Toilet-i-quette, or Dougal v Maria The Cleaning Lady

The No 3: Hiding.

Many, indeed most, workplaces or public spaces employ maintenance staff. Cleaners, basically. School have cleaners, supermarkets have cleaners, McDonald's has cleaners, many posh, wealthy or very busy people have cleaners. There's no snobbery here: when you're a kid it's your Mum, as you grow older it's you, at University it's nobody... 'cause toilets have flushes... and are as such self cleaning.

But I digress. All of these people - except the scummy students - perform a fine and necessary job, and in this entry I attack neither the profession nor their professionalism. One of their main tasks of a cleaner, naturally, requires the cleaning of bathrooms, a task that I imagine ranks fairly low on the When I'm Older I Wanna Be, and fairly high in the Worst Job I've Ever Had.  

Having spend one shift - a mere 4 hours - as the designated toilet cleaner at the Crisis Homeless Shelter one Christmas in London, I can vouch for the fact that the novelty of the job does not last. The amount of people apparently unfamiliar with what goes where, and what the little lever on the left is for, was staggering. And, to put it bluntly, and use up the most obvious of puns, made a shit job even shittier than was strictly required.

One of the difficulties of the job must be the interaction with one's...er... clients. As a waitsperson, serving people something totally unnecessary such as coffee, there is nothing unspeakable in the interaction, no social taboo that determines that these things are shameful, as much as they are superfluous. Yet a spirit of camaraderie is assumed as the appropriate register. Hell, some establishments even go out of their way to learn your name. Thank God Starbucks don't run public toilets: "Your name, Sir? And will it be an alto, medio or grande today, Eugar?"

Contrast this to the interaction between a cleaner in a bathroom. Their client relationship is one of respectful silence. Indeed, the 'wall of silence' is absolutely sacrosanct in the men's toilets. Woe betide he who shalt start a conversation on any level. I am aware that it's different on the other side of the wall, where urban myths abound concerning unspeakable female practices such as chatting and cubicle sharing. *crossesselfagainstsaidabomination* 

Given both the irregular and unspeakable nature of their clients', er, regularity, it must therefore be difficult to communicate a time when cleaning said facilities allows optimum cleaning conditions (ie an empty space) with minimal disruption to the natural requirement and, er, movements of their clientele.

Both on home soil and when soiling abroad - one observes a number of strategies employed by employers and employees to allow minimal interaction or cohabitation.

1. A Sign. Generally left on or outside the bathroom door saying something like: Cleaning in progress, we apologise for any disruption. Simple, trusted, the German car of systems.
Normal Client Response (NCR): Leave, Come back when the sign has gone.
Northern European Client Response (NECR): Enter bathroom, use toilet anyway. After all, we all do the pooping and the peeing,is it not?

2. A Wheelie Bucket. For some reason, often favored by airports. The wheelie bucket not only usefully contains all that is required for hygiene maintenance, but doubles superbly as a symbolic doorstop, communicating the following: "Assume that cleaning in progress. There is nothing to stop you straddling past this wheelie bucket, but be advised that I may see your winkle whilst you tinkle. Proceed as you wish."
NCR: Awkwardly walk around pretending to browse Duty Free until you see the bucket wheelie away. Then pounce.
NECR: Enter bathroom, use toilet anyway, After all, I took out my winkle when I landed in pragmatic time-efficient preparation.

3. The Withdrawal Method. No sign no wheelie bucket is used, allowing for dreaded ambiguity. The client enters the bathroom, whilst cleaning is in progress. Recognising the mortifying embarrassment, said cleaning person gets the fuck out.
NCR: Gratitude.
NECR: Confusion. Why leave? After all...  

4. The Maria. The Upper Floor Staff Men's Toilet of my school. No sign, no wheelie bucket... no withdrawal. A lawless land. Maria simply continues working as you walk in. She says, Hola. You freeze. This is not how this works.

The first time I encountered the lack of application of the withdrawal, I withdrew, awkwardly saying - No hay problema. Puedo regresar. No problem, I can come back. But I think I got the intonation wrong, and it sounded like a brag. 

I did come back, an uncomfortable lesson later.

And there stood Consuela. Perhaps marveling at my self-control.

So, the last time this happened, I walked in, noted to my relief that the room was empty, and just as I went into the cubicle... out fucking pops Maria from the next door cubicle, whistling and cleaning, and I swear to got with a glint of chuckling glee in her eye.

I am past the point of no return. No longer can I pretend that I was just passing through - I am committed now - she and I both know I was going for the cubicle. So I continue, assuming she'll leave.

But she doesn't leave.

So I stand, waiting for the sound of the door, or her leaving. Then I realise that she might be watching, or noticing, me. What if she notices that I am still standing? What the frick is she going to think about me now? WHY IS SHE THINKING ABOUT ME AT ALL! THERE SHOULD BE A FUCKING SIGN OR A WHEELIE BIN OR SHE SHOULD FREAKING WELL LEAVE.

So I sit down, incase she can see the angle of something. So I'm sitting there pretending to go to the bathroom, while Maria whistles some evil Mexican village melody.

(Oh, this is when I updated Facebook thus: Why the frick doesn't our cleaning lady leave when someone enters the bathroom!? Trapped. And was accused by one and all of having First World Problems. Bah!)

Lima Cricket

A picture tells a thousand lies. 

Played my first game in Peru, at Lima Cricket and Sports Club, for a team whose name I cannot pronounce or spell, and play in the most ludicrous of purple hats. Eigernossen?

A fabulous bastion of ex-pat life if ever there was one. Clubhouse is called The Cricketers for M.C.C's sake, and they serve Fish and Chips, in newspaper! If you're going to be not living in Peru, you should do it in style, I say.  

And what is less Living In Peru than a game of cricket? That's right, a good piece of driving, I hear you cry (at the pun).  

My otherwise totally undistinguished performance was rescued by a combination of the digital revolution, social networks and no small amount of skill from the wonderful Christine Kradolfer, who I have to thank for this cracking photo. Split second earlier, no top hand at all. Split second later, legs already cramping. But such is the timing (of the camerawork) that somehow the one shot I did middle is captured forever, and now published for the entire world to enjoy.  

Unlike Argentina, regrettably, Cricket Peru is an almost exclusively ex-pat affair. As such, I found more than anything I missed the bizarre Spanish-Spanglish-CricketSpeak that had evolved in Argentine Cricket. To speak in English on the pitches of, well, let's be frank, San Albano was to invite a world of tobogando, as the bitter banter of a pair of not so tiny Paterlinis arrived to remind you that you were a visitor in their country, and to get the papas fritas back to your own if you wannaspeakininglish.  

But, like all dying languages, this one is worth recording.

Credit and thanks to the great Argentines Derek Culley and Nico Schulte full much of this, and especially to the surprisingly trilingual Ryan Butta for the following A to Z for Spanish Cricket Jargon

And yes, this took about 3 years or ropey slip cordon banter to complete. (Like cricket, about 10 people in the world will find this brilliant...):


Agricultural = ... del campo
An Angry Scotsman = Un Escoces Enojado
Bowl = Bolear 
Bowler = Boleador/a
Bat = Batear 
Batsman = Bateador/a

Backward point = a tras de la punta

A BOUNCER = Seguridad

A Chinese Cut = Un corto chino

Chin music = La musica de la barbilla

Cifras del boleador = Bowling figures

Cricket = El creequet/croquet

Cricketer = Un creequetero/a 

CREASE = arruga

POPPING CREASE = arruga estallando

Cow corner = Esquina de vaca

To catch = Atrapar

A catch = Un catch 

To catch like a crocodile = Hacer un 'worsnap'

To field = Fieldear

The field - La cancha 

GOOGLY = Un Politico - looks like it's spinning one way, but on arrival it spins the other way

Gully - un arroyo 

Ground fees = Roberto (as in Robert de Niro (dinero) 

Fine = Fina 

Fine leg = Pierna fina 

First slip = primer resbaloso and so on..

Full Toss (vulg.) = Paja llena

LBW = PFW Pierna delante de los palos

Long on = Largo encima

Long off = Largo afuera

Silly mid off = Medio tonto 

Silly mid on = Medio tonto encima

MICHELLE 5-for = Un Capital Asiatico/Singapor/Cinco por... 

NO BALL = Sin pelotas

Retired hurt = jubilado lastimado 

Run Out = Corre Afuera o Victima del Salvaje  

Short leg = Pierna corta/enano

Square leg = Pierna cuadrada 

SEAM = parece...  He is getting some nice parece out there

Sledging = Tobogando

Stumped = Quedar manco 

TO SLOG = slogear

A SLOGGER = un slogeador/a

SWING = el eswing

Six biscuits = seis galletitas, o 'media docena' 

IN-SWINGER = Portia di Rossi

AWAY-SWINGER = Elton John 

REVERSE SWING = Ojo! Parecio un Elton John pero en realidad era una Portia de Rossi!

The Thing! = Cualquier Lowen

Wicket = Los palos

TO WHIP eg "He whipped it from outside off stump") = Azotar!? "Lo azoto de afuera de los palos. Que bateador!" 

WRONG 'UN =  Un equivocado

And two phrases, for the master class only... 

HE NICKED IT THROUGH TO THE SLIPS. "El lo schulteo a traves de los resbalosos!"

HE NICKED IT, THE KEEPER WENT UP, BUT HE DIDN'T WALK. "El lo schulteo, Luli Fernandez (a real keeper) subio, pero no camino... Pelotudo. No es el cricket para nada."  
* The verb "To nick" derives from the great Argentine batsman Nico Schulte. Hence in the past simple, lo schulteo means he nicked it * 

Classic

Sixth Grader, Levin, a Russian kid who fits that nation's stereotype in that he is barking mad, came up to me at the end of class on Thursday. I thought he might be about to explain away his missing homework.

Previously Levin has revealed to me that he has been to Scotland on a world cruise on his dad's yacht, where his dad bought him a set a bagpipes. And that his dad is in Peru mining for gold, but "that my father is very no talk hush hush about his job so if-anybody-asks you just say businessman - good?"

He is, indeed, like an 11-year-old Bond baddie. To illustrate, he sits at the back of class, his back to me, in a large leather swivel chair, stroking an evil looking cat. Previous excuses for missing homework have included, "It is lost in my father's underground layer", "I could tell you but then I would have to kill you" and, "Odd Job ate it, Sir."

Anyway, I digress. Thursday, end of class:

- Sir... a question. Is there a Best Teacher of the School award?

- Sorry, what's that, Levin?

- I am for asking if there is an Award for The Best Teacher Award... in the Secondary or in the whole school?

- Er, no, not as far as I am aware, Timur.
- We had these Awards in the Primary, Sir. They were very good.
- Yeah?

- Well, there should be an Award Sir. You would definitely win it.

- Well, thanks Levin, you're very kind.
- You would definitely win it, Sir... it would be an easy win. For being the best teacher.   

Pause. Levin goes on. 

- Now, Sir, about my homework... 

And I didn't even see it coming.

Gents Fail

They have been building the Gents' Toilet next to the staff room since early January. Until this week, the Gentleman have had to walk a city block to get to the nearest facilities, or - failing that - share with the students. 

Or indeed, in a great role reversal of night club etiquette everywhere, nip in and use the unattended Ladies'.

So, you can only imagine the excitement on campus when for the first Monday in I don't know how long, the sound of the electric drills was silent, a builder's arse poked not from the doorway of the hallowed Staff Toilets: Male ... er... place, and Men could once more be Men in the Men's a hell of a lot closer (unless of course they were temporarily being Men in the Ladies'...)   

So you can imagine my disappointment/confusion/momentary culture shock when, upon opening said much heralded door with an excitement appropriate to the action intended... I was greeted by this. 

"What did you expect? Saddam's throne of gold?" it seemed to say. 

Answers on a postcard as to what in Lima's name it is...

Expatronising

No one likes being patronised. Me, I frikkin' hate it. Maybe I am simply arrogant, but being talked down to cuts straight to the core. And I would say about the worst thing about living outside of your own country is that that makes you an ex-pat, and no matter how much you reject that label, that is what you are.

And as an ex-pat, you meet other ex-pats. This is usually great. Except some of them love that they are ex-pats. And those are generally the ones who expatronise you. Phil Brown, thank you for that fine phrase.

No doubt I am guilty of endlessly repeating the phrase, 'Yes, well, in Argentina the meat was this big...' and when in Argentina, repeating, 'Well in Brixton the guns were this big'... and so if this strikes of hypocrisy - well, sorry - and tell me if I am boring you.

But right now, what's needed is an open letter, just to clear the air

Dear Ex-Patronisers,


You've been in the country longer than I have. Congratulations. That is possibly the single accomplishment you have over others, so don't wear it like a badge of honour. People aren't born when they arrive in a country, they have a whole history and everything. 


So, just this once, allow me to finish a sentence without cutting in, rolling your eyes, smiling knowingly, and telling me that you know better, that you could have got it cheaper, that that happens to all the newsters, that you remember what that was like - oh, when was it now, we-ve gotta be going back to summer of '10, back in the day... or that I'll get used to it, or that here in Peru that's just how it is. It is possible that there is a social currency that is deeper than how long you have been in a place. 


Now shut the hell up and listen to what I have to say about Brixton, Buenos Aires and the farming village of Barr.  


Yours, 
The Newcomer

Morning, Katie! Now, where were we?

Katie has a driver to get to and from work. Nothing exciting there, but read on, it gets better.

He's a charming guy, Senor Pompeyu: not the most talkative of sorts, which is probably a good thing, 'cause no one needs their ears talked off at 0640. But I guess there's also the afternoon drive back, which is a total of 90 minutes a day, on an average awful Lima traffic day.

So Katie has been commuting in the company of El Pompedu for the best part of two months, and assures me that they get on a treat.

So this weekend, when needing to get a taxi into town, who else would I use but Mr P for the trip. And I must admit, I was kinda fascinated by the opinion he had of pre-7am Work Wife. Speaking Mathematically, if you multiply Scary by Scary, that's a pencil portrait of pre-0700 Work Wife.  

Now - post coffee non-work post-8am Katie is charming as charming can be, as many of you will verify. So, you know, I was curious.

Katie couldn't hide behind the bed all morning, and she knew it.
Neither could Pompeyu wait all day to find out the next chapter
in the story of her life...  

After the usual weather's nice, traffic's a bit heavy small talk, there was something of a pause. Upon which I figured that either I or he could start comparing notes on what Katie and he had talked about on all those long morning and afternoon drives.

"So," said Senor Pompescu, "How long have you guys been in Lima?"

Answers all the question, right there.

My mental picture of the morning run.

- Buenos dias, Senora. 
- 'Nuff yapping, Mr P. Drive.
- Very good, Madam.

Taxi!?

Must be the only country in the world where things are getting cheaper. My average taxi ride is now down to S./8 ($3), from around S./15 ($6) last week.

There are a myriad of taxi options in Lima, from your registered official taxis... more expensive, but you get a sober driver with a license and a car with safety features, like a roof... to your death wagon, driven by driver holding a hand drawn TAXI? sign in one hand (complete with apologetic question mark), a tattered copy of tabloid rag Ojo! in the other, whilst texting on his cell phone with his chin.

I know what you're thinking, but I saved over $1US.  

As mentioned in previous posts, the system here is that you arrange the price before the journey. This system is quite good in that you only ever pay a price you're 'happy' with; however, like any haggling process, it requires the client to know what he's talking about.

In my favour are the following:
- I'm Scottish, and part reluctantly with my coins.
- I'm Scottish, that is to say I am not Chilean.
- I speak the language.
- I almost always am accompanied by two small cute children, useful as bargaining chips. (Note: these are my children. I do not recommend using other's children. I'm not that Scottish...)

In the favour of the Chilean-hating failed F1 trialist behind the wheel... are the following:
- I'm Scottish, and therefore foreign, and therefore ignorant, rich and vulnerable.
- I'm Scottish, and they have bragging rights. World Cup 1978: Peru 3 Scotland 2, que golazo de Cubillas blah blah blah
- I don't speak the language as a first language.
- I almost always have two children with me. This invariably costs extra, and I need to ask why. I'll negotiate S./6, they say, Yeah, ok, but two kids, and a push chair... S./10. Child Tax?
- They have a car, and I have a long walk home, with one kid on shoulders the other in a push chair.  

Hitherto, I have had no system of preference and pretty much take whatever arrives first. As of today, this system will be replaced by a system: I have a regular driver, Giovanni, who charges less than any of the above, and his rate includes state of the art car features, like mp3 plug ins, air conditioning, and seat belts.

Just to play the game, I'm going to keep haggling Gio, just to keep him in the game: let's see who crumbles first.

Masculinity In Crisis: Frappuchino anyone?

I'm in the habit of making myself an afternoon coffee. 

Nothing strange there. But it's quite hot here, so before you know it, it's an ice coffee. Then you add a little extra milk, some chocolate powder, a hint of vanilla perhaps, then you blend it, and voila... you're dancing in ladies underwear. 

No. I meant, voila, you have a frappuchino. Although why split hairs?  

Maybe it's because I am currently living in a world of women. I have 4 in this house alone: wife, mother, two daughters. I take Leah to her jardin, a world of women, then Maia to a different jardin, another world of women. The closest I get to a conversation with a bloke is taxi drivers, who talk only and exclusively of their hate of Chileans, and the doormen at each school. If buenas dias counts as a chat. 

I have not recollection of doing this, but I 'liked' the following link on Facebook the other day. This was no missed by several of you, and thanks for the messages of, er, support. 

Perhaps unconsciously, as a desperate attempt to cling to the last dying shred of masculinity, I find that I am inexorably drawn to the Man Tools section of any supermarket, or wander with mock nonchalance into the nearest ferreteria. 

Like any normal person, I assume that the check out person will sum up my lifestyle and make an accurate judgement based solely on my purchases. 

My standard supermarket basket looks thus: Aussie No-Worries Leave-In Conditioner, scented candles, Barcardi Breezers (Lime), tinted moisturiser... then a few things for Katie... followed by a saw, some workman's gloves, Playboy and a flagon of methylated spirits. 

No better way to grip a frappu than a solid pair of workman's gloves.  What? 

 Identity crisis anyone? Not me.

So you're from Scotland?

This is coming up a lot, in taxi conversations.



I just bring this up. Did I mention how they feel about Chilenos?

Things I Have Learned From Taxi Drivers, Part 1

Part I... because it's going to be a while until I have my paperwork in order to own a car, so I'm assuming there will be a Part II.

"Hey man, where you from?" 

I'm taking around 10 taxis a week at the moment - thank the Inca Gods they're pretty cheap - and the well-intentioned but monotonous conversation runs like in every other country in the world... until the left turn usually around Predictable Question 6:

The Predictable Routine:
1. No, I'm not from... Australia, USA, Canada, Greece... but interesting guess... um fae Scotland.
2. No, not long, arrived January 1st.
3. Great so far, thanks.
4. Yes, cebiche is delicious, and yes I will try pollo con arroz at the first opportunity. Rice with chicken, I can hardly imagine what that could taste like.
5. Yes, at 27 degrees it is quite hot, but I'm surprised you're all complaining about it.
6. Sorry, not quite sure I got all that. Chileans to do what to each other...?

So allow me to start on what I have learnt from Peruvian taxi drivers so far. Other than that every single driver I've had has a son or daughter who is now a doctor, lawyer (sometimes both) or is currently studying at Yale... this is what I've learnt.

They f*cking hate Chileans.

I knew they didn't get on - territory and the bragging rights to pisco - but I had no idea that the feelings ran so deep (amongst taxi drivers, who I believe are an entirely representative poll).

So I now ask this question to everyone, across the demographics (note: I know about 6 people here, family included) and across the demographics, the reply has been akin to that upon asking a kilt-wearing highlander, haggis dripping from his red beard, croft recently ousted in a clearance, having just watched another Calcutta Cup slip from his grasp, what he thinks of the English.

Like that. Except way stronger.

And particularly in a country most unlike Argentina, where people so do not wear their feelings on their sleeve. You'll get no strong opinions on anything, till you hit the Chile button.

Choice lines so far: 

Me: "Why don't you like the Chileans?"
Drives: "Well, we have a long a complicated history. Also, they're a bunch of fuckers."

Me: "Why don't you like the Chileans?"
Drives: "Where are you from?"
Me: "Scotland."
Drives: "Right, Europe. So you understand a little, the tension we have."
Me: "Oh, like Scotland and England."
Drives: "Yeah, but more like between the Germans and the Jews."

That some strong feelings you got there, fella.

La Razon is The Reason?

Maybe it's something to do with tabloids. From the front pages of La Razon - which seems anything but rational or reasonable - you would think that Peru was currently at war. Another day and another treacherous Chilean spy has infiltrated Peru!

Chile spy caught. Ha! No death can be too slow... 

And I would pray that this is photoshopped, but I doesn't seem to be. You could, at a stretch, say that conchuda translates to 'a woman who is a ball breaker'. But in all honesty, it's the C word would be a more accurate equivalent:

Come on, that's no way to speak to a lady.  

I'll let you know if I learn anything news. If I hear something positive about Chileans in a taxi, it'll be all over La Razon, cause I'm turning that guy in as a Chilean spy. They'll need to invent a whole new word to call him...

Marketing Opportuntity, Lima, Peru

No kidding that's wong. 

Gets funnier every time I read it.

Jesus has sent a flood

Ladder now, Arc later. 

Jesus sandals. 

... to mend my wicked ways?

Jesus is actually a Peruvian plumber, and not a Middle Eastern carpenter, as I had been lead to believe. Details merge as I estimate that the Peruvian Jesus was born about 2000 years ago, or certainly has a knowledge of plumbing gathered from Biblical times.

Jesus 'fixed' a problem with the boiler for the kitchen, breaking a pipe as he did so.

Hence, flood.

Just cause he can walk on water...

Microtaxi

Took my first taxi combi in Lima today. We're paying a stack for our 4 daily taxis, so it's time to work out the local transport. 

Little minivans - very mini - of about 10 seats that zip along the roads. One driver, compulsory newspaper on lap to be read at every traffic light (or just in traffic), and one guy hanging out the side of the slide door, whose job seems to be to drag people from the street into the already full combi, remind people at every stop to sube or baja, and open and slam the slide door. The route is fixed-ish, and they'll take you pretty much anywhere for a sole or two $1US = 2.7 soles 

At 5'10''/180cm you stand pretty tall in Peru. Squashed into the combi I reckon I looked like Del Potro folded into one of his own racket bags.

I was intimated towards the seat with my back to the front passenger chair. The roof was so my head was  in my own lap. The guy hanging out the side, when the door was closed, had so little space that either had to put his head out of the window, or bent down in my lap.

He chose the latter. All for one sole.

A middle aged woman sat opposite me, about 30cm away, wearing a low cut top that reflected the age she wished, breasts swinging to the driver's tune.

I hate (paying for) taxis: the Scottish voice in me just does not go silent during a taxi ride. I stare at the meter thinking, the bus is a peso, the bus is a peso the bus is a peso... Taxis had become extortionate in Buenos Aires by the time we left, about 40% more expensive each year.

In Lima they're about half the price, and the system is different: you negotiate the price for the ride before you get in. This is good in that you don't get taken on a grand tour to run up the meter. On the other hand the entire system incentivises the drivers to complete their journey in the fastest possible time. An incentive they seem to respond to with mucho gusto. 

But back to the taxi combis.

Downtown, in Callao. I think.

But we'll see. From this local blogger, here's her Top 5 Hates of Lima's taxi combis.
1. They'll stop anywhere except at a bus stop.
2. That they stop in the middle of the road, diagonally, to pick up passengers.
3. That when you're at a red light, they toot you the second it's turned green.
4. That when you're on the combi, all the windows remain closed and no one has the right to open them, except when you get on.
5. That the seats are smaller every time, like everyone is 150cm.

We'll see. Here's my thinking:
Taxi from work to home: $7
Combi from work to home: $1.

I'm for the combi.

Parque del Amor

Couple of shots from along the coast, in Miraflores, from last week, in the Parque del Amor.   

Leah y La Camara

Maia y La Comida

Nuns. Not on the run.