Thousands of shops that sell everything from carpets to spices I\'ve been sent into Istanbul\'s Grand Bazaar on a simple mission: to drive a hard bargain. And I have failed on my first attempt, my heart softening like Turkish Delight while trying to buy a trinket from an old man . It seems I\'ll brave a lot of things in the name of journalism but bargaining does not seem to be one of them. To me, the stress of haggling over such a small prize is just not worth the savings, especially when I\'m trying to be a gracious visitor in a strange land.Before entering the maze of the covered market, its streets teeming with tourists who are all undoubtedly more ruthless, I enlist the help of my tour guide, Gunay Guc.
Say I find something for 100 Turkish lira (the conversion is easy: double the price for dirhams), I ask. Gunay explains: \"You will say, \'20\'. He will say, \'50\'. You will say, \'25\'...\"
This seems rather outrageous and time-consuming, but I\'m willing to give it a shot - just once.
Already weary from touring Sultanahmet, my group has just over an hour before returning to the bus; the problem is how to begin. The sprawling bazaar, which has survived fires and earthquakes over its 550-year history, is a chaotic assembly of thousands of shops. The official online directory looks like a pirate\'s treasure map, lacking any information about specific stores. And if you heed the guidebooks\' warnings about pickpockets and bag-slashers, it\'s advisable to look like you know where you\'re going.
Most overwhelming for the first-time visitor (and novice haggler) is the range of goods: from the low-end (fezes, belly-dancing costumes, painted ceramics, Turkish linens and knock-off bags) to the high-end (jewellery, carpets, Islamic art and antiques).
Entering through the Nuruosmaniye gate, clock ticking, I run the gauntlet of sellers at the cheaper souvenir stalls calling out: \"Hello, lady, come into my store. Where are you from?\"
My only stop is Cevahir Bedesten, a cluster of shops that sell antiques under the market\'s oldest dome, at the heart of what was once the Ottoman Empire\'s centre of trade. A neon \"Old Bazaar\" sign designates the oldest of the old. Unlike the rest of the market, the halls are quiet, and the shopkeepers sit like librarians in their stores, seemingly uninterested in making a deal.
Feeling more relaxed in the absence of touts, I browse windows full of old watches, revolvers, calligraphy, cameras, vases, subhas and jewellery boxes, none with listed prices. Then I stumble upon an open stall with copper lamps and other hardware hanging from floor to ceiling. \"This is the best shop in the Grand Bazaar,\" Ali Guzeldemirel boasts. \"I\'m here 50 years.\"
Ali brings me an antique brass whistle with a compass that I\'d been admiring, normally 300 lira, but for me, he says, 250. I tell him that\'s too much. (I\'ve been told not to even try bargaining unless you\'re sure you want something. Even more stress.) So, Ali shows me my next choice, an old lock and key. \"Normally 200, but for you, 150,\" he says.
\"How about 100?\" I ask meekly. (By Gunay\'s calculation, I should have started at 30.)
He holds one hand over his heart, explaining he can\'t bargain like the others. \"I am an old man.\"
Now, for me, there are two kinds of people who are especially hard to bargain with: the elderly and children. This I learned at a bazaar in Goa, where a little girl I was haggling with over a bracelet clutched it to her chest and said, \"Please, m\'am, don\'t break my little heart.\" It was only after I parted with my rupees that I noticed her father smiling at me from a distance, as if to say: sucker.Anxious to return to the bus with something, I buy the lock. My tour mates, some of them hauling bags full of hard-fought bargains, turn up their noses. I show it to Gunay and ask him if I got a deal.