Liars

“You carry men's clothes?” I asked the vendor in Swahili.
“All of these are men's.” He replied enthusiastically, gesturing to all the hanging slacks and trousers, as well as the pile of clothes on the floor.
I am not much for clothing shopping, but I was primed to purchase another pair of jeans. The two pairs I brought from the States had worn through and been patched too many times. I rifled through the clothes on the floor, coming across a pair with “waist 33.” Perfect. I thought to myself. Somewhere between 32 and 34 fits me perfectly, plus 33 was my favorite number.
“How much for these?” I ask.
“500 shillings ($6).” was his reply.
“I'll give you 100 ($1.20).”
So we haggled and finally agreed on 200 shillings, or $2.40. I put the jeans in my bag and went off merrily.
When I reached my house, I unrolled my jeans and tried them on. I struggled to pull them up, they were a bit tight over the thighs. They also flared out a bit at the bottom. Must be a European fit, I thought to myself. The waistline was slightly elastic too, which was a strange but pleasant surprise. They fit my waist perfectly. Then, as I reached my hands into my pockets, barely half of my hand fit in. I tried the zipper, and it was about half the length of zippers I was used to. Hastily, I checked the brand – Ralph Lauren. I was wearing a pair of women's jeans.
My first thought was that of perplexity at the dysfunctional pockets of female jeans. These pockets are so shallow, they are essentially unusable! I thought. How do girls manage? I sighed at my misfortune. With no changing room and no proper labels, I was easily tricked into purchasing a pair of jeans that were the wrong sex. A flash of anger rose in me at the guy who deceived me into thinking I was purchasing male jeans, especially because I specifically asked him. He robbed me of my $2.40, which does not seem like much, but if you consider that I can purchase 30 delicious mangoes for that much, it becomes quite a bit. I was cheated, and it resonated in me. “That liar,” I thought to myself.

It wasn't the first time I had been cheated. Time after time, in produce markets or tourist shops, the sellers try to rip me off. It is common knowledge that salesmen all over the world are notorious for saying everything and anything in order to close a deal. But here in Kenya, it is a strange, unwritten code among Kenyan salesmen to charge certain prices based on a person's appearance of wealth, status, race, and naivety. And no place executes this unwritten code better than Mombasa.

Mombasa is like a secret network of conspirators, an infallible infrastructure meant to cheat all unsuspecting tourists out of their hard-earned money. Once while on a tour of Old Town, our friendly tour guide brought us into a jewelry shop carrying locally excavated gems. The owner tried his best to convince us that these gems were nearly priceless, saying that, "the Chinese are purchasing these like crazy." I looked a ring with a tag written "800" on it. The ring was nice, but I decided that 800 shillings ($10) was a bit too much. After I asked him if he could lower the price to 500 shillings, he told me that the price was not in shillings but in dollars. $800? HA. I chortled reflexively and walked out of the store.

But on this occasion I was in Mombasa, searching for kikois to send as gifts to friends and family back home. I knew for a fact that they were about 300 shillings each and could be found in a place called Marikiti. My only problem - I did not know where Marikiti was. I wandered aimlessly around, asking shopkeepers as well as people on the street if they knew where to find these things, and how much I could get them for. I politely asked a man on the street, “Excuse me, do you know the standard price for kikois?” His seemingly honest reply was, “The price is between 700-900 shillings for each piece, but if they try to charge 1500 they are deliberately cheating you.” Interesting, I thought. This man does not know the real price. So this time I specifically went to a lady who was wearing a kikoi around her waist. Ladies generally are more honest and they bargain hard for anything and everything, so I had no doubt she knew the right price. I asked her the same question. I received the exact same answer as the man I had just asked. “Wow, you really don't know the price?” I asked her rhetorically, and walked away in frustration. How was I getting the exact same answer from everyone, especially when I knew it was wrong? Everyone here is in on it, or something, I thought.
After some time, I finally stumbled upon the town's trading center, Marikiti. I asked an Arab looking man where I could find kikois at a cheap price, and he grabbed me by the wrist and told me that he would show me. As he was pulling me past rows of shops down narrow pathways, he assured me that he would give me a fair price. When we finally reached his shop, I marveled at the warehouse full of materials and things stacked nearly fifteen feet high. “So, what price will you give me?” I ask him in Swahili. “Just choose, I'll give you a good price. A very good price.” He repeatedly assured. I began sorting through his wares. I was there for nearly half an hour, enjoying the texture of different materials between my fingers and marveling at the vibrant colors. The Arab man was amicable as well, creating small talk as he helped me choose my items. He even complimented me on how well I knew Swahili, which always makes me blush and swoon like a little girl. Perhaps I can trust this guy, I thought to myself. After choosing an array of kikois and lesos, I asked him how much each piece cost. “The price is 800, but because you are buying lots of them,” He began, “I will sell you each piece for 600 shillings.”
“What?!?” I stated in disbelief. It was his arrogance, his unhesitating response to take advantage of a seemingly naïve customer. “Are you serious? I know the real price is 300 shillings. I wont pay any more.”
He looked somehow stunned. After composing himself, he refuted my claim and lowered the price to 500 shillings per piece. I was fuming. There are very few things that get me angrier than getting ripped off, especially by someone whom you think is trustworthy. I yelled at him, calling him a racist, a cheater, a liar, and any other words of shame I could think of. I had never spoken so quickly in Swahili in all my life, but I was fueled by fury. I stood there in the shop and argued with this man for a half hour straight. He was stubborn, continuing to insist that the real price was 800 shillings, and that he was doing me a favor. At last, I told him that I was leaving, that I did not have any more time for his tricks. As I walked out the door, he broke. He summoned me back and told me that I will have my price of 300 shillings. Despite my anger at the man, I broke as well and purchased most everything I picked out.

As I left with a large bag full of things, I heard the usual, “Mzungu! Welcome!” from every shop I passed by. I was sick of being harassed, sick of the facade of kindness that all of these shopkeepers maintain in order to help turn a bit of profit. But I was happy for getting a good deal on all the items I wanted to purchase. As I walked back through Mombasa, I asked a lady on the street if she knew the proper price for kikois, and where I could buy them. I already knew, but I just wanted to see what answer I would get. She told me they were about 700 shillings and that she personally could sell them to me. I smiled and told her the price I had just paid, and she looked at me and smiled back, as if I had broken the code.

It was a month later when I found myself back in Marikiti, Mombasa. As I calmly brushed through the narrow streets and shops, I heard, "Mzungu! Welcome!" off behind me. Without turning my head, I heard another voice say, "Don't bother that one, he knows." I smiled deeply at the recognition I had gained.

Just recently, I asked my neighbor who is a seamstress if she could make the pockets on my pair of women's jeans a bit longer. She did it for free. Now, I wear them all the time.