Shopping Afghan-style

Judge won over the shopkeepers in Kabul

By Emma-Jane Kirby BBC correspondent in Kabul

Chicken Street's shop owners really want you to buy that battered samovar - in fact they make a great show of not understanding how you couldn't buy that samovar.

Smiling politely and then walking on, or even making nonchalant noises about "thinking it over and coming back later" just doesn't wash with the Chicken Street shop owners.

They look at you in surprise, place the samovar in your arms, take a few paces back to admire you holding the samovar and then exclaim excitedly in Pashtu something along the lines of "Goodness me, how that samovar suits you!"

And before you know it, you've been flattered into buying the thing. Or in my case three of them.

Kabul's busy Chicken Street

Which is when I decided that I really wasn't up to shopping alone in Afghanistan and asked one of the BBC drivers, Judge, to become my personal sales assistant.

In spite of his Western sounding name, Judge is a Kabul native. In the days before the Taliban occupied the city, Judge was not a driver at all - he'd presided over the juvenile court.

"I AM Judge" he said wryly, "But I also WAS judge."

Although he'd lost his position as magistrate, Judge had clearly not forgotten any of the fundamental principles of his legal training.

Judge's shopping technique

As I was soon to find out in our shopping expedition, Judge believed firmly in honest pricing, fair trading and truthful marketing.

And where I thought I'd probably have to listen to a few tall tales from the shop owners and might have to do a bit of haggling to ensure I got a good bargain, Judge set out from a rather different starting point.

Chicken Street shop owners, he told me cheerfully, are a "bunch of bloody butchers."

Judge took me to a little leather shop to buy a briefcase. The workmanship was beautiful, the quality excellent and the price apparently reasonable.

I tell him if he doesn't stop his butchering I put him and his sons in jail and take away his shop.

Judge

I was just about to hand over the dollars when there was a loud snorting noise from Judge which evolves into a sort of braying, followed by a prolonged shriek .. and then, with half closed eyes, like a ham Shakespearean actor just about to recite his favourite soliloquy, Judge launched into a torrent of Pashtu abuse, ending in the unmistakable words "bloody butcher".

The shop owner instantly dropped his price by $20.

Back on the street, Judge was grinning to himself and rubbing his hands gleefully.

"I tell him if he doesn't stop his butchering I put him and his sons in jail and take away his shop. He forgets I'm not really Judge anymore."

Carpets proved irresistible

With the savings I'd made on the leather goods, I felt justified in buying a carpet in the tiny rug store, where the owner seemed to be wearing at least half of his goods.

Twenty-three years of war, poverty and oppression had not made a noticeable dent in this old man's confidence - he was the most enthusiastic and energetic carpet salesman I have ever come across.

Rug after rug was unrolled for me, design after design was explained to me - and when the old man learned I didn't live in London as he'd presumed, but in Switzerland, he effortlessly switched his sales patter from English to perfect Swiss German and then to French.

A question of loyalty

I stared at him in delighted admiration as I selected my carpet, but a low snorting sound in the corner told me such flashy techniques were too much for Judge, he took a deep breath and began his rehearsed speech.

At the closing couplet "bloody butcher, " the carpet salesman began to shout back.

But he was wasting his time.

Two minutes later, we left the shop, clutching a carpet reduced by $20.

Judge, a highly qualified expert in bargaining

"He ask me where's my loyalty?" smiled Judge. "He says as Muslim man, I should help him make profit. But I tell him first my loyalty is to God, and then my loyalty is to the BBC."

As Judge was clearly enjoying himself, it didn't seem fair to call an end to the shopping spree, so I forced myself into a jewellers.

Rows of silver and lapis necklaces, belts, rings and bracelets glittered in the grimy cabinets, and the glittering eyes of the silversmith told me he was anxious for a sale.

I picked up a belt and asked how much.

I don't think the jeweller had even named his price before the snorting began, but by the time the words "bloody butcher" were mentioned, I knew I'd got $20, even if the jeweller didn't.

King of Chicken Street

I picked up a ring and again, Judge picked up his cue. By the time I'd bought five bracelets, two necklaces and three boxes of wine goblets, I knew Judge's speech almost as well as he did.

Caught up in the bizarre pantomime, even the jeweller couldn't help silently mouthing the repetitive chorus.

Forty-five minutes later, weighed down by shopping bags, we struggled out of the door.

The glitter in the jeweller's eyes was now jaded. He bowed to me, and took Judge's hand in his, placing the other on his heart to emphasise the honesty of our deal.

Judge strutted off, shoulders back, the focus of respect, the King of Chicken Street.

It's perhaps a good job that Judge didn't look back to see what I saw.

As he locked his shop and slid a rusty grille across the window, the jeweller watched Judge's retreating figure with narrowed eyes.

Tucking away his dollars in his coat pocket, he shot one last look of hatred at him, spat into the road, closed his door, and muttered bitterly: "Bloody Judge!"