Bartering comes with a heavy price in Beijing

I broke the unspoken rules of bartering over the weekend but, boy, did I pay a price. It was during my first visit to the capital's biggest jumble sale, Panjiayuan flea market, just off the East Third Ring Road in Chaoyang district.

In mitigation, I can claim I was bewildered by what confronted me: a mass of humanity ranging from Han to Hui, Manchu to Mongolian, Uygur to Western, all crammed into 48,500 square meters of selling space. According to the guidebook I was clutching, a total of 10,000 dealers from all over the country clamor here to sell their wares of, frankly, just about anything Chinese you could imagine - coins, cutlery, jade, jewels, statuary, silk, antiques, art. The alliterative possibilities are endless. China's culture condensed into 4,000 themed stalls, groaning at the seams and pleading for a new owner.

And what was it I wanted? Just a humble soap dish, ideally with Chinese characteristics.

An hour's fascinated browsing in the stifling heat rendered several possibilities, but a last-minute meander down a hitherto unexplored line of sellers produced the perfect porcelain product. And that was when my troubles began.

I showed my interest to the trader and she produced the inevitable pocket calculator, on which she tapped out the price. The sum of 360 yuan seemed a bit steep for a piece of unremarkable pottery, so I tentatively replied, "Tai gui le", rather pleased with myself for finally expressing a phrase in Putonghua that I had been carting redundantly around in my head for months.

"How much you want pay?" demanded the woman in broken English.

I tapped out the figure 50, even more pleased with myself for daring to suggest such a massive discount.

The usual appalled rejection, accompanied with appropriate facial expressions followed as the seller shouted "No, no, no" and waved a new, equally outrageous figure under my nose.

It was then that I decided the dish wasn't even worth 50 yuan so I shook my head and started to walk away.

"Ok, OK," the lady relented. "Fifty kuai OK."

I held up my hands in appeasement and tried to make it clear I was no longer interested. She grabbed my arm with one hand and tried to force the wretched dish on me. I pulled free, worried what the consequences would be if the dish was "accidentally" dropped and shattered. Would I be back in for the whole 360? Ten thousand dealers, remember, would be on her side. Ten thousand. And just little me.

"Bu yao peng wo. Don't touch me," I insisted.

She was rather more insistent. "Fifty kuai OK," she said.

By now I was backing off much like your average intrepid explorer backs off after stumbling upon a male silverback gorilla with a hangover.

The trouble is, she was advancing, armed to the teeth with the scary pocket calculator and petrifying porcelain.

"Qing zou kai. Keep away," I managed, repeatedly, in mangled monosyllabic Putonghua, being careful not to trip over other traders.

When I reached open space I wheeled about and began walking faster, convinced the incident was now over and cursing myself for suggesting a price and then backtracking.

Then my arm was grabbed in a vice-like grip. She was back and she was having none of my nonsense.

"Na zou," - take it - she yelled.

"Wo bu yao. I don't want it." I yelled back.

Her expression combined anger and desperation with a pinch of hurt. Mine conveyed fear and guilt. I was, after all, a reneging rotter.

It wasn't an edifying spectacle. Back and forth went the words as I gradually made it the 100 meters to the exit and my hoped-for getaway car, a green and orange cab.

When one did arrive after five more minutes of verbal volleyball I was convinced the woman was going to climb in with me. I'm sure she even weighed up the possibility of hailing another cab to follow us. When I looked back she was staring long and hard, no doubt making sure she would never forget my face. What revenge was she conjuring up should we ever meet again down a dark alley? I certainly had a good look around before I got out at my destination.

The incident still haunts me.

It will be with the greatest trepidation that I embark on a round of bartering again. And my soap still lies dish-less next to the sink, a daily reminder of something I'd rather forget.

(China Daily 08/14/2009 page9)