"Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy"

Back in the UK for a wonderful May week served to me a painful reminder of that particular British (well, certainly something that binds the Scots and English) trait.

Whinging.

Now, I take into account that I now turn a tourist's eye on the UK. I am, genuinely, like an overweight American with an enormous map and a loud voice, amazed at how much history it's got, I gazed at the Big Ben like your best anorak and literally marvelled at the age and beauty of the buildings in Edinburgh in the sun.

I was there on holiday, and didn't have work looming at the end of the Bank Holiday weekend to quadruple my hangover. I had more mates to catch up with, and nothing to get up for. So, yes, spectacles well and truly tinted a la rose.

That's me, in the hat. With the legs. 

That said, you arrive at any other airport in the world, and are met with posters after magazines extolling the virtues and delights that await you as a guest in their country.

You arrive at Heathrow and are greeted by a large screen above Passport Control, which reads thus:

WANT TO COMPLAIN?

You've barely arrived - technically, I don't think you're even in Britain yet - and already you're introduced to assimilate in the worse way.

From landing on the airstrip to leaving the terminal was 14 minutes. Lima to London in about 11 hours. In the 6 minutes I was queueing for Passport Control - the new data scanning screening like something from Total Recall - those around me hardly had time to fill out their complaints forms so quickly was the queue moving. Maybe the question mark an accident.

Today, it will be absolutely miserable. And now for the weather... 

Maybe it's been the weather, and clearly the UK needs a dose of sun. That temptress of a warm weekend in March just raised everyone's expectations, so to return to winter mid-May seems a tough pill to swallow.

"Dinnae bother takin' a photo, pal. It'll all fa'
doon o' look shite by the mornin'." Rab, 17

Even so, you can look at the weather in two ways. Going for a run in Edinburgh, I found myself taking a breather whilst enjoying the view over the Dean Bridge.

Bear in mind I live in Lima, where the most beautiful and oldest building would be torn down as an eye-sore if it were in Edinburgh.

Still, Georgian Houses stretched out as far as the eye could see in the sunshine. A guy was stood near me. Grey of skin and looking on the point of a heart attack, I took him for a local. He was, however, apparently doing the same. Admiring the view, that is.

"That's about as good as it gets," I said. "Edinburgh in the sunshine..."
"Aye," he said. "Forecast says it's tae get worse later on."

OK, it's not as though I'm not aware that cutting down the irritating optimism of the tourist is a national pass time, but I found this particularly irritating. By definition, if this is as 'good as it gets', that also means it will get worse later. It has to. But that's not what people infer when they say, that is 'as good as it gets'.

But you can still enjoy the sunshine NOW, can't you? Now! Without getting existential on you, that is the only time you can ever enjoy anything. Apply that attitude to anything else in life, and there is literally no point in doing anything. Which is actually quite a Scottish attitude. Like the hill shepherds I grew up watching, sitting in the same chair every night in the local pub with an unmistakable aye, u'll jist sit here and drink till 'um deed disposition.

That's the best pint I've ever had. Oh shite. Every drink I'll have fae noo will be worse. My wan love ruined. Thanks a lot, barman. You've ruined ma life.     

Back to you on the Dean Bridge anyway, you walking NHS-waiting-list-statistic, clogged-artery, lung-wheezing, pint-is-half-empty, too-hot-in-the-summer-anyway doomsday-waiting John-Knox-descending arse of a miserable bastard! Just frikkin' look at that view! Enjoy it!! People would travel from all over the world to look at that view. I just have!! It's bloody wonderful.

Ah, forget it. Finish your Lambert & Butler and wait for your left arm to start tingling.

It's going to bloody awful, just how you like it. 

And I am of course aware of the irony that I am simply complaining about all the complaining. So, rather than add to the problem, allow me to outline 5 things that deserve to be complained about. Whinge at will:
1. Service stations on the M5. Chriiiiiist I could end it all.
2. Price of petrol. You'll see people squeezing out kidney stones in less discomfort than those squeezing out petrol.
3. The Media. Yeah, the whole frikkin' lot. Not, of course, proper journalists, writers or poets. 
4. The Forthcoming Disappointment That Will Be England's Showing In Euro 2012. At least this will give the Scots something to cheer about.
5. People Who Complain. Get stuck into them.

The Olympics is going to be amazing - possible the greatest ever collection of athletes - so will the weather be from May onwards, so are 90% of the things about the country. Shit, England might even play well in the Euro's, at least if Downing and Carroll take their club form into... ok. But everything else! So frikkin' cheer up and allow yourselves to enjoy it, ya miserable island!!

Post script:

At this point, I would like to mention what wonderful friends I have, none of whom fall into any of the above categories. Especially, as we walking back after a few pints in The Duke over the Thames in Richmond, one good fella, who said: "Look at that. You know, if you travelled to Paris, or Bruges, or wherever, and saw that view you'd stop, take a photo, update Facebook with a smug caption... and I walk over this bridge just about every day. Beautiful."

Good on ya, fella. More of that, Britain, more of that please.

Plaza de Armas

Used semana santa to give thanks and reflect on what we've been given get hammered and then drag ourselves into town while the traffic was asleep. Got to the centre in 20 minutes, which means nothing to me as I have no commute. Katie assures me that this would usually take one light year.   

Plaza de Armas: downtown Lima. Leah dancing, for money

It's absolutely beautiful. People always qualify their appreciation of downtown Lima, it seems. I told my colleagues we were going to the centre, and they told me to watch my bags, and not to take a camera, or anything valuable, like water or food. I don't think they've been there recently. 

Plaza de Armas

Plaza de Armas is lovely, and knowing nothing about either architecture or history, I shall move on immediately.

1613. And still no Starbucks.   

... bunch of narrow streets leading off the plaza, which take you to a bunch of interesting hidden gems, notably Bar Cordano. I mentioned grandly to Katie that this was in the bar in which the protagonists of Mario Vargas Llosas epic tale had many a conversation.

"Which book was that?" she replied, suspiciously.
"Conversations in a Cathedral" I quipped, realising my mistake.  

Casa de literatura: bring it, Mario Vargas Llosa. 

So a quick stroll through the Casa de Literatura, a name I am quite possibly making up out of laziness, which has a room each downstairs dedicated to the great Peruvian writers, from Mario Vargas Llosa to... wikipedia... for the full list.

Gothic Cathedral, just off the Plaza. 

Finished up opposite Bar Cordano next to the catacombs, which apparently are tops. Didn't visit. All in all, cracking day downtown.

Oh, and finally, the cultural highlight of the day:

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.

"Were there phones in 1988, Sir?"

In class, last lesson of the day.

Writing an assignment, a kid in my Sixth Grade class (I think that makes them about 4) comes to my desk, pointing at the date of publication. 1988.

Kid - Did they have phones then?
Old man - Fuck off What's that? 

She is serious.

Old person - OK, yeah, I think that phones have been in common use since the 40s. 


She is calculating.


Old man - Yeah, the 1940s. 

Yup. That is as cool a phone as you
would find in 1988. FOURTEEN
years before you were born. 

Kid looks at me in distain, and I realise that it is I who is somehow stupid, though I cannot imagine how. She puts her hand to her cheek, and makes the universal SmartPhone mime: palm flat to cheek.

"No, but like... proper phones."

Give me strength.

"Er. No, nothing cool was invented until you were born. In 2002. Now go sit down, and write with a pencil on paper. That's right, paper and pen. Like they did in Biblical times."

Seriously. I teach people who were born in 2002.

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