Christmas shopping in Arabia

Last week My Man and I hit Al-Ballad for some haram-athon Christmas shopping (haram=forbidden). It's hard enough trying to find Christmas presents when you have a Target Superstore in your city. Trying to find them in the maze that is Old Town, where almost nobody speaks English, and very few vendors sell things like souvenirs (who goes to Saudi for tourism?), is, well, saab...difficult.

We hit up the shoe block, where about a dozen vendors had piled mountains of shoes atop kitchen table-sized booths. We wanted some Saudi sandals for our relatives back in the States, but we honesty had no idea what a fair price would be. So we started off at a disadvantage. We stopped at one shoe place and My Man started haggling over a couple pairs, and I wandered off to keep looking. My Man usually takes a while to haggle because his Arabic doesn't extend much farther than "hello" and "thank you." Also, he hates overpaying.

I was wearing a head covering, as I always do in Jeddah. I get a little less staring and I feel a little less like a stranger. Girls at the university have told me I tie my scarf "like a professional." It's quite a trick getting the thing tight without pins or knots. With my light skin and green eyes, I always hope I can pass for Jordanian.

I walked around for a while, finally ending up on the other side of the same booth where My Man was still bartering with Salesman #1. The shoes were heaped up so high, you couldn't see over them to the other side. Picking up a pair of Pakistani sandals, I asked Salesman #2 "How much are these?" in a Jordanian accent.

"Theletheen," he said. (Thirty.)

Then Salesman #1 spotted me. He knows I'm an American; he saw me with my husband earlier. (My Man is blond and blue-eyed and speaking English. It isn't hard to pick him out.)

"La, la, la," he called to Salesman #2. "Guleha khamsteen!"

There's only problem with Salesman #1's tactic: I understood him. He said, "No, no, no. Tell her fifty!"

I looked at Salesman #2, my eyes twinkling, one eyebrow cocked.

"Okay," I said. "Kem haatha? Theletheen o khamsteen?" (How much is it? 30 or 50?)

Salesman #2 hesitated, glancing sideways at his superior.

"Ana aarif al-Arabeeya," I said. "Bes ana kelem shuay. Kelem saab." (I know Arabic, but I speak only a little. Speaking is difficult.)

Salesman #2 started laughing.

"It's one price if you speak Arabic," he said in Arabic. "And another if you speak English."

I know this probably isn't talking-with-a-strange-Arab-man-in-Saudi-Arabia-appropriate, but I busted up laughing out loud. I just couldn't help it. For the first time ever, I finally knew something that this native speaker didn't: that I understood some Arabic. For the first time ever, I wasn't about to pay the price for my lack of education.

Then I caught the amused eye of Salesman #2, and he also started to laugh. We slapped our knees and bent at the waist. In a country where it always seems like humor is always haram, he and I giggled for a long, long minute.

I paid 20 for the sandals.