Fond reencounters favourite toys, bullish shoppers.
It's the second week of the school holidays. We've been clearing bedrooms, rootling again in the toy cupboard, testing the water on which toys might be dispensed with to be sold at the car boot sale.
I've been nostalgic. We've decided we won't be moving the toy train set - complete with Thomas, James & Duncan, various engine houses, a turntable, complex tunnels and ring formations - and many happy adult memories, when we come to leave Kenya. I've been sorting the multiracial duplo firemen, hydrant and firestation - brought back by Tom from a workshop in Norway - the animals - crocodile, monkey, dolphin and more - given by our lovely first childminder, Helen, and the hundreds of duplo pieces. We spent a happy afternoon sorting the picture books, Mog the Forgetful Cat, The Gruffalo, Kipper and Roly the hamster who gets lost in the bedroom and more.
'Oh do you remember?'
When we were last decluttering, prior to coming here, I was unnerved when a schoolmum friend said sternly:
'But surely you'll be saving these for the grandchildren.'
Looking at (then) nine year old Firstborn and six year old SecondBorn, it was hard to believe we'd get to that stage. This time it was somewhat different. Even ten year old SecondBorn rescued a pile of favourite books, 'Not now Bernard' and others, 'For my children.'
Bless. How lovely he'd want to pass on those special times too.
So it was rosy glow time when I set out for the carboot sale. But sales roles in Kenya are no times for rosy glows. I set fair prices. Half price - if in good condition and a year old - or a third or less if much older of what we paid. £40 for over 300 pieces of duplo. £40 for the trainset, four or five sets combined. Probably around a fifth or a tenth what similar volumes of things would cost here, if they were available. I get that shoppers can choose whether to buy, or not. Of course. But wealthy Kenyan shoppers are used to having all the power as they bargain, with a seller who'd quite like their children to eat tonight. Are used, many of them, to wiping the floor with their less powerful sellers. And that gets right up my nose. I'd far rather walk from a sale than let my happy memories with the duplo firemen go with someone who doesn't show me minimal recognition, let alone offering a likelihood of a happy home for the set.
'What you need to do is to give me a much better price to get that trainset off your hands,' said one haughty woman offering a third of the reasonable price I was asking.
'Ah but you know, I'd rather give it to the remand home where I know the children have nothing, if I choose to give it away.'
I didn't say it, but I thought it.
It's like at the school's fundraising fete, in which each year raises money for their chosen charity, for our year an orphanage. In my first year, one welldressed woman picked up ten copies of Tatler, clearly marked at 100 KSh a copy.
'That'll be a thousand KSh please.'
Oh dear, but I only have 200 KSh, what do you suggest?'
'Well given that we are all here without pay, selling things we've donated, to raise money for an orphanage where the children don't even have enough to eat, I suggest you put back eight copies so we can see if someone who does have the money will buy them.'
But it isn't the way here. Bargaining is part of the deal. And a seller who behaves as though she has the power to remove the item from an unfair deal, well that really isn't playing the game.
This is part of a global bloghop - Six Word Saturday, run by Cate. To see the others click here: http://www.showmyface.com/
It's the second week of the school holidays. We've been clearing bedrooms, rootling again in the toy cupboard, testing the water on which toys might be dispensed with to be sold at the car boot sale.
I've been nostalgic. We've decided we won't be moving the toy train set - complete with Thomas, James & Duncan, various engine houses, a turntable, complex tunnels and ring formations - and many happy adult memories, when we come to leave Kenya. I've been sorting the multiracial duplo firemen, hydrant and firestation - brought back by Tom from a workshop in Norway - the animals - crocodile, monkey, dolphin and more - given by our lovely first childminder, Helen, and the hundreds of duplo pieces. We spent a happy afternoon sorting the picture books, Mog the Forgetful Cat, The Gruffalo, Kipper and Roly the hamster who gets lost in the bedroom and more.
'Oh do you remember?'
When we were last decluttering, prior to coming here, I was unnerved when a schoolmum friend said sternly:
'But surely you'll be saving these for the grandchildren.'
Looking at (then) nine year old Firstborn and six year old SecondBorn, it was hard to believe we'd get to that stage. This time it was somewhat different. Even ten year old SecondBorn rescued a pile of favourite books, 'Not now Bernard' and others, 'For my children.'
Bless. How lovely he'd want to pass on those special times too.
So it was rosy glow time when I set out for the carboot sale. But sales roles in Kenya are no times for rosy glows. I set fair prices. Half price - if in good condition and a year old - or a third or less if much older of what we paid. £40 for over 300 pieces of duplo. £40 for the trainset, four or five sets combined. Probably around a fifth or a tenth what similar volumes of things would cost here, if they were available. I get that shoppers can choose whether to buy, or not. Of course. But wealthy Kenyan shoppers are used to having all the power as they bargain, with a seller who'd quite like their children to eat tonight. Are used, many of them, to wiping the floor with their less powerful sellers. And that gets right up my nose. I'd far rather walk from a sale than let my happy memories with the duplo firemen go with someone who doesn't show me minimal recognition, let alone offering a likelihood of a happy home for the set.
'What you need to do is to give me a much better price to get that trainset off your hands,' said one haughty woman offering a third of the reasonable price I was asking.
'Ah but you know, I'd rather give it to the remand home where I know the children have nothing, if I choose to give it away.'
I didn't say it, but I thought it.
It's like at the school's fundraising fete, in which each year raises money for their chosen charity, for our year an orphanage. In my first year, one welldressed woman picked up ten copies of Tatler, clearly marked at 100 KSh a copy.
'That'll be a thousand KSh please.'
Oh dear, but I only have 200 KSh, what do you suggest?'
'Well given that we are all here without pay, selling things we've donated, to raise money for an orphanage where the children don't even have enough to eat, I suggest you put back eight copies so we can see if someone who does have the money will buy them.'
But it isn't the way here. Bargaining is part of the deal. And a seller who behaves as though she has the power to remove the item from an unfair deal, well that really isn't playing the game.
This is part of a global bloghop - Six Word Saturday, run by Cate. To see the others click here: http://www.showmyface.com/
yard sale customers are some of the pushiest, aren't they?
ReplyDeleteLove hearing from you in Africa! I am a South African transplanted to London, but my heart remains in Africa.
ReplyDeleteI hope you stuck to your guns. And what was the outcome of the woman at the book sale with the 200Ksh?
ReplyDeleteLovely to hear from you all. Yes yard sale customers ARE the pushiest!
ReplyDeleteMidlifeMum - the woman with 200 KSh did put the extra magazines down, but humphed at me, and I was told by others afterwards that it was in very poor taste that I'd insisted she pay the full price...
And hello Soulbrush, great to hear from you. The World Service this morning was from Spitalfields Market where I spent many happy hours when I lived in London, so I can so identify with being on one continent, but having waves of nostalgia for another. Best wishes all