- Joined
- Nov 3, 1998
- Messages
- 4,331
I was in the tower yesterday with Sgt Davis, since Howard was released from his profile. Sgt. Davis opened the door, returning from lunch.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “The line in the check-cashing place took a while.”
“What did you need cash for, sergeant?”
Sgt. Davis looked over at me, with his typical front-teeth visible chipmunk look.
“Oh, today’s the bazaar.”
“The bazaar?”
“You know where I got those chess sets and tea sets and stuff.”
Ah. Right.
Later, I asked the sergeant if I could go with him.
“Now, what I do,” he said with a grin, “is put 20 dollars in this pocket, and 30 dollars in this pocket, and another 20 dollars in this pocket, and 40 dollars in this pocket.”
“So you can reach into a pocket, and say, ‘this is all I have’.”
“Right. And they’ll, what they’ll usually say, is, ‘well, if that’s all you have, I guess I’ll take it.’”
I cashed a check for $140- I only have three left now, I believe- to have cash, and I still had $10 left from my casual pay withdrawal three weeks ago. I changed out of my uniform, and into PTs, and we went.
The bazaar consisted of a section near the outer wall of Camp Phoenix, just a little inside from Jalalabad Road. The vendors were packed next to each other in little stall-sized areas, covered by tarps. Boys, and a few men, prowled the aisles with Afghan money, trinkets, and even wooden snakes. Sergeant Davis had warned me that they would “get in my face”- meaning inside my comfort zone, but that rarely happened with me, though I kept my unloaded M4 ready, in case I needed to “accidentally” crack someone on the shins to make space. Perhaps because I was ready, I didn’t need to employ my crowd-parting device.
Towards the end of my tour through the booths, I stopped and talked to Mashook, a man selling knives. He had several kukuris, that he called ghurkas. I picked up a kukuri that was about 14” long. It was full tang, with a ground edge, and he said that he got the metal from a rocket. He wanted $110. Wow. I’ve seen better kukuris from HI for $40, and under prodding, I told him so. He pulled out a notebook with some scribbled prices in it, to “prove” to me that I couldn’t get a kukuri for less than he was asking (he would have taken $80). I also lost most of my interest in dealing with him when he assured me that he had made all the knives in front of him, when I could see the industrial stamp on a factory made knife.
Next to Mashook was a dealer selling rugs.
“Look, I show you,” he said. I was really looking for a smaller rug, really a 2x3’ piece or so, and this was much larger.
“That’s very nice,” I agreed. “How much?”
$550.
Look at the colors, he told me. Look at the stitching.
“Nice, tight knots,” I agreed. “It’s beautiful. I just don’t have that money with me.”
“How much?” he asked. “How much you want pay?”
“Oh, I can’t afford this,” I told him honestly.
“How much you have? For you…I go four-ninety.”
“That’s very fair, I’m sure,” I assured him. “That’s probably too cheap. I just don’t have that kind of money. And I don’t need something this large. Do you have something a little smaller?”
“Too big? Not too big. You take home, you like.”
“I live in a small space.” I indicated an area about the size of the rug. “My space is only about this big, including my bed; not much room for a rug.”
“You hang on wall.”
“This is a very nice rug, and I wish I could get it. But it’s too big, and I don’t have the money for it.”
He finally produced a smaller rug, still larger than what I had envisioned, but half the size of the first one.
“Camel wool,” he said, rubbing his hand across the surface. “More expensive than sheep.”
“How much you want?”
“For you, I go- two-twenty.”
“Wow, that’s very fair.”
“You buy?”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t have that much on me.”
“How much you have?”
“Oh, I don’t have enough.”
“How much?”
“It’s not enough. I don’t want to insult you.”
Eventually, I apologized for even entering his stall, with his fine rugs, for wasting his precious, valuable time. He agreed-finally- to take $140, because he wanted repeat customers, he said. I had wanted to keep my other $10, so I’d have a little cash left for the next two weeks, but when I gave him the $140, and he saw I had another $10, he said he’d agreed for $150. What the hell. All the during this time, Mashook was stalking by, trying to get me to buy his kukuri. I guess he thought my statement about value was a bargaining tactic, and he kept asking, “how much you pay?” I already told you, you bastard. Back off.
So, I don’t know if I got taken, broke even, or made out. Matter of perspective, I guess. But I should have listened to Sergeant Davis.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “The line in the check-cashing place took a while.”
“What did you need cash for, sergeant?”
Sgt. Davis looked over at me, with his typical front-teeth visible chipmunk look.
“Oh, today’s the bazaar.”
“The bazaar?”
“You know where I got those chess sets and tea sets and stuff.”
Ah. Right.
Later, I asked the sergeant if I could go with him.
“Now, what I do,” he said with a grin, “is put 20 dollars in this pocket, and 30 dollars in this pocket, and another 20 dollars in this pocket, and 40 dollars in this pocket.”
“So you can reach into a pocket, and say, ‘this is all I have’.”
“Right. And they’ll, what they’ll usually say, is, ‘well, if that’s all you have, I guess I’ll take it.’”
I cashed a check for $140- I only have three left now, I believe- to have cash, and I still had $10 left from my casual pay withdrawal three weeks ago. I changed out of my uniform, and into PTs, and we went.
The bazaar consisted of a section near the outer wall of Camp Phoenix, just a little inside from Jalalabad Road. The vendors were packed next to each other in little stall-sized areas, covered by tarps. Boys, and a few men, prowled the aisles with Afghan money, trinkets, and even wooden snakes. Sergeant Davis had warned me that they would “get in my face”- meaning inside my comfort zone, but that rarely happened with me, though I kept my unloaded M4 ready, in case I needed to “accidentally” crack someone on the shins to make space. Perhaps because I was ready, I didn’t need to employ my crowd-parting device.
Towards the end of my tour through the booths, I stopped and talked to Mashook, a man selling knives. He had several kukuris, that he called ghurkas. I picked up a kukuri that was about 14” long. It was full tang, with a ground edge, and he said that he got the metal from a rocket. He wanted $110. Wow. I’ve seen better kukuris from HI for $40, and under prodding, I told him so. He pulled out a notebook with some scribbled prices in it, to “prove” to me that I couldn’t get a kukuri for less than he was asking (he would have taken $80). I also lost most of my interest in dealing with him when he assured me that he had made all the knives in front of him, when I could see the industrial stamp on a factory made knife.
Next to Mashook was a dealer selling rugs.
“Look, I show you,” he said. I was really looking for a smaller rug, really a 2x3’ piece or so, and this was much larger.
“That’s very nice,” I agreed. “How much?”
$550.
Look at the colors, he told me. Look at the stitching.
“Nice, tight knots,” I agreed. “It’s beautiful. I just don’t have that money with me.”
“How much?” he asked. “How much you want pay?”
“Oh, I can’t afford this,” I told him honestly.
“How much you have? For you…I go four-ninety.”
“That’s very fair, I’m sure,” I assured him. “That’s probably too cheap. I just don’t have that kind of money. And I don’t need something this large. Do you have something a little smaller?”
“Too big? Not too big. You take home, you like.”
“I live in a small space.” I indicated an area about the size of the rug. “My space is only about this big, including my bed; not much room for a rug.”
“You hang on wall.”
“This is a very nice rug, and I wish I could get it. But it’s too big, and I don’t have the money for it.”
He finally produced a smaller rug, still larger than what I had envisioned, but half the size of the first one.
“Camel wool,” he said, rubbing his hand across the surface. “More expensive than sheep.”
“How much you want?”
“For you, I go- two-twenty.”
“Wow, that’s very fair.”
“You buy?”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t have that much on me.”
“How much you have?”
“Oh, I don’t have enough.”
“How much?”
“It’s not enough. I don’t want to insult you.”
Eventually, I apologized for even entering his stall, with his fine rugs, for wasting his precious, valuable time. He agreed-finally- to take $140, because he wanted repeat customers, he said. I had wanted to keep my other $10, so I’d have a little cash left for the next two weeks, but when I gave him the $140, and he saw I had another $10, he said he’d agreed for $150. What the hell. All the during this time, Mashook was stalking by, trying to get me to buy his kukuri. I guess he thought my statement about value was a bargaining tactic, and he kept asking, “how much you pay?” I already told you, you bastard. Back off.
So, I don’t know if I got taken, broke even, or made out. Matter of perspective, I guess. But I should have listened to Sergeant Davis.
I feel like I was there. Good story. 
).