The 'foreigner price'phenomenon: reasons and solutions

Andy Hill

Many travelers complain of the ‘foreigner price’ they are allegedly extorted when paying for things in foreign places. Here’s why it happens, and how to make it go away

One of the things you hear from travelers about is this ‘foreigner price’ phenomenon; where the woman selling papayas from the back of a truck assumedly, allegedly, ripped you off- because you’re a foreigner.

Why it Happens

In the streets of anywhere in the developing world, a western foreigner can’t expect to be given the same price for things that natives are. It doesn’t need to inspire any kind of xenophobic bias or pattern in your mind about ‘these’ or ‘that’ people. It’s just happens. All over the world. Just because it’s the first time you’ve obviously paid more for something for being a foreigner, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen all the time, all over the planet.

Plus, if you’re in a developing country, where people might live for $2 a day, don’t make yourself look like you make $500 in a day. That $900 camera hanging around your neck is proof enough that you should pay fifty cents more for a bag of oranges than the local guy in front of you.

How to make yourself (mostly) immune to it  

Learn how to say the numbers 1-100 in the local language. This is far easier than it sounds. Learn also how to say ‘hundred’, ‘thousand’, ‘million’ - whatever you need based on the currency of the place you’re in. Write them down in a special notebook that you always have with you. Pace around in a room, reading them and practicing them. When I was in Bali, I would count my steps in Bahasa Indonesian, and, although at first it was extremely frustrating, I learned the counting system very quickly. And I am lousy with foreign languages.

When you haggle at a market or for a ride somewhere or anything else, it makes a very marked difference if you are comfortable speaking numbers and prices in the local language. Price decreases nearly always occur. So, learn the basic numbers and you’ll fairly quickly be given a price that much more resembles the local one.

The process of haggling varies much from country to country, but the rule of the game (as always) is to always be polite. If you don’t want their price, just thank them (in their language), smile, and walk away.

They’ll probably immediately begin to shout to you at least your price, if not a few pennies more that you can easily overlook.

Nearly shipwrecked on the way to Nusa Lembongan

Andy Hill

It was with a capricious, naive abandon that my girlfriend and I hopped onto a boat to go see our friends on the island of Nusa Lembongan off of Bali.

It was a more or less clear day on the island of Gili Trawangan as my girlfriend and I enjoyed our English breakfast on the beach and waited for our boat to begin to take passengers. We were heading off to the island of Nusa Lembongan, whose cultural affiliations lie with its nearby Bali whereas the Gilis are tied to Lombok.

We’d had a marvelous time on Trawangan, doing little more than shuffling about from guesthouse to bar to beach chair and back, jumping out of the way of horse-drawn carts (there are no motorized vehicles in the Gilis) and eating more prawns than we’d ever know how to catch.

We were waved towards an arriving boat, paid our check, and ecstatically presented our ticket to the man taking care of the boat business. Two of our dear friends were meeting us in Lembongan with two of their friends we’d never met and we were looking forward excitedly to three or four days of much mirth.

We claimed our little hard plastic bench towards the back of the boat and grinned at one another, stoked to be on another boat, glowing. The motor started up and off we were.

Something bizarre and unexpected then happened. What had looked like a serene sea while we were eating breakfast on the beach had become progressively worse until we were deep in the nightmarish tumult of an incensed sea-demon’s rage.

While rocking violently, the bottom of the boat was smacking the water every time it came back down from going over a swell. There was so much water being sprayed against the windows that it was impossible to see out.

Our fellow passengers looked increasingly terrified, and although I usually have quite a bit of good natured faith in these things, I began looking about for something to smash the window beside us in case the boat flipped.

And then, people began to wretch.

Soon a girl who worked for the boat company was walking around with an armful of thin, black, plastic bags for everyone, some grabbing at them quickly, desperately.  

The smell of vomit began to permeate the cabin. I couldn’t look at anyone who was about to vomit, in the process of vomiting, or had just vomited because then I would have vomited. My girlfriend was clutching my arm like a vice and I almost got up so we could stand near the edge in case the thing flipped.

I thought about all the times I’d read about these kinds of boats, specifically in Indonesia, capsizing, sinking, or catching fire. I was getting ready for the big one.

Someone missed their bag and vomit went all over the floor of the aisle near my foot. The boat boomed as it crashed back down to the water after going over a wave. 

Children screamed. 

A woman began crying. 

I thought of how many months had gone by since I’d spoken to my family, and the dreams I had of being old and happy with my girlfriend. 

Someone else ralphed just behind me. The air was thick with terror and barf and grief. 

And then, as automatically as it had started, the waves had calmed, the tempest had subsided, sea water stopped spraying against the windows, and the sun seemed to come out. We could see our destination, and it was comfortingly close, probably enough to swim.

The barf bag lady came around to collect them, disgustingly, in a large cardboard box, and tried to comfort us by saying “today not bad. Last week bad.”