“You asked me how I am. Thank you! You are a very nice person. Nobody asks me how I am. All day, people say ‘No’ or ‘We’re not buying’. They never say hello, never ask. Thank you. I am fine.”
The man was an artist selling his silk paintings on the beach. Not long ago, he had a gallery up the road and sold his paintings at much higher prices. He proudly showed us the numerous magazine and newspaper articles written about him and his gallery.
Only global economics hit even the cheap vacation spot of Nha Trang. Customers looking for art stopped making their way up the road. So, our artist friend closed shop and began making his way down the road – to the tourist filled beaches. His prices also made their way down, from an average of $100 a painting to $10-$20.
The man – who spoke English very well – told us that while at first the change was hard, it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s awaiting an Australian visa to go live with family. He’s just raising money and biding time until he gets to start his new life.
This artist with a gentle sales approach mentioned several times how much he appreciated the way we talked to him and treated him like a person. While we initially told him we weren’t interested in a painting, we waited until he left us, discussed among ourselves and found him. Kindness is the best sales pitch of all and his art was really cool. Why not part with $10 for a fantastic painting?
Our artist friend’s clear joy over my asking how he was today left an impression on us. There’s a conundrum, if not a tragedy that goes with being a tourist. In so many of the places we travel – especially, but not exclusively in Asia – people are accosted by touts and peddlers. Often, it’s downright invasive.
So, what to do? It would be great to say “Hi, how are you…thanks, but we’ll pass….” and have a pleasant little exchange that ends easily. In some places – like here – that happens most of the time. But what about when it doesn’t?
In India – with the exception of Kerala – there’s always going to be someone who wants to sell you something or beg for money. No one likes to tell a beggar “no”, so the easiest thing becomes to pretend like you don’t see or even when you do, to ignore eye contact.
That isn’t very Mother Theresa-like. There’s no Buddha of Compassion in that. It doesn’t feel good to walk past someone, purposely avoiding them. At the same time, you can’t give to every beggar – nor is it necessarily a good thing to do so. So, that sucks a little just about all the time.
Then in Northern India, I hit a problem I hadn’t run into before. Delhi touts and peddlers are more aggressive than pirañas and once they latch on, they don’t let go. First, I don’t do well with aggressive salespeople, but even worse, I don’t like to be touched, let alone have my personal space invaded.
For the first time ever, I wanted to hurt people who came after me. I always started nicely, “No thank you, we don’t need a taxi right now. Have a good night,” or “We don’t want a plastic replica of the Taj Mahal today, but thank you.” Only as they followed us down the block, got in my face, and grabbed my arms, I struggled to find an approach that got rid of them without being a complete asshole. I’m not sure I succeeded.
“Sir, I do not need your taxi! Please back away, sir!” and “Sir, please step back and do not touch me! Sir, I do not need a wallet! Thank you!”
I quickly found myself using the same tone and approach that I used to discipline our Balinese dog with an authority problem. Every now and then, he needs to be reminded who’s dominant, who’s the big dog. There I was in Delhi, using the same guttural tone with human beings.
And I didn’t like it one bit.
On the beaches and in the tourist markets in Bali, the general kind and friendly Balinese are replaced by a strain of Balinese that are also aggressive. They don’t take “no” easily and may continue bargaining even after you’re gone and down the block.
On beaches like Sanur and Lovina, you hear their siren song, “You like these beads? Pretty beads. I make you good price…” and “Sarong…sarong…you like sarong….very beautiful sarong….many colors….you like blue sarong…very beautiful….we make you good price…. how much you want to pay?”
In and of itself, it’s almost endearing. None of the women selling sarongs are mean spirited people. They’re good people trying to sell their cheap goods at whatever margin they can get so they can afford 50 cents for a meal that night.
Only, when you’re walking down the beach trying to get from A to B, or just trying to do something like enjoy a pleasant walk down the beach – and there are hoards of these women trying to make you a good price every few feet – it gets old, fast.
That’s when you see tourists – people who are also nice, caring human beings – turn to stone. They ignore. Some avert their eyes, others look right through the vendors as if they’re invisible. Others – like me – give quick responses. “No, thank you,” “We’re not shopping right now,” and sometimes just “No.” What else is there to do?
Still, something about it feels horrible. Who wants to treat a person that way? More importantly, it just furthers the power distance we inherently have. We – and most tourists – become the snooty people with money who are either too good to say something or who have all this money they won’t share.
In the end, no one feels particularly good about themselves.
However, the issue isn’t confined to the third world. In Turkey, we faced recruiters. Restaurants in all the tourist districts keep used car salesmen in cages by day. They feed them nothing and allow them no access to human beings. All they are allowed in their lonely cages are English phrasebooks. Then, at about 5:30 pm, the restaurant owners poke them with sticks, and bang on the bars before releasing them.
Naturally, these werewolf-like creatures take no prisoners when they hit the front walkway of their respective establishments. They chase, claw, batter and practically devour unsuspecting tourists.
Unlike Indian touts or Balinese sarong-selling women, Turkish restaurant recruiters have clever tactics. They change approaches and use tricks.
“Hi, just talk with me, I just want to know you’re name…what is your name?” The next thing the foolish tourist who answers will remember is having a piece of bread with Turkish salad in his mouth and a $100 plate of roast meats in front of him.
In Istanbul, I watched a team of three recruiters corner a twenty-something year-old girl who was unfortunate enough to walk down their lane. She eventually sat down at a table and lit up a cigarette. When they turned their backs to begin on their next prey, she got up and practically ran down the street.
In Antalya, one recruiter was so aggressive and in our faces that I began avoiding his alley and literally running past his restaurant on the few occasions we had to go that way.
As my narrative shows, tourists stop seeing the recruiters as people and begin to see them more as demons to be defeated in some strange video game. Getting from the hotel to the street becomes Resident Evil 10: Escape To Beyoglu.
No one needs this. In the end, everyone is dehumanized.
Of course, there’s the other side of it. As our Vietnamese artist working the beach pointed out, it sucks to spend your day being an unwanted annoyance to people. There’s no doubt that he would rather be selling his work at his gallery to people who not only appreciate art, but who come to appreciate his art. People who aren’t looking for a cheap souvenir, but a tasteful piece to add to their collections.
I’m sure the sarong ladies on the beach would rather be making a good price in an air conditioned shop, or maybe just staying at home, cooking for their families instead of pounding the sands trying to hawk their wares.
I hope the Indian guy who threw a monkey at Emily’s car window – asking her if she wanted to take a picture with the poor, startled creature – would rather not be throwing monkeys at cars for a living.
But what to do?
We can just get back out there and try – keeping in mind that a “How are you?” a “Have a nice day,” and a “No, but thank you very much,” might make someone’s hard day a little nicer.
Sent from my iPad
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Gorgeous flowers!