Fanfare for the Simple Man
Istanbul. That magical, spicy word, resonant with history and images. The air is thick here with legends - you could grab them out of the air in fistfuls. With a celebrated history going back 3,000 years, you would expect nothing less. Roman fragments jostle with Ottoman baths, Byzantine ruins with cellphone shops, and everywhere the hectic hustle and bustle of contemporary Turkish life - handcarts, kebab shops, fabric merchants, touts, departmental stores.
The air too is thick with scents and sounds - grilled corn and pide sold in portable carts, piles of pomegranates and oranges, and vendors calling out their wares in singsong Turkish. And all this takes place against the ever-present background of the Sea of Marmara and the fabled Bosphorus, in ever-changing colours; on this cool, sunny autumn day, it’s a steel blue against the azure sky. Istanbul at once a modern city as well as the city it has always been - old Istanbul, and before that the legendary city of Constantinople.
But right now I’m encountering a very different part of legendary Istanbul. I’m sitting in a carpet shop, drinking a cup of apple tea that I didn’t ask for, and am being shown a selection of carpets that I have no intention of buying. I am being given that most exquisite of Turkish tortures: the carpet hard sell.
It started innocently enough. After a long day browsing the scattered fragments of Byzantine history, I happened to pause by an inexplicable brick tower - one of the unexplained ancient architectural fragments that litter the city - for a closer look.
“This is part of the Basilica cistern, a very famous place in Istanbul. You have been?” I heard someone say in English. I turned to find a man in his mid-thirties. He had a warm smile. He proceeded to tell me about the Basilica cistern and its history. He asked me where I was from, if this was my first trip to Istanbul. “Very warm welcome to Turkey!” he exclaimed and shook my hand. I thought, what a helpful guy.
His name was Wahid. He seemed pleased to hear that I was from Malaysia.
“Malaysia!” he exclaimed, sounding happy. “We are like brothers, Malaysia and Turkey. I have done business with some Malaysians. They are very good people. Very honest.”
After this short but pleasant exchange, he inquired where I was headed next. I was heading back to my hotel. Ah, he has a arts and crafts shop along the way, and wouldn’t I like a brochure?
For the edification of all who are reading this, this is the point at which you are to back away, and scream loudly in a foreign language before running away with your hands waving in the air.
Of course, I didn’t do this. I thought what many people must have thought, ok it’s just a brochure. And how much harm could it be, if it was on the way?
As soon as we began walking, I realised my mistake. He led me off the main street and into an area of shops. We walked down a back lane into an internal courtyard, and there I saw them: carpets, lots of them. He took me into a small shop with corridors running off in different directions. As we came in, a young man stood up and left the room quietly.
“In Turkey, we believe that when you come into one’s shop, you are coming into one’s home,” Wahid intoned happily, “and so we must show hospitality. It’s considered very rude if we do not extend it to a guest, and very rude not to accept. As a guest in my house, you must accept a cup of tea.” He said all this in a manner so soothing, so unthreatening, you could imagine him saying it to a pet rabbit.
Dear reader: once again, this is the point at which you can start screaming in Cantonese and running about in circles. But of course, I didn’t do this either. I said: “Oh no thanks, I can’t stay, and I have to get home to watch the new season of Dexter. I’ll just take the brochure you offered.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Wahid said reassuringly, “my boy has just gone off to get it.”
Inwardly I berated myself - I knew exactly what the boy was coming back with, and I was going to have to find a way not to drink it. And I was going to have to find a way to leave before he showed me his carpets. And Wahid here was bound to use every trick to keep me here.
At the same time, I was curious about what exactly Wahid would do. Up to this point, it had been a smooth, seamless performance from an obviously seasoned performer. He had lured me here using friendliness, hospitality and an innate knowledge of etiquette. I was curious to see what tricks he had up his sleeve. I might just learn something. Or I might end up with a carpet I didn’t want.
So yes dammit, I sat down on the damned couch, I took off my bag and I sipped the damned too-sweet tea. Wahid lounged a small distance away, watching me with what looked like undistilled pleasure. He looked exactly the part of a contented host. This man was very, very good.
“While you are drinking, why don’t I show you a few things?” he cooed. And off we went.
He and his boy laid down a selection of rugs. He explained how each was made, the materials, the methods. He then said, “I know you are not here to buy carpets, but if you could choose one of these, which one would it be?” His eyes sparkled. “This one? Or this one?” he began lifting them like a proud parent. “No obligation at all, I just want to know what you think of my carpets.”
I decided that the way forward and out of this was to feign philistism. “They all look the same to me,” I said apologetically. “This tea is very sweet. Do Turkish always put sugar in their tea?”
Wahid was undeterred. He began lifting the rugs up one by one. “This one? No? I take away. This one? No?”
Some were quite pretty. There were kilims from Anatolia and the Kurdish provinces, Gordes prayer rugs, Selçuk carpets, and some garish ones for the mass market. I pretended ignorance and ambivalence. When I said I didn’t feel anything for any of them, he went and brought in a fresh set. And so on.
I thought a way out of this would be to steer towards something they couldn’t possibly have. I looked at the myriad colours, the swirling patterns of the rugs he brought.
“Don’t you have anything with only one colour?” Wahid stopped moving and stared at me blankly.
“One colour,” he repeated. “What about two?”
“No, we Chinese don’t like things with many colours. And we don’t like patterns either. Do you have anything with no colours or patterns?” I explained that we also did not like putting fabric on the floor, this would be considered a waste.
This seemed to stump him. He scratched his head and spoke with the boy in rapid Turkish. The young man was also speechless. Gotcha, I thought and began inching towards the couch where my bag was. “Well, since there isn’t anything else...”
But I did not anticipate what came next. Some of us old-timers might remember an arcade game in the early nineties - Mortal Kombat. Well, Here Comes New Challenger. As I turned, I faced another man in his thirties with a warm smile.
“My friend!” he said warmly, “I have just the thing for you!” His name was Orhan. He believed that Malaysians and Turks were like brothers. Shit.
After a frantic search, you won’t believe it, they actually found 2 rugs in cream, one with a modern pattern of silk squares, the other with lines. They set them down proudly before me. We were now joined by a tall, intense-looking man in a tailored grey suit who spoke no English. He watched the proceedings closely, humourlessly. They were now a small posse - we faced each other over the 2 single-colour rugs without patterns. They looked like giant loaves of pita bread.
“Here you are,” Orhan said, showing pearly white teeth. “One colour, no patterns. Exact.” He smiled a shark’s smile. He indicated the man in the grey suit. “This is my boss, he has been watching us on the camera,” he continued. Grey suit regarded me with an intense stare. “He thinks you are good, very honest man. We like you very much. Because Malaysians and Turks are like brothers, we want to give you a special price. You give the price, if we can give to you, we give. If not, don’t worry, you walk away.”
I looked at the rugs. They were high-quality, a mix of fine wool and silk. Even considering the enormous margins rug merchants often set, I figured these were not cheap rugs to make.
“If you were to pay a price for rugs, any rug” Orhan said soothingly, “what would your top price be? Just name it, and if we can, we’ll give it to you.”
I named the most insulting price I could think of. “Three hundred dollars,” I said.
Orhan finally stopped smiling. “Three hundred dollars?” he repeated incredulously. “This rug alone is $2,600! Please, my friend - “ the smile returned briefly - “do not insult my boss here, name your top price and we will see what we can do.” Grey suit watched. Orhan watched. Wahid watched. The boys watched. The sugary apple tea on the table grew cold.
“If I were to buy a rug,” I insisted, “I can only pay $300.”
“This is a work of art!” Orhan wailed. He looked like a gorgon’s head. “It takes months to make! And you offer three hundred?” He looked on the verge of tears.
Incredibly, they offered $450. I said no. $400 then, they wailed. I said no. $350 then, take it, take it, it’s a gift! I picked up my bag.
“Thank you for the tea,” I said, “But I’m not buying a rug. At any price.”
Wahid was dumbstruck. “I’m now offering you three hundred,” he said slowly. “Are you saying that you will not buy this even for three hundred dollars?” I suddenly realised that all this time, they had thought I was a master haggler. A light suddenly went out in everyone’s eyes. The boys went back to sorting carpets. Orhan and Grey suit magically melted away. It was just me and Wahid.
I shook my head. Wahid looked like he was about to cry. “You are not serious then,” he said, disappointedly.
“No, I’m not.”
His last words sounded both like a dismissal and grudging respect. “You are a simple man then, your want your life to be simple,” he said, and went back into the shop. As I walked out of the courtyard, I heard him mutter something inside. It sounded like “Three hundred dollars!”
The air too is thick with scents and sounds - grilled corn and pide sold in portable carts, piles of pomegranates and oranges, and vendors calling out their wares in singsong Turkish. And all this takes place against the ever-present background of the Sea of Marmara and the fabled Bosphorus, in ever-changing colours; on this cool, sunny autumn day, it’s a steel blue against the azure sky. Istanbul at once a modern city as well as the city it has always been - old Istanbul, and before that the legendary city of Constantinople.
But right now I’m encountering a very different part of legendary Istanbul. I’m sitting in a carpet shop, drinking a cup of apple tea that I didn’t ask for, and am being shown a selection of carpets that I have no intention of buying. I am being given that most exquisite of Turkish tortures: the carpet hard sell.
It started innocently enough. After a long day browsing the scattered fragments of Byzantine history, I happened to pause by an inexplicable brick tower - one of the unexplained ancient architectural fragments that litter the city - for a closer look.
“This is part of the Basilica cistern, a very famous place in Istanbul. You have been?” I heard someone say in English. I turned to find a man in his mid-thirties. He had a warm smile. He proceeded to tell me about the Basilica cistern and its history. He asked me where I was from, if this was my first trip to Istanbul. “Very warm welcome to Turkey!” he exclaimed and shook my hand. I thought, what a helpful guy.
His name was Wahid. He seemed pleased to hear that I was from Malaysia.
“Malaysia!” he exclaimed, sounding happy. “We are like brothers, Malaysia and Turkey. I have done business with some Malaysians. They are very good people. Very honest.”
After this short but pleasant exchange, he inquired where I was headed next. I was heading back to my hotel. Ah, he has a arts and crafts shop along the way, and wouldn’t I like a brochure?
For the edification of all who are reading this, this is the point at which you are to back away, and scream loudly in a foreign language before running away with your hands waving in the air.
Of course, I didn’t do this. I thought what many people must have thought, ok it’s just a brochure. And how much harm could it be, if it was on the way?
As soon as we began walking, I realised my mistake. He led me off the main street and into an area of shops. We walked down a back lane into an internal courtyard, and there I saw them: carpets, lots of them. He took me into a small shop with corridors running off in different directions. As we came in, a young man stood up and left the room quietly.
“In Turkey, we believe that when you come into one’s shop, you are coming into one’s home,” Wahid intoned happily, “and so we must show hospitality. It’s considered very rude if we do not extend it to a guest, and very rude not to accept. As a guest in my house, you must accept a cup of tea.” He said all this in a manner so soothing, so unthreatening, you could imagine him saying it to a pet rabbit.
Dear reader: once again, this is the point at which you can start screaming in Cantonese and running about in circles. But of course, I didn’t do this either. I said: “Oh no thanks, I can’t stay, and I have to get home to watch the new season of Dexter. I’ll just take the brochure you offered.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Wahid said reassuringly, “my boy has just gone off to get it.”
Inwardly I berated myself - I knew exactly what the boy was coming back with, and I was going to have to find a way not to drink it. And I was going to have to find a way to leave before he showed me his carpets. And Wahid here was bound to use every trick to keep me here.
At the same time, I was curious about what exactly Wahid would do. Up to this point, it had been a smooth, seamless performance from an obviously seasoned performer. He had lured me here using friendliness, hospitality and an innate knowledge of etiquette. I was curious to see what tricks he had up his sleeve. I might just learn something. Or I might end up with a carpet I didn’t want.
So yes dammit, I sat down on the damned couch, I took off my bag and I sipped the damned too-sweet tea. Wahid lounged a small distance away, watching me with what looked like undistilled pleasure. He looked exactly the part of a contented host. This man was very, very good.
“While you are drinking, why don’t I show you a few things?” he cooed. And off we went.
He and his boy laid down a selection of rugs. He explained how each was made, the materials, the methods. He then said, “I know you are not here to buy carpets, but if you could choose one of these, which one would it be?” His eyes sparkled. “This one? Or this one?” he began lifting them like a proud parent. “No obligation at all, I just want to know what you think of my carpets.”
I decided that the way forward and out of this was to feign philistism. “They all look the same to me,” I said apologetically. “This tea is very sweet. Do Turkish always put sugar in their tea?”
Wahid was undeterred. He began lifting the rugs up one by one. “This one? No? I take away. This one? No?”
Some were quite pretty. There were kilims from Anatolia and the Kurdish provinces, Gordes prayer rugs, Selçuk carpets, and some garish ones for the mass market. I pretended ignorance and ambivalence. When I said I didn’t feel anything for any of them, he went and brought in a fresh set. And so on.
I thought a way out of this would be to steer towards something they couldn’t possibly have. I looked at the myriad colours, the swirling patterns of the rugs he brought.
“Don’t you have anything with only one colour?” Wahid stopped moving and stared at me blankly.
“One colour,” he repeated. “What about two?”
“No, we Chinese don’t like things with many colours. And we don’t like patterns either. Do you have anything with no colours or patterns?” I explained that we also did not like putting fabric on the floor, this would be considered a waste.
This seemed to stump him. He scratched his head and spoke with the boy in rapid Turkish. The young man was also speechless. Gotcha, I thought and began inching towards the couch where my bag was. “Well, since there isn’t anything else...”
But I did not anticipate what came next. Some of us old-timers might remember an arcade game in the early nineties - Mortal Kombat. Well, Here Comes New Challenger. As I turned, I faced another man in his thirties with a warm smile.
“My friend!” he said warmly, “I have just the thing for you!” His name was Orhan. He believed that Malaysians and Turks were like brothers. Shit.
After a frantic search, you won’t believe it, they actually found 2 rugs in cream, one with a modern pattern of silk squares, the other with lines. They set them down proudly before me. We were now joined by a tall, intense-looking man in a tailored grey suit who spoke no English. He watched the proceedings closely, humourlessly. They were now a small posse - we faced each other over the 2 single-colour rugs without patterns. They looked like giant loaves of pita bread.
“Here you are,” Orhan said, showing pearly white teeth. “One colour, no patterns. Exact.” He smiled a shark’s smile. He indicated the man in the grey suit. “This is my boss, he has been watching us on the camera,” he continued. Grey suit regarded me with an intense stare. “He thinks you are good, very honest man. We like you very much. Because Malaysians and Turks are like brothers, we want to give you a special price. You give the price, if we can give to you, we give. If not, don’t worry, you walk away.”
I looked at the rugs. They were high-quality, a mix of fine wool and silk. Even considering the enormous margins rug merchants often set, I figured these were not cheap rugs to make.
“If you were to pay a price for rugs, any rug” Orhan said soothingly, “what would your top price be? Just name it, and if we can, we’ll give it to you.”
I named the most insulting price I could think of. “Three hundred dollars,” I said.
Orhan finally stopped smiling. “Three hundred dollars?” he repeated incredulously. “This rug alone is $2,600! Please, my friend - “ the smile returned briefly - “do not insult my boss here, name your top price and we will see what we can do.” Grey suit watched. Orhan watched. Wahid watched. The boys watched. The sugary apple tea on the table grew cold.
“If I were to buy a rug,” I insisted, “I can only pay $300.”
“This is a work of art!” Orhan wailed. He looked like a gorgon’s head. “It takes months to make! And you offer three hundred?” He looked on the verge of tears.
Incredibly, they offered $450. I said no. $400 then, they wailed. I said no. $350 then, take it, take it, it’s a gift! I picked up my bag.
“Thank you for the tea,” I said, “But I’m not buying a rug. At any price.”
Wahid was dumbstruck. “I’m now offering you three hundred,” he said slowly. “Are you saying that you will not buy this even for three hundred dollars?” I suddenly realised that all this time, they had thought I was a master haggler. A light suddenly went out in everyone’s eyes. The boys went back to sorting carpets. Orhan and Grey suit magically melted away. It was just me and Wahid.
I shook my head. Wahid looked like he was about to cry. “You are not serious then,” he said, disappointedly.
“No, I’m not.”
His last words sounded both like a dismissal and grudging respect. “You are a simple man then, your want your life to be simple,” he said, and went back into the shop. As I walked out of the courtyard, I heard him mutter something inside. It sounded like “Three hundred dollars!”