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January 17, 2003
In the bustling traditional market of Hsinchu County, a theatrical scene unfolded at a small roadside stall, barely a square meter in size, selling teapots. The stall owner, an unassuming elderly man, had a tanned face, large black-rimmed glasses, a bald head, and disheveled clothes. Sweating profusely, he performed comical and exaggerated movements while constantly hawking his teapots. Sometimes he shouted loudly, and at other times, he used only hand gestures without saying a word. Behind him, a full truckload of teapots was stacked, and the stall was littered with packaging paper, while coins and bills were scattered across the table. The owner acted like a magnet, drawing housewives and market-goers to his stall, encircled by a growing crowd.
Curious, I pushed through the crowd to get a closer look and discovered the uniqueness of the owner's sales tactics. The price was astonishingly low, as little as ten dollars could get you a plain teapot, much cheaper than the ones typically found in stores. When people inevitably questioned the quality, the owner would theatrically pull out shipping documents and photos, sticking them onto his sweaty bald head, guaranteeing that all the teapots came from Yixing, China.
Strangely, customers had no right to choose the teapot they wanted, as the seller took full control, while the buyer passively accepted. No one could predict the owner's next move, and soon, everyone understood the unspoken rule—hold out your hand with change ready. The owner would arrogantly and assertively take the money from your hand, deciding how many teapots and what type to give you. If anyone hesitated, pulling their hand back instinctively, the owner would immediately turn and sell to someone else right in front of you, offering them an even greater deal. He would sometimes dramatically return the entire amount of three hundred dollars to a customer, giving them teapots for free. Gradually, it became clear that the owner's intention was to establish a "game" with rules, harshly punishing those who did not trust him or disrupted the rhythm by haggling.
The owner would wrap each attractive teapot skillfully in newspaper or scrap paper, then place them in red and white striped plastic bags weighing five or ten kilograms. Outsiders would never guess that these ordinary plastic bags contained delicate teapots. Suddenly, when the plastic bags ran out, the owner casually called out to a female customer, commanding her to fetch more from the truck. To everyone’s surprise, she obediently returned with bags, and the owner generously rewarded her with a few teapots, much to her delight.
The owner kept surprising the crowd, sometimes tossing the collected money onto the street, causing a commotion, or demanding a hundred dollars from you and then stuffing your hands with so many teapots that you couldn’t carry them all. The entire scene was one of joyful chaos, with women frantically asking others for help as they struggled to lift the bags full of teapots.
Throughout it all, the owner’s peculiar personality ensured that the crowd’s enthusiasm never waned. The stark price difference led the housewives to whisper among themselves, jokingly asking, "Is this guy crazy?" Yet, they still dutifully prepared their change, eagerly waiting for the owner to take their money in exchange for a beautiful teapot. The process was entirely controlled by the owner, but everyone thought, "This is such a bargain!" These exquisite teapots, which they knew had value, could be acquired with just a bit of leftover change from grocery shopping. No matter how they calculated it, it seemed worth it, and they could brag about their "victory" when they brought the teapots home.
Watercolor
18x12.5 cm
Illustrator Max Yeh, head of Yezi Studio, is a native of Hsinchu, Taiwan. As a child, he rode her bicycle through the streets and alleys of Hsinchu, sketching, photographing, and exploring. Now, working in education, he continues to use artistic tools to document the landscape.
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