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.

Sunday Thought

From Einstein: "The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources." Good line, that.

Back to work tomorrow, after a seemingly endless holiday, which started in all honesty in 2000 when I decided to become a teacher, and has only improved since.

Last day worked? Dec 17th (2011).

I know. It's a scandal, you could train for and run a marathon in the time between then and now; or start a business, or have a third of a child.

Sometime they'll realise that teachers, paid all year round, should really be working for 48 weeks a year like everyone else. But until that day I say Cheers, and here we go again.
 

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?

Jungle Child

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...