now at the point where I’ve forbidden myself to even look at the shoes because I can’t afford any more space in my suitcase!

The bazaar is an exciting place full of color and sound. It is full of life. People are making their livelihoods and buying the things they need to go on living. It has a very different feel from western shopping malls. There seems to be more variety and more of an emphasis on “goodness of fit”. There is an expectation of finding exactly what you are looking for. I found it alternately intimidating and energizing. I’m glad that I will never have to traverse it alone, but with Pat’s guidance, it is fun place to visit.