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.

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?