Barter in Bantry - West Cork Literary Festival 2016

“Today’s exercise is bartering,” said Horatio. “You can barter whatever you like but you must bring back an object, the name of the person you interacted with and a story.    Meet you all back here under Wolfe Tone in 40 minutes.

We scatter like sheep across Bantry Square.  It’s Friday, Market day in Bantry.  I walk past a jewellery stand and stop to admire a pair of drop earrings made of green glass.     “Bartering in Ireland, he must be mad; we’re not in China,” I muttered to myself. “I’ll buy something: he’ll never know.” I was completely out of cash and needed to use the AIB ATM across the street.

I shimmy my way through the traffic moving at snail pace circling the one way system around the square. I paused on the traffic island and waited for the lights to change. I meet Paul who was staying at the same B&B. I tell him my mission.

“Did you know that bartering is officially illegal in Ireland?” he said.

“That can’t be right,” I said, “If I give you something and you give me something of equal value back that’s fair exchange.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s something to do with the items being a gift and that’s taxable. But if you throw in a euro, that might make it alright,” he said with a wink.

I queue up the ATM and armed with cash I dash back to the market; I had only 20 minutes left. I dodge tourists dawdling at the jewellery stall, stride past nylon Indian rugs, plastic guns, and girl’s bracelets for a Euro each. The bracelets are nice actually, brilliant greens and reds strung on elastic thread. I try them on. They are a little tight and I chat to the owner while I try on one then three. Three look good. The owner’s name is Chung, he is from North West China and he has been in Ireland eight years. All the while that I’m talking, I sizing him up: he might be open to bartering but what can I give back. I leave the bracelets and walk on.

I am nearly at the end of the square when I came across a stall selling plants. On an upturned Coca-Cola crate I see a tray of seedlings marked ‘Tobacco’. Sitting next to the tray in the open door of her van is the owner. Long, blonde hair cut Joni Mitchell style under a scarecrow hat and skin-tight denim jeans. I recognise her immediately.

“I met you at the Mallow Garden Festival, you sold me a gorgeous tree peony,” I said. She nodded and smiled at me.   “Are they actually tobacco?” I said pointing at the seedlings.

“Yes, they have a lovely flower. In a few weeks the leaves will grow to about five times that size. You cut the leaves right back to the base. Hang them up to dry. When they are fully brown you crumble them up into small pieces and you smoke them.”

“You actually smoke them?”

“Yes.”

I sighed and told her that I was on a writing course and our assignment was to barter.

“I barter all the time,” she said.

“You do?”

 “Yes, these tobacco plants I exchanged for some raspberry canes and those pansies over there, I gave fuchsias cuttings which I rooted myself.”

I couldn’t believe my luck, “Will you barter with me?”

“I will. What do you have?”

I held open my bag and listed the contents; “I have a lap top, a packet of tissues never used,” and pointing to my head, “how about these sunglasses?”

She looked me into my eyes and said gently, “You know you can barter for services too. If you get me a cup of coffee, I’ll give you any plant you want.” My eyes looked around greedily, she had some lovely plants.

“Done, where do I go?”

“There’s a red van over on the far side of the square, he sells coffee out of the back.”

“How do you like it?”

“Black, no sugar, no milk.”

I was about to shoot off when I stopped, “what’s your name?’

“Kathy.”

“Hi Kathy, I’m Geraldine, I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

I took off across the square.  I scan the row of vans are selling waffles, pizza, burgers: this must be the food section. The coffee van is the last one before a stall selling cheeses. A bearded man is playing a ukulele and singing ‘When I’m 64.’ I stand next to an elderly lady. It turns out I am on the wrong side of her. When the coffee man asks, “‘who’s next” he can’t tell if it is her or me. “Are we going to have a fight about it?” he laughed. The lady ordered an espresso, poured in a pinch of milk, knocked it back and moved onto the cheese. I order a large black.  Carefully sealing the lid on the cup as if my life depended it I thread my way slowly back across the square.

The coffee was hot and I had to keep switching it from hand to hand. I passed an old lady leaning on a ‘Supervalu’ trolley for support while her grandson carried a large cardboard box filled with primroses. The boy accidentally dropped the box and the soil spilled under the wheels of a parked car. Any other day I would have stopped to help but I kept going.

Kathy gratefully relieved me of the coffee.    “Now,” she said, “how it works is that I pay you for the coffee and you, for your services of bringing me the coffee, get to pick a plant.”

“Oh no,” I said, “Don’t do that, let’s do the coffee for a plant.”

“Ok, which plant would you like?”

I looked around. She had racks of bigger, healthy, colourful plants in full bloom but I dragged my eyes back to the tray of seedlings on the crate.

“I think for the sake of purity, it ought to be the tobacco,” I said.

Kathy picked up the tray and handed it to me. There were at least 8 plants in it.

“Oh no,” I said, “I don’t need all of them, just one will do.”

 “You can have them.”

“They’ll be dead by the time I get back to Cork. Really, I only need one.”

Kathy inserted her forefinger and thumb into the first pot hole and gently pinched out the baby plant. It emerged from its home, snug and root-bound, perfectly intact: not a crumb of soil spilled. She looked around, what to put it into. She climbed into the van to look for a spare pot. I spot a used coffee cup just inside the door. I pick it up, “How about this?” I said. Kathy plopped the plant into the cup.

Perfect.