Travel Horrors: Indonesia : A Bad Bargain in Bali : Oblivious American on a shopping expedition ends up with cultural egg on his face

I left the comforts of my lounge chair on the sands of Sanur Beach in Bali to go on a shopping trip. Later, I wished I had not.

An Australian couple I’d met on the beach had raved about a factory that sold batik and brocade, and since I was in the middle of a redecorating project back home, it sounded intriguing. Little did I know that this outing and, I confess, my brash American sensibilities were going to cause me so much embarrassment.

Luckily, the driver I had used for the preceding week was available that afternoon to take me into the nearby crowded city of Denpasar, where he found the location of the recommended fabric factory without much trouble. While he waited with the car at the curb, I walked toward the archway framing what looked vaguely like some sort of mini-mall. Buildings were on either side of a flower-filled courtyard. Although there was no sign to identify it and its entrance was nondescript, a small shop on the right was the showroom for the factory.

It took little time to realize that nothing in the shop’s meager selection interested me. But as I turned to leave, lamenting my bad luck at coming all this way only to leave empty-handed, I spotted something interesting through a shop window across the courtyard.

I walked over and peered through the large window. Inside were beautiful antiques, both Balinese and European, Oriental rugs and a display case containing what looked like Ming blue and white porcelain, which I had just begun to collect. What a lovely shop, I thought, as I opened the door and crossed the threshold. And how typical of life, I happily philosophized, that when one door closes (the bad tip on the fabric factory) another opens.

As I entered the little foyer, a young boy who had been lounging on an elaborately carved daybed, jumped to his feet and ran out of the room, obviously going to get the proprietor. While waiting, I walked into the large room where the boy had been, and over to the glass-front cabinet that had caught my eye from the window.

Displayed within were a number of beautiful and fine Ming porcelain pieces, other blue and white dishes and assorted antique Chinese and Dutch wares.

Of course, I remembered, Bali and the rest of Indonesia had been part of Holland’s colonial empire. Hence the Dutch china and odd pieces of European furniture. The selection of porcelain was truly a find. I curbed my impulse to open the cabinet and check the prices, which was just as well since the young boy had quickly returned with a woman who appeared to be his mother.

I’ve found the Balinese people to be quiet and serene, unlike Americans, such as I, who so often have our eyes out for good prices and our instincts poised for a little old-fashioned bargaining, which I was prepared to do that day.

The boy’s mother demurely approached, and I smiled and pointed at the display cabinet.

“How much?” I asked, pointing to a particularly nice piece. The woman looked confused. “Do you mind if I take a look at these? What are your prices like?”

The woman shook her head slightly, which was when I realized that she didn’t quite comprehend what I was saying.

“Collection,” was the only response she could muster. Well, I wasn’t prepared to buy all the porcelain as one lot, and it was clear that the woman didn’t speak English. I figured that we would need an interpreter if any business transactions were going to be done. So I held my hand up and said, “One second, I’ll get my driver to interpret.”

Outside, I gestured to the driver to come into the store. I asked him to explain to the woman that I was interested in the porcelain and, in particular, a piece on a middle shelf of the cabinet. It was then that I opened the cabinet door and took the plate from its display stand.

“Ask her what she wants for this,” I instructed the driver. He turned to her and spoke in Balinese.

After she responded to him, the driver turned to me (I was still holding the plate I was interested in) and cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said in his inimically kind and polite voice. “This is a private home.”

As best I could, I masked my shock and mortification, returned the plate and made a sincere apology.

I then got out of there in a hurry, empty-handed again. I told the driver that we were through shopping for the day, and we headed back to the hotel.