Amazing story of a sorry-looking bunch of dhania and dry coconuts

A few days ago I was at my favourite vegetable shop looking for my usual consignment of UTD potatoes (gravy soakers), amadumbe, jam tomatoes, curry leaves, dhania and a coconut (for a little prayer I was doing at home) when I overheard the most entertaining conversation.

But first, a description: my Number One vegetable shop is not some fancy schmancy retailer, complete with recessed lighting bouncing smartly off highly polished fruit and vegetables imported from exotic locations.

No! My fresh-produce haunt survives from under a dusty tent, situated in a parking lot (much like what you see in KZN). Here you will find fresh produce treated with very little respect - they're all displayed in a hotchpotch arrangement of cardboard boxes. I go there because what they may lack in display techniques is certainly made up in price and quality.

Anyway, while I'm standing in the middle of the tent, carefully picking out jam tomatoes (on special at R10 for 2.5kg. Not bad, huh?) when I noticed a commotion going on near the till. A lady, probably in her early 60s, dressed in a kaftan was giving the guy at the till hell.

"R6 for one bunch dhania?" she asked at the top of her voice.

"Ya? What's wrong aunty?" he asked, looking bored as he chewed on a matchstick.

"This is daylight robbery, you know. Where you heard of people selling dhania for R6 a bunch," Mrs Dhania asked, furiously shaking a bunch of dhania in his face.

"What we can do aunty? The boss makes the prices," Mr Matchstick answered, eyeing Mrs Dhania through narrowed eyes.

If he knew which side his bread was buttered, he would have quickly assessed that Mrs Dhania had the potential to cause significant trouble in his life. I continued picking out my tomatoes but my ears were flapping - trying to get better reception.

"Ya, then your'll must tell your boss that R6 a bunch is just rer-dick-ulous (ridiculous)! Your'll can't charge people that kind prices," she said, still shaking the bunch of dhania in his face. With every shake, a few leaves fell off onto the counter.

"Sometimes the boss can't help it, aunty," Mr Matchstick said, shrugging his shoulders. "The farmers also want so much these days."

"Now you blaming the farmers? Let me tell you, my husband was a farmer in Inanda and the farmers are not the problem! You people are rogues! You can't charge R6 for one bunch of dhania and just look at this dhania," she jiggled the now rather sorry looking bunch in his face, "it's not even worth R6! If it was a big bunch, then that would be a different story, but this looks finished."

"Aunty, the way you shaking that bunch, some of the leaves have fallen off but that bunch didn't look like that. See here, I'll show you," Mr Matchstick walked around the counter to the fridge from where he extracted another bunch of dhania, which did look better.

"Ya, but still," Mrs Dhania said reluctantly, "R6 is just rer-dick-ulous!"

Mr Matchstick put the better looking bunch back into the fridge.

"Ok aunty, take it for R5," he said, clearly overpowered.

"R5 for this dhania? Even for R5 it's not worth it," Mrs Dhania was not budging.

"Ok, just take it from our side. For free," Mr Matchstick said as he walked back to the till.

"Thanks, but don't bluff the people, ok?" she said, threateningly. "And, I'll take that new bunch from the fridge, this bunch is finished! Just look at it!"

Mr Matchstick sighed, totalled Mrs Dhania's fruit and veggies and gave her a brand new bunch of dhania.

"Heavy aunty that one," he said to one of the assistants.

"Ya, eksê, she's heavy duty, that one," the assistant agreed.

I paid for my veggies (including a bunch of dhania for R6) and chuckled my way to the next stop - a supermarket where I hoped I could find a coconut, the only item that was still missing from my shopping list.

Now, this is where my drama began. All the coconuts in the store were bone dry. I'd been shaking them for five minutes before realising there was no hope. Could I buy a dry coconut? Was there any truth to the notion that breaking a waterless coconut meant your prayers would not be answered?

Not one for superstition, I put a coconut into my basket. This was Johannesburg, where else was I going to find a coconut? God would understand, right?

Anyway, I then heard another shopper ask one of the store assistants if they had "wet" coconuts? The assistant said a new load of coconuts was just being off-loaded. I spent another five minutes buying vermicelli, rice and camphor before heading back to the coconut bin. I saw the shop assistant sweeping away little pieces of husk from around the bin. I picked up a coconut. No water. I tried another one. No water. A third coconut. Parched. I asked the assistant about the new load of coconuts?

"They're right at the bottom," he said indifferently, "they're underneath the old coconuts.

"So, you put the old stock on top?" I asked in disbelief.

"Ya," he said matter-of-factly.

"But, that's not right," I replied.

"You don't have to buy coconuts from here," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

My cheeks began to burn. "Did your boss tell you to do that? Put the old stock on top?"

"No," he said, "I always do that."

"Why?"

"Because I feel like it," he replied.

"You feel like it? You feel like ripping off customers?" I asked.

"Like I said, you don't have to buy coconuts from here."

I'm now boiling mad.

"She's a customer, you not supposed to speak to her like that!" a voice said from somewhere behind my shoulder. It was Mrs Dhania!

"Hey, boy, I'm talking to you," she said firmly to Mr Dry Coconut. "Now, I'm telling you nicely, you go and take all the old coconuts out from the top and you give this lady a nice wet one otherwise, I'll klap you right here."

I looked at Mrs Dhania in astonish-ment. To my surprise, Mr Dry Coconut immediately started searching and, in less than a minute, handed me a "wet" coconut, while Mrs Dhania looked on.

I thanked Mr Dry Coconut, who mumbled something under his breath.

"Now," Mrs Dhania said to Mr Dry Coconut, "you are going to take the old coconuts and throw them in the bin. Don't you know that one can't do prayers with dry coconuts?"

Without question, Mr Dry Coconut off-loaded the old coconuts.

"Thanks," I said to Mrs Dhania.

"Ya, luvie," she said, "these days you must be sharp in the shops otherwise these rer-dick-ulous fellas are going to finish you and your money."

Perhaps her methods are questionable, but in my mind Mrs Dhania taught me a good lesson. Consumer activism is alive and well in this country and one can only learn from "heavy aunties" like Mrs Dhania - minus the threats or klaps, off course!

Devi's e-mail address is:

• devi.sankaree@intekom.co.za