Decimal Difficulties In Iraq

Press, Volume CVI, Issue 31187, 11 October 1966, Page 2

Decimal Difficulties In Iraq

(By RUTH THORN) Does the thought of changing to decimal coinage worry you? It does? Well, whatever your thoughts are on the subject they cannot be worse than mine, because it wasn’t so long ago that I w’as living in the Middle East and having to cope with running a household, doing the shopping, and all with foreign decimal currency.

My husband, being a very busy man, allocated me an allowance and asked me to cope. As I have not a mathematical mind, I took the Iraqi dinars, half dinars and fills, and asked my 14-year-old son to explain the mystery of decimals to me. This he endeavoured to do, but somehow my mind went quite blank. Peter, my cook boy. a veritable “Man Higgins” after years of service in European households, had even less success. My gravest error was trying to convert every item I planned to purchase into pounds, shillings and pence. I was determined not to be cheated. The Iraquis are wonderful shop keepers, as patient as the donkeys that clop along the streets, but even their patience did nothing to solve my problem. They were not conversant with the monetary system of New Zea-

land and muddled me even more by converting the dinars into dollars. After one pathetic effort at trying to shop elegantly, I gave up. I took my son with me and he paid out the necessary cash. I was no wiser, but far more content. But still the house had to run smoothly. Peter bought the vegetables and meat as he came to work: every morning he would tell me exactly how much he had spent, and then, with infinite care, would show me what had cost what. Bowing deeply he would look at me with huge brown eyes and say: “Mem Sahib happy?” Mem Sahib was perfectly happy. She trusted Peter far more than she trusted herself. I solved the problem of how to cope with the ordinary groceries which I bought from an enormous supermarket. I just telephoned my order daily. Once a month a suppliant wife stood by her husband while he checked the grocery account. His pen would zoom up and down the lines, his head nodding in appreciation. Then I’d say: “Would you please pay the account, darling?” During four months and a half in Iraq, I never personally parted with a single fill from my purse. My husband or my son did all the paying. Then one day I decided that it was time for me to take the purse into my own hands and go shopping. I didn’t go into the bazaars because no woman would venture there alone, but I went into a few European shops near our home.

I went to buy stockings, hair spray and make-up. Almost all the shop assistants are male, and their manners are beyond reproach. “Stockings? Yes Madame.” American stockings, German stockings. English stockings, French stockings. All shades and sizes, all varied prices. I chose Iraqi stockings because I felt safer with the coins in my purse.

My hand fumbled, my expression must have been sad, because almost immediately the assistant became apologetic, starting to wave his arms and pleading in broken English. Before I knew where I was I became entangled in a bargaining contest. My self esteem had vanished. Humbly I handed him a palm covered with fills. “Please,” I begged, “I don’t understand, but I trust you. Take what I owe you.”

He bowed low and took such a small amount of cash that I bought my other articles in the same manner. When I went home and told my husband what I’d done, he was horrified. “You’re crazy. What were you charged?” On top of the stockings I placed several coins, the hair spray and the make-up receiving similar treatment. “That’s what I paid,” I announced proudly. My husband was flabbergasted. “You’ve got marvellous bargains, but you’ll never continue to get away with it.” But as far as I know, I did. I had no more headaches worrying about fills and dinars. I just resorted to every feminine wile I could think of, and if I got swindled a bit I know I still made on the deals. But that was the Middle East. I can’t hope to get away with those tactics here. I’ve got to learn. I’ve three little cards that give me odd bits of information. I’ve a little round wheel that instantly converts—if you know how to work the wheel. Shopkeepers are getting quite used to me standing back, not minding who gets served before me while I do my tables by aid of the National Cash Register chart. This time I shall be prepared and endeavour to keep my balance mentally, physically and financially.