<i> Ngapi</i> either means “how much?” or “straight up,” I can’t remember which. : A T-shirt, 2 Pens and My Pants

I don’t like to haggle over prices when I shop. I won’t even return defective merchandise. I bought a new shirt recently and, when I got home and opened the package, I discovered it had only one arm.

I am not a one-armed person and don’t know any one-armed people, but I kept the shirt because I couldn’t stand the idea of arguing with a clerk over how many arms the shirt had when I bought it and what did I do with the other arm?

By the way, do not misconstrue this as the start of a campaign against one-armed people or one-armed shirts. I think one-armed people are just fine and one-armed shirts are probably not a bad idea for one-armed people.

I simply mention this to emphasize that I would rather take short shrift than haggle with people who sell things.

Which brings me, however circuitously, to Africa. This is My Last Vacation in Africa Column. Boogie along as best you can.

Throughout Kenya and Tanzania, there are small roadside shops that specialize in selling souvenirs to tourists, and no first price is ever assumed to be a final price. You bargain.

This might involve not only an exchange of shillings, but of American T-shirts, pens, pocket calculators and whatever else catches the fancy of the African merchant.

Usually, half a dozen or so shops are clustered together, each offering similar merchandise, a situation not unlike the mini-malls that abound in the San Fernando Valley.

Competition is fierce. If you are within a hundred yards of the cluster, several merchants approach at a run, waving whatever specialty item they feel might capture your attention. This can be unnerving if their specialty is spears.

That, by the way, is not intended to demean either Africans or their spears, anymore than I intended to demean one-armed people or one-armed shirts. I’m just a nervous person.

The merchant whose shop you finally enter says, “ Jambo , rafiki , are you from Texas?”

This means, “Hello, friend, are you something other than Japanese?”

(See above for not intending to demean anyone.)

You are supposed to reply, “ Jambo, rafiki , I am from Allentown, Pennsylvania.”

I use that only to illustrate a typical response. In reality, it is unlikely that anyone would be there from Allentown, Pa. I know for a fact that their idea of traveling abroad is to take a Trailways bus into Pittsburgh.

Back to Africa.

The merchant will then ask, more or less, if you’re interested in anything special. To reply that you’re only looking won’t hold up. He already knows you’re looking, and he’s watching your eyes to see where you’re looking.

When your gaze rests on anything for longer than three seconds, he moves in.

“I make it myself,” he says, holding up the item. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a carved elephant or a shrunken head. They all make it themselves.

“ Ngapi ?” you say.

Well, I think that’s what you say. Ngapi either means “how much?” or “straight up,” I can’t remember which.

My talent in linguistics is, at best, modest. The only Swahili words I am really certain of, besides jambo and rafiki, are kwaheri (goodby) and wapi choo (where’s the toilet?).

Let’s assume, however, that ngapi means “how much?”

The merchant says, “Fifteen hundred shillings.”

What you’re supposed to do at this point is offer considerably less and then engage in fierce bargaining until a deal is made.

My wife worked out a formula. She offered 25% of the quoted price, which was half what she expected to pay, and went up from there.

That works fine if you are either as bright as she is or hold a graduate degree in extemporaneous math from MIT. I’m not and I don’t.

She also perfected the technique of walking away after making a final offer, which usually culminated in the merchant’s chasing her to the door of the tour bus and making a considerably better offer than he had proposed in the first place.

Only once did I engage in bargaining. I wanted to buy a walking stick with the carved torso of a naked woman on the handle. You don’t see too many of those around Chatsworth.

“Eight hundred shillings,” the merchant said.

“Seven-fifty,” I replied bravely.

My wife overheard.

“Too high,” she said. “Offer him two shillings.”

“Two,” I said.

“Never!” he said.

“Walk away,” my wife whispered.

I walked away. The merchant followed.

“OK,” he said, “six hundred.”

“Three hundred.”

“Five-fifty.”

“Five hundred,” I said. “Final offer.”

“OK, OK,” he said. “Five hundred and your pants.”

“My pants?”

I was wearing safari trousers I had purchased at a store called Banana Republic. He wanted them. I turned to my wife questioningly.

She shrugged. “I’m not familiar with that kind of offer,” she said.

I didn’t trade my pants. Instead, I went to the shop next door.

“ Jambo, rafiki ,” the merchant said, “are you from Allentown, Pennsylvania?”

Hey, man, ain’t everybody?