15.08.2005 Palolem Blues |
      I was neither a hardcore traveller nor a drinker. I had no dread locks and no spandex leggings. I was alone. This was when I came past of one of these countless beach shacks that all sell the same stuff - bright coloured tatter to attract the very crowd I just described. I donīt know why I dived inside one, quick, before any of the sellers would come and drag me to their stalls. The competition is hard, the people never sleep. I made it. Inside there was more of the stuff hung on every possible corner of the palm leaf walls. More trash on which countless lives depend. A heap of rather old stuff attracted my attention and while I was risking a glance, a man shot out of his corner. He had a small appearance and his face showed no sign of age, but his facial expression made me believe he was much older than me. Was it hopelessness? I picked up one of those rags -it seemed it was a bag- and started to look at it. I liked it. It was like an oven cloth, shaped like an envelope with countless stitches and covered with small sea shells. They are called Kauri and are really rare. The man followed my every very move. Finally, he said: 1000 rupies. This a lot, I replied. Not for this, he went. I asked: What is it? Piece from dowry from Karnataka. Oh, I replied. Karnataka, this where you from? My family, he said, dignified, from there. I here. I see. I placed it on the heap, turned around and shook his hand: Me - I pointed towards my chest: Kat. Me: Premal, you call me Prem! he said, surprised. I said, your name... your family name? No, my family name Appa. Other two name secret. What the meaning? My name? Love. Oh, okay, I said... what these dowry bags for? They come from my home, Karnataka. You give in dowry, these. What they for? Keep money in. For good luck. You give these, with money in and means, you always have money when you give this. Shells money in Karnataka. Not now, 10 years before now. I nod and look at the bags. They are handmade obviously, and you can see women sitting and stitching with flying needles to produce them. I like it. I want one. I donīt know why. I want one for my sister too. But I cannot tell him how much I want them- he will make them more expensive as soon as he will spot the desire in my eyes. The following days it becomes my main activity. Flying past the other huts, into the cool-ish shadow of Premīs hut. We barter. We haggle. Of course he has noticed my interest. He ainīt stupid. Bartering is a game, if not a sport. All cultures cultivate it except ours. People hate it here. What a loss- I cannot understand why. It is almost like flirting, this really intimous process of trying to obtain something you know the other wants to part with, itīs just a question of the price. The price is between us and we rub it both ways. For him itīs a question of making the most out of it- the reason is obvious. My motive is just as obvious: to heighten my prestige as a really cool badass knowledgeable traveller and also, to not have the feeling that he completely ripped me off. I am sort of aware that I am paying double as much as an Indian would- at least and rightly so. Also, I have never seen a money bag and I have no idea how precious they are. They must be rather dear though. Prem informs me: you give way dowry bag, you have bad luck. So no girl give them way. Now yes. They need money. People like them. He makes me feel guilty now. Someone travelled around Karnataka, pressed some women to part with them and they did in need of some money- only just because some shitty tourist like me could buy them. Through me showing only the slightest interest, a whole business kicked off. Selling dowry money bags. But then, later, when I already owned them, I showed them to the spandex crew and they found them UGLY and OLD. |
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