This is one of the greatest shopping cities in the world, the
gateway between Europe and Asia, where you can buy a fur hat from a
former Soviet soldier, an emerald direct from the mines of Afghanistan,
or unearth a dainty antique armoire in a backstreet junk shop. There
are no less than a dozen markets to entice shoppers of all kinds, from
Byzantine scholars looking for rare books to stout headscarved
housewives in search of a new plastic fly-swatter. In the center of the
maelstrom, the highlight on every tourist's itinerary, is the Grand
Bazaar, billed as a labyrinthine warren of 4,000 individual
establishments, a place where you can pick up exotic bargains to help
tip your luggage over your airline allowance. At least, that's what the
tour guides tell you.
Entering the Grand Bazaar is a peculiar experience, a Las Vegas version of the "Thousand and One Nights." The Kapali Çarsi is
one of the largest covered markets in the world. Parts of its lofty
domed structure date to the 15th century, though much was rebuilt after
an earthquake shook its foundations in 1894. Divided into distinct
districts that specialize in pottery, jewelry, lamps, leatherwear, and
carpets, the market's main corridors are the singular domain of tourist
hoards seeking an "authentic" shopping experience in their baseball
caps and shepherded by harried, umbrella-wielding guides.
Its smart shop fronts and shiny marble floors feel like a sanitized
version of what it once must have been. It now serves up mass-produced
souvenirs to anyone willing to be beaten down by relentless sales
patter.
So, what's there to do after you've seen your 20th kilim carpet and
your 50th belly dancing outfit, if you're not in the market for a fake
Versace T-shirt or Gucci bag, or if you don't have a sudden urge to
collect Ottoman ceramic tiles and teapots? Well, there's one thing any
visitor to the Grand Bazaar can collect, without spending a single
Turkish lira: sales pitches.
Grand Bazaar workers are consummate salesmen, employing myriad
tactics to implore shoppers to buy, in an attempt to distinguish
themselves from the shop selling exactly the same stuff next door.
Here, perhaps more than anywhere, the art of enticing the shopper has
evolved into an art form, with an array of techniques as distinct as
the shopping districts themselves. Using only pencil and paper (rather
than paper and plastic), the casual browser at Kapali Çarsi can easily compile a list of pitches pages long during a leisurely afternoon.
The first category of pitches are, of course, the most direct. Those
courteous first attempts that succeed, or fail, across-the-board, no
matter the gender, age, or nationality of the potential shopper: "Come
in, my dear friend, and see my carpets/ceramics/leather suitcases." "Be
my guest, my old friend, only looking - no buying." "No obligation,
sir, but cheap price guaranteed." "Genuine Turkish hospitality: no need
to purchase." "Come, Madam: drink a Turkish apple tea with me ... while
you look at my carpets."
Moving one step upward, are those salesmen - and they're always salesmen -
whose basic tactic involves stopping the shopper in his tracks, even
for a split-second, with a question: "Hello, excuse me, where are you
from?" "You like Turkey, sir?" "Do you have time, madam, to peruse my
humble collection of goods within?" "Can I ask you a question?"
Further again up - or down - the evolutionary sales ladder, is a
distinct breed: Young, confident, with slicked-back hair and tight
jeans, these are the type that concentrate on the females in the crowd,
with tactics based on flattery. "Please don't walk by," cries one,
clasping his chest, "You break my heart!" "A beautiful necklace for a
beautiful lady?" purrs a second. "I wish I were a fish," says a
particularly suave seller, "so I could swim in your deep blue eyes." Of
course, there will always be those who take this technique a step too
far: "Would you dance with me?" woos one young man, reaching for a
female wrist, only to be batted off with a stuffed toy camel. "What are
you doing tonight?" asks his friend, "Coming to disco with me?" "I'm a
great lover," boasts another, "All tourist ladies agree. Bargain of the
century - don't miss out!" "I know what you need," says a fourth, "You
need me ... No charge."
After this is the territory of the tailored pitch, seduction through
a distinctly personal approach. If, for instance, you're eight months
pregnant while tramping around the market, you may hear these choice
attempts: "The baby looks cold: come inside and buy him a pashmina!"
"The baby looks hungry: Come inside and buy him a kebab!" "It's a boy,
Madam, I'm sure: Buy him a T-shirt!"
At the end of the day and the periphery of the market, however, is a
final category. These young salesmen, tired, worn-down or desperate,
have dropped the banter for a more self-deprecating approach. Their
shops sell the same wares as their more brazen comrades, but they
simply don't have the wherewithal to compete on their level. Deep in
the heart of the market, the bold, brash salesmen are already heaving
mountains of carpets back inside their stores and shuttering up shop.
But here, on the outskirts, stalls are still open for business.
"Need a way to get rid of your hard-earned cash?" smiles a
tired-looking young man sitting outside a store piled high with woven
cushions. "Step inside, and take a look at my rubbish," grins his
friend, waving toward his inlaid backgammon sets and bright red fezes.
"Do you want to buy some things you don't need today?" questions
another near an exit arch framing swallows flitting in the approaching
dusk. "We're still open!" another calls to tourists, laden with
shopping bags, hurrying to their air-conditioned bus.
But it's here, on the fringes, that it's best to make a purchase.
Sellers seem beyond desperation, and won't bother browsers; most are
happy simply to have someone inside their shop.
"I've got everything," remarks a smiling spice merchant. "All I'm
missing is some customers." And for that - be it brutal honesty or the
most cunning sales pitch of all - he's rewarded with a sale. Half a
pound of pistachio Turkish delight, apple tea, a bunch of cinnamon
sticks, and a package of bright red seasoning for kofta kebabs
all disappear fragrantly into a paper bag, and his cash register rings
up perhaps his only, perhaps his final sale of the day, while the
strains of Istanbul's many muezzins echo the evening call to prayer
through Kapali Çarsi's emptying halls.
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