It’s All Happening at the Zoo… July 9, 2009

Merida has a beautiful zoo.  It’s carved into the side of a mountain complete with multiple waterfalls and walking paths leading to quiet secluded areas of the forest, perfect for reading, writing, or–if you’re 13–making out with your boyfriend/girlfriend on the sly.

traipsing through the zoo

There aren’t a whole lot of animals, but the way the zoo is set up is pretty engaging (completely lacking US safety standards, and thus allowing you to put your hand in the lion’s cage and pet him if you so desire.  And, believe it or not, I’ve seen people desire).  On quiet days, I like to spend time hanging out with the amazing felines.  Whereas typically animals in the US need to be playing or moving or doing something to keep me interested, these lions and leopards are SO close, that just watching their stomachs rise and fall as they breath can keep me glued by their side.

Prrrrrrrr

On busy days, these animals are a little harder to be around.  Visitors mob their cages, yelling at the animals, sticking their cell phones between the bars to catch a photo and even sometimes throwing straws or other garbage at the animals.  It’s pretty disturbing to watch, and the question “where the heck are the employees who are supposed to be stopping this?” often comes to mind.

When my friend Bri was visiting a few weeks ago, we took an afternoon outing to the Zoo.  It was toward the end of the day, and the crowds were slim.  After passing some pigs, a condor and a few tropical birds, we bee-lined it to the lion’s cage.  After whispering sweet nothings at our feline friends, a group of 17 or 18 year old Venezuelans arrived.  They were posing for pictures with a male leopard in the background, and one of the guys had this uncanny ability of making a “meow” sound that would cause the leopard to pop his head up and look right at the camera.  We were all giggling at this typical zoo-going fun, when a man came over and started hitting the bars of the cage with a stick.  The animal was clearly frightened, but the man continued doing this.  He then walked to the lions cage next door and started doing the same thing.  That’s when I realized THIS is the zoo employee I’d been willing to come stop visitors from harassing the animals in the past.  The group of Venezuelans, Bri and I were all visibly uncomfortable with his behavior and moved on toward the monkeys (not without whispering to the lion first that he had full permission to bite this dudes hand off, if given the opportunity).

As we approached the monkey cages, we stopped to check out a bear and a sloth.  I couldn’t believe my eyes at the sloth cage.  This little guy was eating…literally tearing to shreds…a cell phone case.  Sure that this wasn’t part of a well-balanced-sloth-diet, I looked around for a zoo worker to come take care of the situation.  Finally I caught the eye of someone overseeing a paint job on the snake house.  I waved, pointed at the sloth and raised my eyebrows.  

Plastic. Just delicious...

He shook his head and flicked his wrist as if to say “oh sloths will be sloths now, won’t they??”  My hate for the Merida Zoo workers suddenly went up another ten points.

We told Mr. Sloth to take it easy on the plastic lining, and turned the corner toward the monkeys.  At this point, my only option was to laugh.  There were tons of adorable monkeys swinging through the cage and grooming one another, doing their monkey business…But what really caught my attention was one furry escape artist, sitting on top of a sign right outside his cage.  People were snapping pictures and feeding him chips from their palm.  When was my last Rabies vaccination…?  Yeah, I think it’s time we leave.

My mom once was moved to the front row at an Oprah Winfrey taping in Chicago by giving the “best” parenting advice within the studio audience.  “If I want to get my kids to go to the zoo with me,” she explained, “I just tell them ‘oh honey! The monkeys are mating!”   Though I never heard this “incentive” first hand (and Im pretty sure my reaction would not have been along the lines of, “Oh wow mom! You know how I love being a perv…LETS GO!”) I think what would have made the zoo more engaging growing up was having a sense of being WITH the animals.  Clearly, Merida’s approach has more faults than I can list, but the proximity I can get to the lions and tigers and bears…and monkeys, apparently…has made trips to the zoo more awe inspiring and engaging than anything I’ve experienced at home.

Now if I can just figure out a way to get that lion to eat his handler…

Escaped Monkey

Well, is he married? June 19, 2009

Literally within the first five minutes of meeting my host family back in January, I was asked about my love life.  Before I could formulate an even half-Spanish response, a cacophony of voices started shouting “Venezuelan guys are feo (ugly)” and “Find yourself a gringo!”  

Whaaaatever, I thought, I’m here for the SPANISH, foos!!

Well, fast forward to a few months later when my novio, who lives in Caracas, came to visit me in Merida for the first time.  I sat my host mom down at the kitchen table before the visit and broke the news, “I have a boyfriend.”  She started clapping like a little kid and gave me a hug and a kiss like I had just received an A++ on my report card.  

But then, she abruptly stopped.

“Is he married?” She asked me.  I thought I had certainly misunderstood the question.  Didn’t I just tell her my boyfriend was coming?  Why would I invite some random married dude to spend the weekend with me in Merida?  “What?” I asked.  “Is he married,” she repeated with a tone of gravity.  “Noooo…” I responded, eyebrows furrowed, still not sure I fully understood the question.  “Oh,” she said, “well great!  Is he divorced?” she asked.  

“What the heeee-aaalll is going on here?” I thought.  

“uh, no. no, he’s not divorced,” I told her.  Of course there was one last question: “does he have kids?” she probed.  “No kids,” I told her, having a hard time covering my discomfort with the conversation.  “Oh well, GREAT!” she smiled, “That makes everything SO much easier when he’s single.”

What the….?  It made me pretty sad for The Venezuelan World of Relationships that these questions were the first ones that popped into my host mom’s mind.  Instead of being asked the typical “what does he look like,” “Do you like-like him” or even “what’s his name!?!?” the focus was solely on the teensy-tiny, very naked wedding finger.  I mean, I saw what happened with my host sister earlier this year when she caught her boyfriend two-timing her…but I had no idea suspicion, distrust, and I guess by default, infidelity, was this deeply ingrained in the culture.  

A few days later I was talking to a friend who is married to a Venezuelan.  She and her husband went to visit her mother-in-law, and they started making small talk.  My friend told her mother-in-law she had been on a hike with a good friend of hers a few days earlier.  The mother-in-law’s response wasn’t “oh that’s great!” or “how nice it is to have good girlfriends.”  No…instead she said this: “You better keep an eye on her.  Make sure she doesn’t try to steal your husband.”

Wow.

I’ve found it’s easy to get worked up by statements like this.  I have encountered so many strong and independent women while living in Venezuela.  It makes me upset to think that it is almost a part of their role as women to keep tabs on their man, make sure he isn’t cheating on her, read his emails, check his cell phone records…pretty much obsess over his every move and not have an ounce of trust in him.  And on top of all that, totally distrust women.  

My boyfriend came for another visit a few weeks later, and this time he had the pleasure of meeting my host mom.  Once he left, my host mom sat me down and asked once again about his marital status. “you’re sure he isn’t married?” she asked me.  I shook my head solemnly, not wanting to get into this conversation again.  “Well that’s great.  You’re lucky he’s single.  You need to stick your talons in him, and hold on tight.” she informed me.  

barf.  I thought about telling her I wasn’t raised to go about relationships that way.  I didn’t really plan on sticking my “talons” into anyone.  I’m in Venezuela for six months, I don’t plan on leaving with a  ring on my finger, no matter how much that may disappoint her.  But, I knew it would all be met with the weathered skepticism of a woman who had seen too many couples having affairs, hitting up “love motels” during their lunch break and being dishonest with one another.  And call me what you like–naive, ignorant, estupido–but I just didn’t want to have to be inundated with that kind of attitude and outlook.  

My novio hasn’t seen the fam in a few months, but they still ask about him nearly every day.  It’s kind of awkward, because…Well, I’m still trying to figure out how to break the news that I just found out he has kids.

(Juuuuust kidding)

The Nutcracker May 25, 2009

Hmmm…memories of The Nutcracker, eh?  Well, it’s beautiful, and festive…and…simply ideal for a mid-winter’s nap.  

Even though there are giant chunks missing from my Nutcracker-Storyline-Knowledge, that’s not to say I didn’t (/don’t) have major delusions of being one of those prima ballerinas up there on stage.  The tu-tus, the toe shoes, the giant rat…

I did ballet for one year when I was around eight years old.  There are conflicting stories on why I was taken out of classes (a teacher who called me a fat french fry and told me to suck in my gut may have had a little something to do with it), but I have been more or less regretting the fact that I can’t “grand jete” to save my life ever since.

After graduating college, I started my search for a ballet school that teaches beginner classes to adults.  No luck.  But a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a flyer that read “It’s not too late to learn ballet!  Take advantage of this opportunity: Beginning ballet classes for adults, three times a week.”

I spent about two weeks just trying to locate the school.  It was tucked behind a section of town full of car mechanics and scrap metal yards.  Not the kind of place you’d think to find a ballet studio.  I had my first class last Friday, and loved it.  There were only three of us in the class that day and the teacher gave a very basic lesson on the different positions and bar exercises.  I couldn’t help but laugh aloud every time I looked up into the mirror.  Not only because it was very clear I had no idea what I was doing, but I also stood about twice as tall as every other person in the room.  I was, in no exaggerated terms, the awkward giant swooshing her feet around in socks and ratty spandex as the other women stood poised and well-equipped in their leotards and ballet slippers.

I was excited to come back on Monday for my second class.  Who could have guessed that I would leave Venezuela a ballerina?  I got to class to find twice as many women at the bar stretching.  Class began and right away I knew I was in for some trouble.  There were no slow, pointed exercises explaining feet and arm positions for each move.  The music was fast, the moves were faster and I was loooooost.  I thought maybe the teacher would come over and give me some “special” instructions since I was a beginner.  But no.  When the other girls pulled their legs up to their ears, the teacher would say “Whitney…aren’t you going to try?”

uhhh…my body doesn’t bend like that, lady.  

At one point we were doing a stretching routine at the bar that ended with everyone doing the forward splits.  I got about two inches down and then would collapse over to my side and try to feign “standing up like a princess” to end the series.  The second time through the exercise the teacher called out “Girls!  Your splits stop when you decide to stop.  You will make it to the ground if you want to make it to the ground.”  This of course was delivered while starring straight at me.  So, I decided to give it a try.  “Body, you want to go all the way down to the ground,” I commanded as I started to slide toward the floor.  The instructor may have had something with that statement, but even when my body wanted to make it to the ground it stopped short about a foot from splitsville.

The class ended with the instructor teaching us part of a nutcracker song.  (bada bada bada bada ba-da badadadaDA…you know the one.)  There were moves that I definitely had not even seen, let alone butchered at the bar in one of my two ballet classes.  We were leaping, doing weird twists with our legs and there was so much arm coordination involved I got dizzy.  I stuck to the back of the crowd and my image barely made its presence known in the mirror as we practiced the routine as a group.  Then she split us into two groups.  Surely she’s not going to make me do this in front of everyone, right?  I looked like Justin Timberlake in his Single Ladies SNL skit…manly, uncoordinated and a total joke.  But yes…when it was my group’s turn to go I was waved onto the dance floor and I gave it my all.  My arms went up when others’ went down.  my leaps looked more like puddle jumps and I definitely spent the entire time intently watching the girl in front of me for cues on timing and the next move.

I think things would have been better had everyone just joined me in laughing hysterically at the situation.  I was so clearly out of place!  But the only strange look I got was when I asked the instructor after class when I could pay.  “you really want to sign up?” she asked in overt shock.  “I’m going to be a ballerina GOSH DARNNIT!” I growled in English (in my head), and simply responded, “pues, si!”

So…I’m committed for at least a month.  Either I will learn how to twirl and plié, or I will have a solid month of getting comfortable looking like a fumbling fool.  Call me crazy, but I have hope.  Nutcracker 2009, here I come!

Whitney Houston Has Left the Building May 20, 2009

What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet…

Kind of like a Whitney being called a Whick-me…or Whinne (da p-eew)… Right Shakespear?

My name isn’t The Greatest for international travel.  But in many ways, my adoptive names are some of the best souvenirs I have from my time spent abroad.  I was dubbed Willie while studying in Madagascar, for example.  Admittedly, I found it a little strange at first…but there is nothing that will send my thoughts catapulting back to my four months abroad faster than having a friend (or even my parents) call me Willie.  

Here in Venezuela Whitney has once again proven to be a problem.  But unlike former experiences abroad, this time there’s been a lack in nickname consistency.  Depending on whether I’m visiting a Rotary meeting or introducing myself to a neighbor, Whitney can be transformed into anything from “Whindy” to my personal favorite, “Wimpy.”  In the past, I’ve actually been ok with just letting people call me whatever they’d like.  So what if Wimpy isn’t my real name?  I know who they’re talking to…I mean how many Wimpy Eulich’s are out there in the world?  

But, recently, for some reason I’ve become quite adamant that people get my name right. (I’ve been equally persistent in pointing out that I studied Social Policy, which is not the same as Political Science…sounds like someone is getting a little crotchety in her old age.)  Typically when I encounter someone having trouble with my name, I throw in the helpful line, “…like Whitney Houston.”  It’s worked like a charm in the past.  “ohhhh! yeees!  Whitney Houston!  You sing like Whitney Houston too? hahhahaha.”  (The laughter usually shifts to tears when I pull out my rendition of “I Will Always Love You.”)  

But.  I have some bad news to impart.  Whitney Houston ain’t what she used to be.  Nine times out of ten, when I conjure up the formerly fail-proof comparison of flaquita, gringa Whitney to druggie, knock-you-over-with-her-vabratto Whitney, I’m met with a hesitant nod and a blank stare.

This has some serious implications on my ability to go by the name of “Whitney” outside of the US.  If Whitney Houston is indeed falling off of the pop-culture radar, what does that leave me with?  Name tags?   Practicing my Spanish alphabet as I spell my name aloud?  Ms. Houston’s 1980s-themed fan-club page doesn’t give me much hope for a rebound in popularity…  

Maybe it’s time I throw in the towel and make things legal:  Hello, My Name is Wimpy.

Strike a Pose May 19, 2009

The rumors are true: beauty is important in Venezuela.  And sex sells.  Big boobs are applauded.  And plastic surgery?  Suuuuure that’s an appropriate Quinceañera gift!  

It would be unfair to say that everyone buys into the skimpy clothes, lots of makeup, fake body “accessories,” and sky-high heels packaged deal.  I’ve met plenty of down-to-earth, au natural girls while living in Merida.  But one thing I have found to serve as national proof of the importance of beauty and looking good, is the intensity and frequency of  impromptu Venezuelan photo shoots.  

It doesn’t matter your age, your profession or your style: when the cameras come out, you strike a pose.  Some have a preferred picture face (my host sister, for example, loves the “thumb and pointer finger cradling the chin” look), but most everyone has a range of “looks” to offer.  From sassy to innocent to downright raunchy, as an American I sometimes find it hard not to laugh at these intimate moments Venezuelans have publicly with the camera.

"Brrr...I'm so cold, but SO hotttt"

One night during Carnival my sis came home with a few new outfits.  She put on the knee high boots and furry jacket, modeled her new sexy tank tops and showed off her new earrings by aggressively flipping her hair from one shoulder to the other.  My host mom was loving it.  “Whitney! Whitney! Where’s your camera?”

“Really?  I have to be an accomplice in this?” I thought.  I got my camera and was instructed on where to stand, how close to zoom in and what angles were missing from the portfolio I was starting to compile of my sister scampering around in her new digs.  I tried my hardest to keep my jaw from dropping once my sister started incorporating furniture and other living room “props” into the photos.  She put on her new furry coat and faux-shivered in front of the paintings of snowy mountains on our living room wall.  She put her arm above her head and leaned into the door frame while flaunting her new blinged out jewlery.

When my parents came to visit, they noticed this photography trend pretty quickly.  Their first day in town, we took a trip to see the giant telescopes a few hours outside of Merida.  This was a school excursion, and one of my teachers brought her two adorable daughters, both well under the age of ten.  Halfway through the tour, everyone pulled out their cameras to snap shots of the Austin Powers-esque telescopes.  Without missing a beat MaFe and Daniella were popping their hips and giving ‘tude to the cameras.  At one point my mom and dad, almost in tears from laughing so hard, jumped in beside the girls and started giving the camera everything they had. 

Gringo He-Man with Beer. Hubba Hubba.

This camera-loving national pass time didn’t stop in Los Andes.  The beaches of Los Roques were covered with thong-sporting, overweight women rolling in the sand, while their lovers crawled around trying to get the best variety of angles.  The waterfalls of Canaima proved to be a great back drop for animal-like poses and the infamous “whipping of the wet hair” action shots.  Our family photo album, of course, now consists of many of our own renditions of this surprising, sometimes frightening behavior towards cameras.  Having grown up in a household (and generally speaking, a culture) that encourages looking natural for the camera and discourages posing, pulling off a good Venezuelan photo shoot was pretty challenging at first.  Standing alone on a beach, wearing a bikini and trying to figure out what to do with all these limbs, not to mention facial expressions was hard to get used to. 

The secret, we discovered soon enough, was there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  You’re not considered vain if you come home from vacation with photos of you seducing the camera in a variety of natural backdrops.  Sure, our renditions look a bit more comical, but no matter the interpretation of “prrrrr,” if you don’t own the camera, the camera will own you.  Whose ready for their sexy close-up?

Suddenly smiling with your hands by your side seems so LAME

You don't have to be neck'ed to conquer the camera

The Fightin’ Spirit April 30, 2009

When I was studying abroad in college, I had one incredibly memorable meltdown.  I was at an Internet cafe, and my computer just wasn’t working.  I had waited about 5 minutes and finally told the woman running the joint that I needed a new one.  I logged on to a different machine and after sending off my weekly list of emails, went to pay.  The woman, to my surprise, charged me for the initial “sign-in” fee for both computers.

Now, the total cost, mind you, was probably about $1.  But it was the principal of the matter: her computers were crappy, and I didn’t see why I should be charged for something that didn’t work.  I tried to argue my point.  I wasn’t expressing myself well.  I started to cry.  Not because of the money, but because I had no way to put my frustrations into words.  I paid up, stormed out of the shop and went and bought myself a faux snickers at the grocery store to cheer myself up.  Pathetic, but true.

I’ve never enjoyed arguing for sport, but my experience at the Internet cafe in Madagascar, and subsequent, more successful second language arguments, have taught me there is something incredibly satisfying about victoriously putting up a fight in a foreign tongue.   

Today I went to rent a tent in town.  I’m going camping for one night on Saturday, but because tomorrow is Labor Day, they asked me to come in and pick up the tent this afternoon.  I got there, and found they were charging me for three days.  “Uhhh, disculpame, but I’m only going for one night,” I told them.  “Yeah, but we charge from the time you pick up until you return,” the flojos explained.  “yeah, ok…but I dont WANT to pick this up until Saturday.  You asked me to come today.  Why should I pay?”  (correct grammar AND a look that says ‘you’re messing with the wrong girl, mister’? Whhaaaat?? Five points for the gringa)

We had a nice back and forth, until finally the guy called his boss.  Now, full disclosure, I’m not sure I actually “won” the face-off.  I still put down the full deposit and three days pay with an offer from the salesman to “discuss it with the boss” upon my return…BUT…the guys working at the shop fully understood me.  And I them.  Which felt awesome.  (Not to mention I had dry eyes and an extra skip in my step once the final bell rang).

 I left the shop with my tent in tow, ready to pick a Spanish fight with the next person who crossed me.   Look out!

My Two Dads (and Moms) April 29, 2009

Who stepped forward to shake hands first, Chavez or Obama?  …Well, in this microcosm of international relations, both sides were nearly nose diving for a hug and a kiss.

My “real” parents (henceforth referred to as RPs) came to visit me in Venezuela last week, and a highlight of the trip was definitely the inter-family mingling.  On Friday morning my host mom prepared a “traditional” breakfast of arepas and cheese (…and some more cheese for good measure) for my RPs.  We were force-fed cafe au lait and I think my RPs realized that I had not been exaggerating in the least about my dairy-lovin’ diet here.  Considering my RPs don’t speak Spanish and my host family doesn’t speak English, conversation was actually quite spectacular.  Lots of laughter, and great Spanish practice for me in my temporary role of translator extraordinaire. 

Meeting of the United Nations (of Parents)

On Saturday night my host family held a family birthday party for one of my older host brothers.  The RPs and I attended and they were without question The Life of The Party.  All of my little girl cousins were asking my dad to dance (and my host sister may or may not have been grinding on him toward the end of the night.  Ew.) and my mom got to salsa her little heart out in front of the whole Venezuelan family.  

Leading up to this visit I was nearing the end of my rope in terms of host-family-supportability.  I felt like I was experiencing a lot of the negatives of living with a host family (limited independence, feeling like a guest in someone elses house, etc) and few of the positives (cross-cultural exchange; being invited to share in family activities like going to church or neighborhood gatherings; language practice; etc).  I think having my parents come really served as a wake up call for both my host family and myself.  I was reminded how LUCKY I am to be in such an open and loving family.  And I think my family was reminded that, oh yeah…I’m not from here.  I still have a lot to learn about the culture and I look to them for a lot of cultural answers and advice.  In short, I really depend on them for a lot more than three square(ish) meals a day.

After the long weekend in Merida, my RPs and I  headed to the beach and gran sabana…absolutely amazing, and photos to come!  My host family is still talking about my parents’ visit, and after a week away traveling, I returned home to an excited family ready to smother me with much appreciated Venezuelan love and attention.

Mi Corazon April 14, 2009

Before moving to Louisiana in the fall of 2007, I don’t think I could have ever imagined being called “baby,” “honey-child,” or “sweet girrrl” on a near daily basis.  Even less so could I wrap my head around the idea of liking these names.  But after a few short months in Baton Rouge, it was cause for a moment of introspection–“did I do something to piss that person off?”  “Was I supposed to have something to him/her today?”–if a local colleague called me just plain ole “Whitney.”  It’s funny because had any of my coworkers in Chicago or DC called me “sugar” or “baby,” I probably would have socked them in the face. 

But this period of getting used to “pet names” in the work place was, of course,  great training for Latin America.  I can’t help but feel instant love for the cashier at the bread shop in the bus terminal when she calls me her “amour.”  There’s something that just tickles my soul and makes me smile when the chubby man sitting next to me on the bus calls me his “princesa.”  And you really want to make me melt?  Just call me your “corazon.”  Gets me every time.

It sounds cheesy, but there is some magical power of making you feel really close to someone when they use these nicknames.  We’re strangers.  We may never see each other again.  But…I love you!  You’re not calling me “miss” or “ma’am”– salutations that instantly distance us from one another.  You’re inviting me, if only for an instant, to be your bff, your daughter or your sister.  How can you not excuse someone from knocking you over on the sidewalk when their apology includes “my queen?”  

I think the greatest part of all, though, is the fact that these pet names in English just don’t have the same effect.  Sure, being called “baby” and “sugar” grew on me in LA, but only a limited number of people could get away with it.  Here, age, gender, race…it doesn’t matter.  You sweet talk, and it works.  I’ve met a few people who, against my protests, like to practice their English when they’re around me.  And every time I hear a direct translation of “my heart” or “my princess” I just lose respect.  The giggle that typically results from being called someone’s corazon transforms into a grunt of “oh please.”   

So in short…need to ask me a favor?  Learn some Spanish, mi corazon!

Why Didn’t the Chicken Cross the Road? April 13, 2009

Because it rained.  And the road looked like this:

 

surprise! you're not going home tonight...

A few weeks ago David had some friends visiting from the US, so we decided to do a mid-day excursion to the nearby town of Jaji.  It is a typical Andean town smack dab in the middle of the mountains.  As I was getting ready to leave the house my host mom reminded me to bring a rain coat, “it’s going to rain a lot this afternoon,” she told me.  Never without an umbrella in this strangely rainy “dry season,” I hit the road and boarded a bus with the rest of the kiddies not giving much thought to her warning.  

It started raining less than 15 minutes into our journey, but it wasn’t much more than a strong mist.  We were rolling along through the verdant cloud forest, passing waterfalls and small peublos when suddenly the bus came to a stop.  I looked up to find the road almost entirely washed out by a wayward waterfall/river.  There was one woman on the bus who lived in Jaji, and told the bus driver it looked like he was going to have to turn back.  Most people on the bus seemed disapointed–they weren’t going to be able to sleep in their own beds tonight if the bus went back to Merida.  I was quite openly pleased with the decision to turn around, but just as we were halfway through our 10-point turn into the other direction, a small truck zomed by us and crossed the rushing-river-road.  “F-this,” our driver seemed to say as he jerked the bus back around in the direction of Jaji and plowed through the water.  I was not a happy camper, nearly crawling toward the door for a quick escape if we happened to be pushed off the road by the rumbling waves of muddy mountain water.

There were cheers of approval as we safely drove the rest of the way to Jaji.  But then the obvious question arose: how are we going to get back home?There were rumors flying around the bus that due to weather, this was the last ride of the day.  Unless the driver decided to attempt the trek back over the road-come-waterfall, we weren’t going anywhere.  Neal had to be up at 4am the next morning to make a trip to Colombia with his host dad.  I had about 10Bs to my name, not nearly enough to cover a hostel.  David’s guests were supposed to be leaving at the crack of dawn for a trip to Los Llanos…in short, we were screwed.

Plaza Bolivar and Jaji's colorful church

Luckily the driver announced he would be returning to Merida, and we were granted a whopping 20 minutes to explore Jaji.  The local woman we had bonded with over the fear of being swept away by a rushing current invited us to her home.  We walked through the small town, past a beautiful church and white-washed buildings to her front door.  She showed us the small school supply shop she ran out of her house, as well as the coffee plantation growing in her backyard.  She also served all of us our first Maltas, the disguuuuusting national drink that is rumored to be like a non-alcoholic beer but tastes more like carbonated tar.

That took up about our entire 20 minutes so we walked back to the bus in the continuous rain.  The bus took off, filled to the brim with small school children and a few adults.  When we arrived at the washed out portion of the road, it was even worse than before.  This time, the bus sat there for about 25 minutes before flooring it through the water.  Luckily there was a small pedestrian bridge running parrellel to the road and out of the ferocious water’s reach.  When the bus driver finally drove across the water, he had been deserted by all but one of his wussie passengers who chose to walk across the bridge instead of risk the ride.  I hope he wasn’t insulted by our lack of faith in his driving capabilities/decision-making skills…but let’s face it: that water looked like it could have swallowed our bus in one gulp.

School boys, decked out in their rain gear and ready to swim home

And of course, due to the consistent rain that had been falling in the area over the past few hours, we came across two more “watery road” crossings on our voyage home.  Neither had foot bridges, and both had lines of about 15-20 cars contemplating the ridiculous crossings.  

We made it home safely, with a pretty stupid and unintended adventure under our belts.  Needless to say, I don’t plan to head into the mountains on a rainy day anytime soon.  If the chickens aren’t crossing, neither am I.

The Ethics of Faking It March 18, 2009

So a woman sits down next to you at the bank.  She turns to you and says something, then waits for your reaction.  The things is…whatever she just said sounded a whole lot like jibberish.  What do you do?  Smile and nod, and hope it was a “boy this wait has been long,” kind of comment?  Or spill the beans up front.  “I haven’t a clue what you just said.  Wanna write it down for me?”

Luckily, after two months of Spanish immersion my moments of pure incomprehension have severly decreased, but I still have my days.  The bus happens to be the location where I Fake It the most.  I used to Fake It at home a lot, but my family caught on to my dirty tricks.  “she didn’t understand a thing,” they’ll say to one another after throwing a comment in my direction at lunch.  “I understood THAT,” I grumble under my breath on particularly disappointing linguistic days.  You can only ask someone to repeat themselves or slow down so many times before head nodding and a faux-smile of comprehension feel entirely appropriate. 

It’s when I’m most confident that I DO understand something, however, that I tend to get myself into real trouble.  A few weeks ago I was riding the buseta to school (my favorite time of the day! Busetas. Are. Great.) when I dozed off for a moment.  When I awoke, I found an elderly gentleman seated beside me.  Our conversaton went a little something like this:

Senior: Hello

Me: Hello.

Senior: Are you tired?

Me: YES. ugh, very much so.

Senior: In Venezuela?

Me: (Hmmm…wha’? Am I tired in Venezuela?  Or is he asking how long I’ve been here? Or if I’m from here?  Better answer all of the above.) Well, just recently really…um. I’m a student here.  Lot’s of work. It makes me tired.  I’ve been here a month, but I’m from the U.S. (all potential questions answered? check! check! check!)

Senior: But where is your husband?

Riiiiiiiight.  And then it clicks.  I was never asked if I was tired, which seemed logical after waking up from a nap, but instead if I was married.  Cansada v. Casada.  Don’t tell me that’s not an easy mistake.  Of course I made up for lost time by creating a faux-husband who lives in Caracas and making sure my ring finger wasn’t exposed. 

This, of course, was more of a U-Turn kind of Faking It.  Catching the mistake early enough that I could spin on my heel and steer myself onto the same topic my partner was already on.  Always a nice touch.  But not all small talk turns out this way: most of the time I either get totally busted when the stranger speaking to me decides to ask a direct question (jerk!), or after a long enough time without a verbal response from my end they just think I’m incredibly rude.  Or deaf. Or both.

But here’s what I’ve decided…though it may not be the nicest thing in the world to lead poor, unsuspecting, friendly neighbors to think you are actually digesting what it is they are saying to you–isn’t that kind of part of the learning experience?  I mean, if I stopped everyone who started to strike up a conversation with me and told them “look…I don’t really speak a ton of Spanish,” they’d likely give up the effort.  Walk away.  Leave me cold and alone on my buseta bench to practice Spanish conjugation in my head instead of listening to the real live thing, whether I understand it all or not.  So call me crazy, but from this day forward, I’m Fakin’ It all the way, baby.