Is Columbus Day even celebrated anymore in the United States? Well today is the hispanic equivalent. Today, the hispanic world celebrates the arrival of Columbus to the Americas. The arrival of Columbus marked the beginning of an era of "gold" in Spain. The unification of two kingdoms (Castilla and Aragon), the expulsion of the jews and islams from the peninsula (under the banner of Christianity, later leading to the inquisition) and the arrival of Columbus all make 1492 an epic year for Spain. For many Spanish, today is a day of pride and a day of rememberance for those who have given their lives in the name of their country. For many in America, today is a day of anger, a day of rememberance of all the lives lost at the hands of another nation.
And even Iberoamerica did not escape from the whole "Was Columbus really the discoverer of America?" debate. Some call it "Dia de la Raza" (Day of the "Race"), citing that the word hispanidad doesnt include any of the other culture groups (both within Spain and throughout the world) that speak Spanish but are not Spanish. That being part of the hispanic race shouldnt be limited to just hispanidad (a classic Spanish word not really used any more with connotations of being strictly Spanish). Even leaders from ethnic-politcal groups in Spain refuse to attend festivities, understanding them as "not their national festival." And when I ask my coworkers what they think "Dia de La Raza" means to them, they say "A celebration of Columbus' arrival." Now whether they say it with a resentful or proud tone is where the difference lies.
So here we see reconciled two adages: Bueaty is in the eye of the beholder and a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Kitsch
In his book, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being", Milan Kundera writes about the notion of "kitsch". And while it might conjure up images of all the little crappy souvenirs or commenplace art that many a pack-rat collects, Kundera says that the original word has lost its meaning. Kitsch, he claims, is the sentiment that "excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existance."
He goes on to say that there are many versions of kitsch: American, French, Catholic, Protestant, Modernist, Traditional. We could put any word here really, any group that shares a set of ideals that defines what is acceptable and unacceptable. Kitsch is the cover-up of anything "heavy" or negative. The whole "Smile and be chipper even if you feel like shit" happiness queens, who dot their "i"s with hearts, are the epitome of kitsch. Since his book is set in and around the time of Prauge Spring and the ensuing communistic onslaught, Kundera talks about an interesting kind of kitsch: totalitarian kitsch.
The minute I read the word I happened to think about Concordia (a sad assosciation: Facism=Concordia). Totalitarian kitsch is that which infringes on kitsch itself. These infringements must be "banished". Individuality, doubt, irony, anything that can be considered "spit in the eyes of smiling brotherhood."
Concordia Kitsch is composed of the following:
1. A need to express your faith.
2. A need to relate everything in your experience to your faith.
3. A need to have your choices justified before a "holy" community.
4. A need to be a servant-leader, aka to feel good about yourself helping others.
5. A need to feel protected from the "world" , aka belonging to a mutally sheltering community.
While these tenants in themselves are not bad things, it is when Concordia Kitsch becomes totalitarian Concordia kitsch when things go awfully wrong. A person who expresses doubts about the bible becomes a traitor. A person who decides to watch foreign films, or worse those that are controversial, becomes a hinderance to the whole community. And a person who thinks on their own, they spit in the eyes of smiling brotherhood of ignorance. Anything that would take away from the fake smile and cheery "hello" emited from every one who passes by is just simply denied. This cheery attitude is one thing that binds all Concordians, a comforting sentiment, until kitsch becomes the definition of the group. When kitsch begins to replace the real feelings and the real thoughts.
Kitsch is by no means real.
And as Sabine in the novel wants to yell "Its not communism I have a problem with, its kitsch!" I second her sentiments. Its not faith I have a problem with, its kitsch!
He goes on to say that there are many versions of kitsch: American, French, Catholic, Protestant, Modernist, Traditional. We could put any word here really, any group that shares a set of ideals that defines what is acceptable and unacceptable. Kitsch is the cover-up of anything "heavy" or negative. The whole "Smile and be chipper even if you feel like shit" happiness queens, who dot their "i"s with hearts, are the epitome of kitsch. Since his book is set in and around the time of Prauge Spring and the ensuing communistic onslaught, Kundera talks about an interesting kind of kitsch: totalitarian kitsch.
The minute I read the word I happened to think about Concordia (a sad assosciation: Facism=Concordia). Totalitarian kitsch is that which infringes on kitsch itself. These infringements must be "banished". Individuality, doubt, irony, anything that can be considered "spit in the eyes of smiling brotherhood."
Concordia Kitsch is composed of the following:
1. A need to express your faith.
2. A need to relate everything in your experience to your faith.
3. A need to have your choices justified before a "holy" community.
4. A need to be a servant-leader, aka to feel good about yourself helping others.
5. A need to feel protected from the "world" , aka belonging to a mutally sheltering community.
While these tenants in themselves are not bad things, it is when Concordia Kitsch becomes totalitarian Concordia kitsch when things go awfully wrong. A person who expresses doubts about the bible becomes a traitor. A person who decides to watch foreign films, or worse those that are controversial, becomes a hinderance to the whole community. And a person who thinks on their own, they spit in the eyes of smiling brotherhood of ignorance. Anything that would take away from the fake smile and cheery "hello" emited from every one who passes by is just simply denied. This cheery attitude is one thing that binds all Concordians, a comforting sentiment, until kitsch becomes the definition of the group. When kitsch begins to replace the real feelings and the real thoughts.
Kitsch is by no means real.
And as Sabine in the novel wants to yell "Its not communism I have a problem with, its kitsch!" I second her sentiments. Its not faith I have a problem with, its kitsch!
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Do I live in Macondo? Or Riohacha?
I see Gabriel Garcia Marquez characters everywhere. I chose to believe that it means that I have adapted so well, and know all the Panamanian qwirks so well that I can superimpose literary characters on the people whose paths I cross in my everyday life. Well, not really. Its just that Gabriel Garcia Marquez is such a great writer and knows, above all, how to tell a story so that it comes to life, and me with my overactive imagination, well, I just run with it. (And upon editing this I realized that it might seem quite erratic for those who have not read Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Consider yourself warned. If this serves as anything other than a pretentious blog entry, well, maybe its homage to Gabriel Garcia Marquez will spark some literary interest. And since I just literally translated each title, I also left each one in their original Spanish so that if such inspiration abounds, you will know what to look for.)
The other night I saw Jeremiah de Saint-Amour, (Love in the Time of Colera, Amor los tiempos de cólera) walking down my street, his white hair glowing in the moon. An older man, he was walking, with chess board under his arm I might add, shuffling along slowly with the finality that looked like he had just decided that tonight he would play his last chess game and ask his lover to pour him some cyanide. While he slowly plowed forward to his own destiny or to the destiny of ardent, self imposed death that was Jeromie Saint Amour’s, I thought if I stood and watched, would he turn into someone’s house, a happy guest, or if he would just continue walking through the novel of this world, until someone turned the page and he disappeared into literary non-being?
When I was traveling back to the United States, upon entering in Houston, standing in line to show that I actually am an American citizen, I saw Sra. Rachel (A Day after Saturday, Un día después del sábado), being pushed in a wheel chair, confused by the English speaking customs agent. Struck by the look of utter confusion (mixed with a sting of indignation and bitterness) I was compelled to help. Only was it after I explained what the agent was trying to do, did I realize that she was puzzled why this stranger with whom she could not communicate wanted to come into to her personal life, just like Sra. Rachel was perplexed, and slightly enraged at why there were so many dead birds in her house, and why they were killing themselves trying to get in through the screens of her windows.
My coworker, who just left for her maternity leave (here in Panama your maternity leave starts a month before you give birth), is Ana (In this town there are no theifs, En este pueblo no hay ladrones), and I can see her, laying in her bed, arms at her side, exhausted yet unable to sleep, her head propped level with the height of her stomach, waiting up at night for her husband to come back with the billiard ball he stole. Her eyes held open by her own anxiousness, the whites exposed and as spotted as the ravished cue ball is spotted with indentations of pulverized chalk, she walks into the office everyday, the weight of her conscious—burgeoning under her husband’s mistakes—apparent in the defeatist manner in which she walks; not really walking, but merely pushing one foot in front of the other. She mutters what she wants her employees to do, just as told her husband to stop smoking or to just return the raptured ball, defeated, knowing her pleas were useless.
The cashier at the grocery store close to my house is the Lady that arrived at six (The Lady that arrived at six, La mujer que llegaba a las seis), so schizophrenic in her “Do you have a frequent shopper card?” that one day it is a flirtatious, the next it's direct interrogation, and then even pure desperation some days, just as if she was flirting, brainwashing and even scaring her customers into collaborating in her alibi: her constant twitch and shiver every time her cash register scans new merchandise is the twitch of a women checking the clock and the passing traffic outside the bar making sure there was no way the man dead in her apartment could have been identified as having been killed by her.
Perhaps I live in Riohacha or Macando, who knows. Like in Blue Dog Eyes, maybe it will be a truth that will always call from me in my dreams, and I will not know what world I live until I find some who knows how to answer my question with the phrase “Blue Dog Eyes”. Until I read that phrase written on the walls of the city, and thereby confirm that this is a world formed by magical realism, I will walk around the city screaming “Blue Dog Eyes”, I will keep superimposing my favorite images from Marquez’ books on those who I see in my daily life living out the culture he wrote about. Maybe my conclusions are wrong, and maybe some sorted destiny awaits the identities I place on others, maybe this mixing of identies is dangerous (for who knows if the idenity I chose to place on someone is actually who they are, and if so, the reverse must be true, that others place identities on me that I am not. To them, I might be a Jimmy Carter, or a Johnny Appleseed, but then who really knows if the identities we identiufy ourselves with are really our identities.) But I will continue in my life like Santiago Nasar (Chronicle of an announced death, Crónica de una muerte anunciada), nobody advising me of the danger that is in front of me, everyone wondering if I know what is going to happen and should warn me, or if they should just let the enevitable come to pass.
The other night I saw Jeremiah de Saint-Amour, (Love in the Time of Colera, Amor los tiempos de cólera) walking down my street, his white hair glowing in the moon. An older man, he was walking, with chess board under his arm I might add, shuffling along slowly with the finality that looked like he had just decided that tonight he would play his last chess game and ask his lover to pour him some cyanide. While he slowly plowed forward to his own destiny or to the destiny of ardent, self imposed death that was Jeromie Saint Amour’s, I thought if I stood and watched, would he turn into someone’s house, a happy guest, or if he would just continue walking through the novel of this world, until someone turned the page and he disappeared into literary non-being?
When I was traveling back to the United States, upon entering in Houston, standing in line to show that I actually am an American citizen, I saw Sra. Rachel (A Day after Saturday, Un día después del sábado), being pushed in a wheel chair, confused by the English speaking customs agent. Struck by the look of utter confusion (mixed with a sting of indignation and bitterness) I was compelled to help. Only was it after I explained what the agent was trying to do, did I realize that she was puzzled why this stranger with whom she could not communicate wanted to come into to her personal life, just like Sra. Rachel was perplexed, and slightly enraged at why there were so many dead birds in her house, and why they were killing themselves trying to get in through the screens of her windows.
My coworker, who just left for her maternity leave (here in Panama your maternity leave starts a month before you give birth), is Ana (In this town there are no theifs, En este pueblo no hay ladrones), and I can see her, laying in her bed, arms at her side, exhausted yet unable to sleep, her head propped level with the height of her stomach, waiting up at night for her husband to come back with the billiard ball he stole. Her eyes held open by her own anxiousness, the whites exposed and as spotted as the ravished cue ball is spotted with indentations of pulverized chalk, she walks into the office everyday, the weight of her conscious—burgeoning under her husband’s mistakes—apparent in the defeatist manner in which she walks; not really walking, but merely pushing one foot in front of the other. She mutters what she wants her employees to do, just as told her husband to stop smoking or to just return the raptured ball, defeated, knowing her pleas were useless.
The cashier at the grocery store close to my house is the Lady that arrived at six (The Lady that arrived at six, La mujer que llegaba a las seis), so schizophrenic in her “Do you have a frequent shopper card?” that one day it is a flirtatious, the next it's direct interrogation, and then even pure desperation some days, just as if she was flirting, brainwashing and even scaring her customers into collaborating in her alibi: her constant twitch and shiver every time her cash register scans new merchandise is the twitch of a women checking the clock and the passing traffic outside the bar making sure there was no way the man dead in her apartment could have been identified as having been killed by her.
Perhaps I live in Riohacha or Macando, who knows. Like in Blue Dog Eyes, maybe it will be a truth that will always call from me in my dreams, and I will not know what world I live until I find some who knows how to answer my question with the phrase “Blue Dog Eyes”. Until I read that phrase written on the walls of the city, and thereby confirm that this is a world formed by magical realism, I will walk around the city screaming “Blue Dog Eyes”, I will keep superimposing my favorite images from Marquez’ books on those who I see in my daily life living out the culture he wrote about. Maybe my conclusions are wrong, and maybe some sorted destiny awaits the identities I place on others, maybe this mixing of identies is dangerous (for who knows if the idenity I chose to place on someone is actually who they are, and if so, the reverse must be true, that others place identities on me that I am not. To them, I might be a Jimmy Carter, or a Johnny Appleseed, but then who really knows if the identities we identiufy ourselves with are really our identities.) But I will continue in my life like Santiago Nasar (Chronicle of an announced death, Crónica de una muerte anunciada), nobody advising me of the danger that is in front of me, everyone wondering if I know what is going to happen and should warn me, or if they should just let the enevitable come to pass.
Friday, October 05, 2007
New Job
In my new job, I have alot of functions (although none of them are really clear, and I lack direction in all my functions). My clearest and most straight forward job is English teacher, which has its job description in the job title. I really enjoy this part of my job, and have found that no matter how much I have to drag myself out of bed in the morning to get in a taxi or cram onto a bus, I always feel content after teaching. It doesnt even matter if my students dont seem to grasp the concept (although my level of contentness can vary depending on this factor), deseminating information is what I feel that I have, to put it tritely, been put on this earth to do.
Unfortunately, that is not what the majority of my job is, and I am starting to suffer from it. My days are spent translating, which in itself is fun, like one giant 82 page puzzle, but to what does it contribute? I always thought that my occupation would be some good versus evil battle, and that every day I could feel good about contributing to the greater good. Thats, I think, why I went to Concordia. Thats why I decided to volunteer as an English teacher. That I was helping the forces of good spread knowledge, love, kindness and all those other overly romantic tenants to a dark and broken world. Translating financial statements and searching, fruitlessly I might add, for the meaning of words like "fideicomisos" and "gravemanes" hardly feels like contributing the forces of good in this world. (I mean if looking up absurd financial words can be assigned any esoterical value, well someone already contributed that value when they made a Spanish-English Accounting Dictionary.)
Maybe this romantic notion (becuase I really am a lost romantic at heart) of taking up arms and fight for the overall good, is maybe why I like teaching so much. Becuase when I am teaching, to see my student's face illumnate when they finally understand that it is stood and not standed, is like seeing an old enemy fall, to be victorious over the darkness of ignorance. To see my students be victorious and know I was the one that prepared them for that, well it gives me hope that I am contributing, even if it is just the finer points of English Grammar.
So all this has lead me to beleive that being an educator is what I am supposed to be doing.
Unfortunately, that is not what the majority of my job is, and I am starting to suffer from it. My days are spent translating, which in itself is fun, like one giant 82 page puzzle, but to what does it contribute? I always thought that my occupation would be some good versus evil battle, and that every day I could feel good about contributing to the greater good. Thats, I think, why I went to Concordia. Thats why I decided to volunteer as an English teacher. That I was helping the forces of good spread knowledge, love, kindness and all those other overly romantic tenants to a dark and broken world. Translating financial statements and searching, fruitlessly I might add, for the meaning of words like "fideicomisos" and "gravemanes" hardly feels like contributing the forces of good in this world. (I mean if looking up absurd financial words can be assigned any esoterical value, well someone already contributed that value when they made a Spanish-English Accounting Dictionary.)
Maybe this romantic notion (becuase I really am a lost romantic at heart) of taking up arms and fight for the overall good, is maybe why I like teaching so much. Becuase when I am teaching, to see my student's face illumnate when they finally understand that it is stood and not standed, is like seeing an old enemy fall, to be victorious over the darkness of ignorance. To see my students be victorious and know I was the one that prepared them for that, well it gives me hope that I am contributing, even if it is just the finer points of English Grammar.
So all this has lead me to beleive that being an educator is what I am supposed to be doing.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Bus Revelations...Part Deux
I was once again on the bus, and having just read a book about American Politics, I was inclined to thinking about my own country. I had just come from immigration (which like taxis, is another blog entry in itself.) so I was not particularly in a good mood, and even more inclined to being very critical about the culture I am starting to call my own.
I was deep in thought about how Panamanians are different from Americans, and though, how I love being here, I cant stand the qwuirks and the tweaks they possess that always make me stand out as the tourist. And since I have been realizing, in a slow and painful way, that my goals of fulling adapting to be a "Panamanian" are just romantic fantasies, these qwuirks were even more poingnant, and not so much that at this particular moment I felt out of place (although walking onto a bus is much like walking down a catwalk), but becuase our differences were very forward in my mind.
I sat on the bus, and when someone (a women, to be exact: women here, going along with their "princess complex", have this tendency of just attacking the aisles of busses head on. They dont politely turn to one side and try to make the best of pushing through a crowd of seven hundred commuters. No, not so much.) pushed by me and hit my head with her purse. Not surprised, I found myself pensive on this push, and even more the lack of an "I'm sorry" or "Excuse me". Sometime, in certain situations, normal rules of courtesy, morals and sometimes existence, just seem to suspend. There are no lines, except for the ever incessant pushing to the counter to get some one to help you. People seem to forget how to count too, since my ticket says number 55 and yours is 93 and you are trying to push in front of me. Then when it is your turn, you actually dont exist if you dont call the worker "mami" or "mi amor" or something equally flattering. I have found playing the "stupid gringo" card is really the only to get ahead, turning into the metaphorically equivalent of a jaw-smacking, gum-chewing, hair-twisiting sorority queen ("Like, um, I dont understand, mi amor. (bubble popping here) Like, um. wh-hhat?") And Panamanians, who are usually very preoccupied about "education" (not education education, becuase there is a serious lack of books here, but here education refers to your "politeness") seem to not care even about this, as elbowing and shoving and name-calling all seem fair play.
So, I wondered, why does this happen? Why does this frustrate me so? Such affronts to personal space and everyone personally, dont seem to bother anyone but me. And when others are affronted, they seem to not be bothered in the way that I am. What is so different about our cultures that these little twirks urk me so? Why cant I just push and shove on a bus, or step on someone's toe and then just continue on with my life? Why do I feel I have to apoligize for every stumble I make, and for every stander-by I nudge into?
I think it is that, here, there is no commitment to the greater good. And when I think about, America may the one places where this might still be true. People look out for each other, maybe not so much in the "neighborhood watch" sort of way anymore, but people stop for you to cross the street. People move out of the way when they are an obstacle between you passing between them, their shopping cart and a display of cereal. People apologize when they bump into you, and they actually try to prevent bumping into others. They dont block intersections with their cars as the light changes, and they see that if someone behind them is in a hurry, they kindly move out of the way. One of my Panamanian friends says that we have that luxary, becuase we, as a country have had to fight wars, we had to know who we were, and we had to pull each other up. We-va had leaders who know how to rally a people divided into one body of supporters. Panama lacks such experience. And another friend whould add that in a country with so much inequality, they only option is to look out for yourself.
That said, I think there is more of a commitment here to those you do know. While Panamanians might not apoligze for bumping into you, or they might not work to make life in this country easier for everyone, they would give their friend the shirt off their back. They talk to their balck sheep brother when he gets released from prison, to their duaghter who got pregenant before she got married. Unfortunately, I think this is being lost. We see children wanting to be more independent and families split beyond the point of recovery. So, here there is a commitment to good. ITs just different from the good that I am used to being committed to. And that makes me wonder which one is better, if in fact superiority can be claimed.
I was deep in thought about how Panamanians are different from Americans, and though, how I love being here, I cant stand the qwuirks and the tweaks they possess that always make me stand out as the tourist. And since I have been realizing, in a slow and painful way, that my goals of fulling adapting to be a "Panamanian" are just romantic fantasies, these qwuirks were even more poingnant, and not so much that at this particular moment I felt out of place (although walking onto a bus is much like walking down a catwalk), but becuase our differences were very forward in my mind.
I sat on the bus, and when someone (a women, to be exact: women here, going along with their "princess complex", have this tendency of just attacking the aisles of busses head on. They dont politely turn to one side and try to make the best of pushing through a crowd of seven hundred commuters. No, not so much.) pushed by me and hit my head with her purse. Not surprised, I found myself pensive on this push, and even more the lack of an "I'm sorry" or "Excuse me". Sometime, in certain situations, normal rules of courtesy, morals and sometimes existence, just seem to suspend. There are no lines, except for the ever incessant pushing to the counter to get some one to help you. People seem to forget how to count too, since my ticket says number 55 and yours is 93 and you are trying to push in front of me. Then when it is your turn, you actually dont exist if you dont call the worker "mami" or "mi amor" or something equally flattering. I have found playing the "stupid gringo" card is really the only to get ahead, turning into the metaphorically equivalent of a jaw-smacking, gum-chewing, hair-twisiting sorority queen ("Like, um, I dont understand, mi amor. (bubble popping here) Like, um. wh-hhat?") And Panamanians, who are usually very preoccupied about "education" (not education education, becuase there is a serious lack of books here, but here education refers to your "politeness") seem to not care even about this, as elbowing and shoving and name-calling all seem fair play.
So, I wondered, why does this happen? Why does this frustrate me so? Such affronts to personal space and everyone personally, dont seem to bother anyone but me. And when others are affronted, they seem to not be bothered in the way that I am. What is so different about our cultures that these little twirks urk me so? Why cant I just push and shove on a bus, or step on someone's toe and then just continue on with my life? Why do I feel I have to apoligize for every stumble I make, and for every stander-by I nudge into?
I think it is that, here, there is no commitment to the greater good. And when I think about, America may the one places where this might still be true. People look out for each other, maybe not so much in the "neighborhood watch" sort of way anymore, but people stop for you to cross the street. People move out of the way when they are an obstacle between you passing between them, their shopping cart and a display of cereal. People apologize when they bump into you, and they actually try to prevent bumping into others. They dont block intersections with their cars as the light changes, and they see that if someone behind them is in a hurry, they kindly move out of the way. One of my Panamanian friends says that we have that luxary, becuase we, as a country have had to fight wars, we had to know who we were, and we had to pull each other up. We-va had leaders who know how to rally a people divided into one body of supporters. Panama lacks such experience. And another friend whould add that in a country with so much inequality, they only option is to look out for yourself.
That said, I think there is more of a commitment here to those you do know. While Panamanians might not apoligze for bumping into you, or they might not work to make life in this country easier for everyone, they would give their friend the shirt off their back. They talk to their balck sheep brother when he gets released from prison, to their duaghter who got pregenant before she got married. Unfortunately, I think this is being lost. We see children wanting to be more independent and families split beyond the point of recovery. So, here there is a commitment to good. ITs just different from the good that I am used to being committed to. And that makes me wonder which one is better, if in fact superiority can be claimed.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Bus Revelations...Part the First
So, at my new job, there is really no good bus route to deliver me to my building from my humble abode every morning. So while I have been accustoming myself to paying almost triple what I would like to pay for my daily transport in taxis, I have also forgotten what it is like to depend on the bus system. However, I still take the bus and have found that my few times being on the bus in the last weeks have lead to serious thought provoking moments. The first part (thats right, this is a three parter. Contain your excitment.), I would like to share, takes me all the way back to my childhood.
Did you ever read "The mitten" when you were a kid? I for sure did. I remember falling in love with all the great illustrations and thought how it was amazing that the spider, then the possum, then the wolf and then the bear all fit in one little woven hand warmer. I guess I was amazed and awed by the possibility of something so illogical actually happening. I remember thinking, "that could never happen." And while I am sure I lacked the knowledge and vocabulary to describe it at that moment, I always felt that something was wrong, that this couldnt happen, yet my meticulous nature wasnt developed enough to say exactly why it wouldnt happen. I mean in the fantasy world of children, who really tries to explain big mysteries like why a wolf would fit in a mitten but a bear wouldn't.
Well, I was proven that this impossible feat can be done. Panamanians rely, as I do, on public transportation. For most, this means fighting for a taxi (that is a whole other blog entry in itself), or taking the bus. By bus, I dont mean RTD with its plastic seats, and its cleaning service and the token homeless person nestling their brown bag alcohol, but rather I refer to the "diablo rojos" (red devils) as they are called here. Diablo rojos are simply old school buses that have not passed the safety code in the States, where people have a sense of justice, and have the recourses to make sure that they and their children are not dilebrately put in danger. These buses are then sent to all the places where safety standerds dont really exist or are not enforced at least, and these diablo rojos become the metaphorical mitten that the rich kid drops in the forest, not even realizing how valuable it is to those who dont have anything to keep them warm, a small piece of his layers of winter clothing he doesnt even notice is missing when others are lucky to even have a jacket.
And, we all cram in. Standing in the aisle of the refurbished bus, I wondered how many people there actually were on the bus, and how the little "Max. Capacity 67" sign was either not understoof or just flat out ignored (most Panamanians have a basic enough sense of English to figure out what it means). All the cold animals cram themselves into the mitten; here the need to escape the cold is the need to get from point A to point B, and the bus is the mitten that provides that so coveted warmth.
With one small difference. This steel mitten, with its bolts and screws and sparkplugs and axles, doesnt gracefully expand to accomadate all its needy occupants. Therefore, it is the occupants who must accomadate for others as they cram on, doubling over, pressing at least two thirds of your body against the wall, the roof fire exit, or some unsuspecting stander-by. And just when you think the bus is full, people are hanging out both exit doors, ive people are crammed side by side in the two foot passage way between seats where three children are sitting on one woman's lap, and oversized people hang off into the aisle, the driver stops at a bus stop, telling more people that there really is room, leaving all the animals in the mitten too hot becuase there is no air to breath let alone a breeze that refreshs as they try to find a blance between the need to be somewhere, the pain of being forced to be a contortionist, and the desire to not want to hit some old lady on her head with breifcases, shopping bags and textbooks.
I wonder why this happens? Whose fault is it? We can pin the blame on a number of sources. The greedy bus companies and school districts who really dont care or dont know that selling their busses to under developed countries is dangerous, becuase they get some extra profit. The government who makes said purchases and does nothing to inspect or repair failing busses. The drivers who continue to let people board so they can get their extra twenty-five cent bus fare. Or the people who just continue to push and shove, allowing such degradery become a part of their everyday life, whether because they dont know any better, they are lazy or they dont have the resources to make any better proposals.
Like the animals in the mitten, we all just want to be warm. We all have places to go. And the bus is the reality of our situation. And unfortunately, this mitten story doesnt have a happy ending. The kid doesnt come and find his mitten torn to shreds, and is saddened by it. No, when busses burn and people die, there is no action to prevent it from happening again, there is no one to step forward and take the blame, there is no one who seems to care.
Hardly the appropriate children's story.
Did you ever read "The mitten" when you were a kid? I for sure did. I remember falling in love with all the great illustrations and thought how it was amazing that the spider, then the possum, then the wolf and then the bear all fit in one little woven hand warmer. I guess I was amazed and awed by the possibility of something so illogical actually happening. I remember thinking, "that could never happen." And while I am sure I lacked the knowledge and vocabulary to describe it at that moment, I always felt that something was wrong, that this couldnt happen, yet my meticulous nature wasnt developed enough to say exactly why it wouldnt happen. I mean in the fantasy world of children, who really tries to explain big mysteries like why a wolf would fit in a mitten but a bear wouldn't.
Well, I was proven that this impossible feat can be done. Panamanians rely, as I do, on public transportation. For most, this means fighting for a taxi (that is a whole other blog entry in itself), or taking the bus. By bus, I dont mean RTD with its plastic seats, and its cleaning service and the token homeless person nestling their brown bag alcohol, but rather I refer to the "diablo rojos" (red devils) as they are called here. Diablo rojos are simply old school buses that have not passed the safety code in the States, where people have a sense of justice, and have the recourses to make sure that they and their children are not dilebrately put in danger. These buses are then sent to all the places where safety standerds dont really exist or are not enforced at least, and these diablo rojos become the metaphorical mitten that the rich kid drops in the forest, not even realizing how valuable it is to those who dont have anything to keep them warm, a small piece of his layers of winter clothing he doesnt even notice is missing when others are lucky to even have a jacket.
This is actually the emergency exit of a "diablo rojo" (safely watched iver by Jesus himself), all decked out with its painting. Some people would argue that these old school busses serve better as canvas for urban art than modes of transportation.
And, we all cram in. Standing in the aisle of the refurbished bus, I wondered how many people there actually were on the bus, and how the little "Max. Capacity 67" sign was either not understoof or just flat out ignored (most Panamanians have a basic enough sense of English to figure out what it means). All the cold animals cram themselves into the mitten; here the need to escape the cold is the need to get from point A to point B, and the bus is the mitten that provides that so coveted warmth.
With one small difference. This steel mitten, with its bolts and screws and sparkplugs and axles, doesnt gracefully expand to accomadate all its needy occupants. Therefore, it is the occupants who must accomadate for others as they cram on, doubling over, pressing at least two thirds of your body against the wall, the roof fire exit, or some unsuspecting stander-by. And just when you think the bus is full, people are hanging out both exit doors, ive people are crammed side by side in the two foot passage way between seats where three children are sitting on one woman's lap, and oversized people hang off into the aisle, the driver stops at a bus stop, telling more people that there really is room, leaving all the animals in the mitten too hot becuase there is no air to breath let alone a breeze that refreshs as they try to find a blance between the need to be somewhere, the pain of being forced to be a contortionist, and the desire to not want to hit some old lady on her head with breifcases, shopping bags and textbooks.
I wonder why this happens? Whose fault is it? We can pin the blame on a number of sources. The greedy bus companies and school districts who really dont care or dont know that selling their busses to under developed countries is dangerous, becuase they get some extra profit. The government who makes said purchases and does nothing to inspect or repair failing busses. The drivers who continue to let people board so they can get their extra twenty-five cent bus fare. Or the people who just continue to push and shove, allowing such degradery become a part of their everyday life, whether because they dont know any better, they are lazy or they dont have the resources to make any better proposals.
Like the animals in the mitten, we all just want to be warm. We all have places to go. And the bus is the reality of our situation. And unfortunately, this mitten story doesnt have a happy ending. The kid doesnt come and find his mitten torn to shreds, and is saddened by it. No, when busses burn and people die, there is no action to prevent it from happening again, there is no one to step forward and take the blame, there is no one who seems to care.
Hardly the appropriate children's story.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
A return to Bloggage
I relaized the void in heart was cuased by the lack of blogging.
I hearby solemnly swear to protect, uphold, and promote the enternal documentation of my trivial thoughts and sentiments as stated in the blog agreement made to all those who seem to find some kind of enlightenment from my rambling.
I hope you gain from reading this blog, and please leave your comments. I want to really do this well!
Thanks. And I promise I will write more!
keep reading.
I hearby solemnly swear to protect, uphold, and promote the enternal documentation of my trivial thoughts and sentiments as stated in the blog agreement made to all those who seem to find some kind of enlightenment from my rambling.
I hope you gain from reading this blog, and please leave your comments. I want to really do this well!
Thanks. And I promise I will write more!
keep reading.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Dichotomy and Anniversary
So I have been thinking alot about what it means to live in Panama. I feel this dichotomy has taken over my life. I am not really American anymore, but I am not Panamanian by any chance. There is not that wow I really have come into myself here feeling, nor am I overrun by some maddening nostaglia, driving me back to everything that is "my" culture. Everything seems to have this "everything and nothing" Catch 22-ness to it. I guess this is what we talked about in my culture shock classes. The feeling that "I am but a stranger here" will probably be the maxim for the rest of my experiences abroad. And yet, this feeling didn't go away on my last trip to the states, nor do I think I want it to go away when I eventually return. Friends told me I spoke like a Mexican, "or definatly at least with a Latin accent" and I was shocked at the looks of complete and utter bewilderment when I paid for a $25 bill at a restuarant completly in cash. As Tolkein said, some wounds (I prefer the word change here) are too deep, and we must go about learning how to tie the strings of two different lives together.
But, that is what life is about. Dichotomy.
I also realized that it is a very important time for me. There are few seasonal changes in Panama that are used to mark the seasons, so time just seems to continue without any kind of change. Some of the few changes that remind me of my approximate location in the "seasonal" calendar are as follows:
1. Fast food restaurants start putting out "fish sandwiches" in the weeks leading up to lent, and menus at restaurants Friday nights only offer fish and seafood specials (since most Catholics here don't eat meat on Fridays in Lent.)
2. Christmas decorations come out notoriously early here. ie. Its the first of OCtober and I already have shopped for my Christmas decoration. So while this might remind me that its beginning to feel alot like Christmas, I have adjusted my clock to have the arrival of Christmas decoration remind me that I need to get ready for Labor day.
3. The floor needs to be swept every five minutes. In February and March, farmers all over the country burn off all the growth from last year, and since they do it in the middle of the breezy dry season (for obvious reasons), it means that soot and ash are blown all over the city, and if you leave your windows open and unattended, your living room will soon be filled with little pieces of burnt corn husks and leaves. This occurrence always reminds me of what would be the beginning of spring in the United States.
4. Pompus grass turns white as it grows. And as the hills around the city are covered with it, it is about the only image that comes remotely close to looking like snow. This always happens the last weeks of September and the first weeks of October, and it reminds me of when I first come to Panama.
And that brings me to the point of this entry. While I am sure you appreciate the discourse on Panamanian culture, I am writing for other reasons. Yesterday as I drove through the fields, I saw the pompus grass and realized that at this time today, exactly two years ago, I was waking up in a new country for the first time. So, that means that today is the first day of my THIRD year in Panama. Wow. I have learned so much, and have changed so much, even though, as I have said, there is not much distinction of time and change here in Panama. That dichotomous feeling is how I have changed, as as with any big change, there is also that ambiguity of is this who I am, or is what I am doing right. That is maturity for me, and those of you who know me would say the same, since living with dichotomy and any kind of ambiguity was never really my strong suite. I miss you all and thank you for your continiuos emails and thoughts and prayers and ask for you to join me today in the happiness that I feel for accomplishing the feat of living in a foreign country for two full years.
But, that is what life is about. Dichotomy.
I also realized that it is a very important time for me. There are few seasonal changes in Panama that are used to mark the seasons, so time just seems to continue without any kind of change. Some of the few changes that remind me of my approximate location in the "seasonal" calendar are as follows:
1. Fast food restaurants start putting out "fish sandwiches" in the weeks leading up to lent, and menus at restaurants Friday nights only offer fish and seafood specials (since most Catholics here don't eat meat on Fridays in Lent.)
2. Christmas decorations come out notoriously early here. ie. Its the first of OCtober and I already have shopped for my Christmas decoration. So while this might remind me that its beginning to feel alot like Christmas, I have adjusted my clock to have the arrival of Christmas decoration remind me that I need to get ready for Labor day.
3. The floor needs to be swept every five minutes. In February and March, farmers all over the country burn off all the growth from last year, and since they do it in the middle of the breezy dry season (for obvious reasons), it means that soot and ash are blown all over the city, and if you leave your windows open and unattended, your living room will soon be filled with little pieces of burnt corn husks and leaves. This occurrence always reminds me of what would be the beginning of spring in the United States.
4. Pompus grass turns white as it grows. And as the hills around the city are covered with it, it is about the only image that comes remotely close to looking like snow. This always happens the last weeks of September and the first weeks of October, and it reminds me of when I first come to Panama.
And that brings me to the point of this entry. While I am sure you appreciate the discourse on Panamanian culture, I am writing for other reasons. Yesterday as I drove through the fields, I saw the pompus grass and realized that at this time today, exactly two years ago, I was waking up in a new country for the first time. So, that means that today is the first day of my THIRD year in Panama. Wow. I have learned so much, and have changed so much, even though, as I have said, there is not much distinction of time and change here in Panama. That dichotomous feeling is how I have changed, as as with any big change, there is also that ambiguity of is this who I am, or is what I am doing right. That is maturity for me, and those of you who know me would say the same, since living with dichotomy and any kind of ambiguity was never really my strong suite. I miss you all and thank you for your continiuos emails and thoughts and prayers and ask for you to join me today in the happiness that I feel for accomplishing the feat of living in a foreign country for two full years.
Friday, May 04, 2007
And he lives!
Hey. After months of bloggin lackage...I am back by popular demand. Things have been so busy here in Panama that I hardly know where to begin. First, let me tell you there are sme big changes in my life.
First, visa status. Well, in the hope of self preservation, I wont publish any actual REAL information here, but hey. Things are going GREAT with the VISA. I was so APPROVED for my WORK VISA and my RESIDENCY has come up WITHOUT A HITCH ;) No, things have been rough and the whole visa process really forced me to think about a maybe not so optional trip back to the states. I was planning to leave my current job at Berlitz on May 15th, and well I resigned myself to looking for and even sending resumes to places of possible employment in the States.
But then lightning strikes and God drops the solution in my lap. I was offered a job at a company that, let me tell you, I couldnt really pass up. Just the timing alone of the way it all worked out made me seriously consider the offer, and when he told me what I would be doing, well, I was sold.
He had me at one word: TRAVEL!
I will be working for a company as a customer service representative, working to reruit and bring in new international customers, as well as helping them through the process they hardly wont understand, namly since they wont speak Spanish. I was told of traveling to the United States and Europe, and when I asked how often I would be traveling, well the CEO (who is the one created this job speficially for me!) told me (and I quote) "As much as you want."
So they really needed to pull my leg on that one! And here is the kicker. They gave me the starting date that I wanted, so I will have time to make a trip back to the States to visit family and friends and go to a friend's wedding! I am so excited!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, thats a quick update for now. I guess I have to easy back into this blogger thing!
keep moving...
First, visa status. Well, in the hope of self preservation, I wont publish any actual REAL information here, but hey. Things are going GREAT with the VISA. I was so APPROVED for my WORK VISA and my RESIDENCY has come up WITHOUT A HITCH ;) No, things have been rough and the whole visa process really forced me to think about a maybe not so optional trip back to the states. I was planning to leave my current job at Berlitz on May 15th, and well I resigned myself to looking for and even sending resumes to places of possible employment in the States.
But then lightning strikes and God drops the solution in my lap. I was offered a job at a company that, let me tell you, I couldnt really pass up. Just the timing alone of the way it all worked out made me seriously consider the offer, and when he told me what I would be doing, well, I was sold.
He had me at one word: TRAVEL!
I will be working for a company as a customer service representative, working to reruit and bring in new international customers, as well as helping them through the process they hardly wont understand, namly since they wont speak Spanish. I was told of traveling to the United States and Europe, and when I asked how often I would be traveling, well the CEO (who is the one created this job speficially for me!) told me (and I quote) "As much as you want."
So they really needed to pull my leg on that one! And here is the kicker. They gave me the starting date that I wanted, so I will have time to make a trip back to the States to visit family and friends and go to a friend's wedding! I am so excited!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, thats a quick update for now. I guess I have to easy back into this blogger thing!
keep moving...
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
From Costa Rica
Well, things have sure changed. Even the blogger wedbiste has updated, while I have been off in the abyss of non bloggage.
I am now in Costa Rica for training for my job with Berlitz. I am enjoying it, and really have nothing to write. Just thought it was time to put something up here. Pictures of Costa Rica to follow!
I am now in Costa Rica for training for my job with Berlitz. I am enjoying it, and really have nothing to write. Just thought it was time to put something up here. Pictures of Costa Rica to follow!
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