Carol’s Column

Born to shop – in Istanbul Grand Bazaar

If you think that being incarcerated with a teenage daughter in a shopping centre is the worst fate that can befall you, forget it. Being incarcerated with a teenage daughter in the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, Turkey, is worse.

We'd spent two weeks holidaying, exploring historical sites and clambering over toppled columns. Serious shopping was restricted to our last day, but I should have recognised the warning signs the night before.

"We must start early," said my daughter enthusiastically. "I need lots of presents."

The Grand Bazaar is a teenage daughter's fantasy, jam-packed with diminutive shops overflowing with silver, gold, carpets, clothing, trinkets, in fact, everything that a young heart might desire.

Nicky's eyes flashed, her nostrils flared and her chin jutted determinedly. From her bag she removed a list. It was endless. I twitched as mothers do on these occasions.

The whole of Istanbul was shopping. Like a lawnmower in full blast, my daughter cut through the hordes.

Turks are naturally courteous and hospitable. Add to that the incentive of selling to a tourist and they become mellifluous.

"Hello, beautiful maiden," said one moustached Romeo to Nicky. "It would be an honour for your beauty to grace my humble shop."

And for my dollars to grace your till, I thought sourly to myself.

"Ah, exquisite young lady," murmured a seller of copper saucepans. "My heart will be full if you buy just the smallest thing."

The exquisite young lady was entranced. Not that she needed encouragement. Alack, her budget was severely limited which meant she bargained furiously.

"These are unique," said a vendor dangling silver earrings. "They are hand made according to ancient traditions. For only 25 American dollars they will live happily on your ears."

My daughter bargained: "For five American dollars." Sarah Bernhardt in action, she'd raise her arms, wail at the suggested price, place her hand over her eyes, then slowly walk away, all the while bargaining.

"Your daughter is an iron woman," smiled a Turkish slipper merchant. "I want her for my son. He will be a rich man with such a woman."

Slowly we progressed. I was coveting an ankle bracelet when I heard heart-rending sobs. I turned to see Nicky weeping bitterly over a pile of Turkish bed socks. Had she been attacked?

"Are you all right," I gasped.

"Shhh," she sobbed in Afrikaans, "I'm negotiating."

Next day, flying home, I found myself next to Lettie Miya of Alexandra. Like me, she'd accompanied her husband on a business trip-turned-holiday. Like me, she'd taken along her teenage daughter, Lindi. Like me, she'd spent the previous day at the Grand Bazaar.

"I'm dead," she said.

I was too exhausted to reply.

"What," she said, "will Lindi do with a nose ring?"

"What," I answered, "will Nicky do with a jasmin-scented eraser?"

"When will my daughter wear Turkish chiffon see-through pants?"

"When will mine wear bells around her waist?"

We both sighed.

"You know, someone offered me 10 camels for my daughter, I was tempted."

I nodded my head. "Same here," I said.

We giggled. Anyone listening might have thought we were joking.

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