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Does anyone actually speak English?
When one travels, one is ultimately interviewing a place. Treating it as a person, listening to it, asking it questions, observing its customs and rituals and immersing oneself in its practices. When you don't speak its language however, much is often lost in translation. My flight from Los Angeles to Lima, Peru, was thankfully uneventful, for I dread to think what I would have done in the event of an emergency. Prior to my departure I had enrolled myself on an intensive Spanish course in an attempt to carry myself throughout South America with a little bit of respect and dignity. Unfortunately asking 'where the toilet is' and 'do you serve beer,' proved ineffective when the air-stewardess lectured us in fluent Spanish, on the aircraft safety procedures, seconds before take-off. The landing-card also proved an obstacle as all questions and explanations were printed in Spanish. My endeavour to gain the support and understanding of the air-stewardess, in my desperate plight to complete the mundane immigration task, was met only by her blank expression and her two deadly soul-destroying eyes. My arrival in Lima was met with the usual sense of exhilaration and trepidation of the valiant explorer. On the one hand there is the excitement of the treasures that a new city holds in store, but on the other hand there is the overriding dread of a corrupt official who will offer you the choice between financial desolation and a prison cell with an angry balding yack. With all the confidence of a cow headed towards the slaughterhouse I made my way passed immigration control and headed towards the conveyor belt to retrieve my luggage. Customs control loomed large and tall ahead. After carrying out a quick spot-check for flecks of white powder and little green bags, I made my way nervously towards the customs control desk. My bags were naturally selected for a random search and as beads of sweat trickled down the back of my neck my life, up until this point, played out before my eyes, accompanied by the soundtrack of Creedence's 'I see the bad moon rising.' My feeble fingers fumbled at the locks as the customs official began to interrogate me, in hindsight he was no doubt asking me why I was perspiring so, but at the time he might as well have been explaining to me how the word 'fist' can be a verb. Thankfully there were no further ordeals at the customs control desk and so, emotionally drawn and physically exhausted, I made my way towards the terminus exit and the throng of waiting taxi-drivers. It was here that I was to learn my first of many lessons about hailing a taxi in Peru, simply put, never smile, blink or wave in the general direction of a group of taxi drivers. I made this fateful mistake and within seconds a scramble for my bags ensued, more bloody than the scramble for Africa, more prized than an American green-card. Manuel, my brave contistador, heroically defeated the enemy, wrestling away my luggage from the demonic mass and safely guiding me towards the terminal exit. His heroism, however, was short lived. Outside in the parking lot, where a strange thick scent hung in the air like a scotch mist, Manuel had managed to misplace his taxi. After many grunts and moans, hand gesticulations to boot, Manuel was off, leaving me alone and desolate in the morning glow of a world not yet awake. He did eventually return, revealing a nicotine stained smile, as he manouvered his chariot of mismatched vehicle parts towards my seated position. Manuel spoke no English, but through pure grit and determination ensured me that he knew exactly where it was that I wanted to go and that I should sit back and enjoy a 'donkey,' . at least that is what I think he said!!! At 5am I was seated in the reception office of my chosen hostel, mulling over the intricate details and rules of this fine establishment. They were however, despite their prestige and bold text, presented in incomprehensible Spanish. My host was young and keen to impress me the only problem was that he too spoke no English. This I felt was fair as I spoke no effective Spanish and together we entered into the universal language of silence. After numerous 'si's,' 'que's' and 'there is no meat in the building' I had finally manage to cajole him into letting me go to sleep, however there was one piece of important information I needed to be told. In Peru, as with the rest of South America, there is a certain functional duty that is often taken for granted by the privileged westerner. Namely, the flushing of loo paper down the lavatory. In Peru, the lavatory paper, after being utilized must be placed, not in the loo, but rather in a separate lavatory bin that lies next to the loo. Now I understood the source of the scent that stung my nostril in the airport parking lot. It wasn't the stale scotch mist of pollution, rather the pungent smell of a city without an adequate sewage system. Being told the functional duties of using the toilet at 5am in Spanish was hugely comical as I began to thrust money into the hand of my bemused host. I believed he was telling me to purchase lavatory paper. A little after 6am I finally went to bed, bemused, misunderstood and helplessly lost. The next day I would find a detailed explanation of the lavatory procedure posted behind each stall door in the men's bathroom . proudly and effectively posted in English. Day one of my South American trip hadn't even started yet.
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