Thursday, Januar 9, 2008:
Our village - Mayalan - is a fair-sized rural town. About 3000 people here overall but there is no running water, electricity (except that provided by solar panels or generators) or sewage system, except the old-fashioned variety that has served well for eons. We have no post office, no official police, no radio station, etc... You get the idea.
What we do have, as of about a year ago, is a brand-new solar powered digital cell phone tower care of ComCell! With the advent of modern cell phone system, it seems that a large segment of the local population has been able to scrape together enough Quetzales to buy one of the disposable phones that are sold so cheaply now. For a mere q200 (about $25) you can buy a phone and talk-time for 250 minutes!
This tower has revolutionized communications in this place. These days, it is common to see a small Mayan woman walking down the street with a large bowl of corn or maza on her head, a baby in a sling on her back, talking on a cell phone! Absolutely incredible. It is a good thing too, as it allows families here to stay in touch with the missing sons and husbands who have had to find work in Mexico or the US.
One of the old communication technologies here is still firmly operational, TALKING REALLY LOUD to make announcements. Actually, a megaphone hooked up to a car battery is used to make community announcements and to publicize special deals at the local tiendas.
Today was a three-fer day. Across the road from us there is a three-walled building about the size of a garage. The ground level of this building houses the tienda, “El Tigre”. The top level constitutes the living quarters of the proprietor, Don Andres, and his extended family, a group of about twenty. There is a roof over the second level but no walls. Most everyone sleeps in hammocks strung from the posts that support the roof. Potted plants strategically placed along the perimeter help prevent accidental gravity induced injuries.
This morning at about 7:00 am, El Tigre´s very, very loud loud-speaker was turned on for the purpose of publicizing today´s once-in-a-blue-moon event (three for one). The megaphone, mounted at the top of a tall pipe, was turned so as to make it more directionally effective.
For the longest time, a young lady by the name of Amelia has been tending the store and making the announcements. She was very good at what she did. Amelia was especially good at making the three-fer-one announcements that could get quite complicated, mathematically. She did have the unfortunate habit of yelling into the microphone – an unnecessary pre-amplification technique that was especially not necessary at 7:00 in the morning. Particularly when the speaker pole was rotated so that the megaphone points directly at our house, only a couple hundred yards away!
Yesterday, Amelia bolted. She up and ran off to Mexico with a mystery partner to seek her fortune as an independent agent. Due to her absence, her father and the owner of the tienda, Don Andres, decided to make the announcement himself. Mind you, Don Andres is not a completely unsophisticated Mayan campesino, but his skills lay more in the machete sharpening department than they do in public speaking or mathematics.
On Three-fer day, you can buy a phone card, used to charge-up your cell phone, and get three times the face value of the card. A Q25 (25 Quetzale) phone card will charge your phone up with Q75. A Q50 card will charge your phone with Q150 and a Q100 card that will apply Q300 - you get the picture. What a deal, right? Well, don’t underestimate the amount of math required to figure all that out AND make a public announcement at 7:00 in the morning. While Amelia had this script completely memorized and could rattle it off five or six (or more) times in a row, each in a slightly different direction, Don Andres had not.
The announcements always begin with a blazingly loud rendition of Mexican Pop Polka music, interrupted with a squeel as the cassette tape is ejected mid-stream. The announcements typically sound like (in Spanish, of course):
"Bueno! Bueno! Hrmmmphhh – Bueno. Today in the tienda El Tigre, you can buy live chicken, potatoes (special, eh), fresh cabbage, and phone cards. Buy a Q25 card and get a Q75 credit. Buy a Q50 card and receive a credit for Q150. Buy a Q100 card and you will get Q300 credit on your phone!" and so on.
This basic message is repeated perhaps five or size times, with the loud-speaker periodically pointed in different directions, having an astounding impact on the volume, depending of your location.
Because of Amelias absence, this morning, Don Andres took the mic and began the announcement in the standard fashion:
"Bueno! Bueno! Hrmmmmph. Today, ah, we are selling phone cards with a special, ah. Hmmmphhh, tap, tap tap. Ah Bueno!"
And, thus, he verbally fumbled for about three or four minutes without actually saying anything.
Presently, a new voice could be heard over the loudspeaker. A young lady, probably sister-in-law of Amelia, took the mic. She managed to say Bueno about six times, tapped the mic, got some of the phone card prices mixed up and gave up.
Next, one of the teenaged boys took over. He began with gusto and was well into the announcement when suddenly three or four of the other, less successful, family members began trying to coach him. The sound of urgent coaching was easily audible in the background over the PA. He hesitated, briefly tried to start-over, and finally gave up.
Passing the mic over to his five-year-old little cousin, Frasi.
Frasi is a spunky little five-year-old fireball of a girl and had practiced this particular script a few times under the tutelage of Amelia and done very well before. She also began with gusto, speaking at a volume level that would not be legal in most airport traffic areas, and was well into the announcement when suddenly the voices of the failed announcers could again be heard in the background. She hesitated, briefly tried to start-over, and after a few moments, seemingly ignored everyone and made a perfect rendition of what would be the official three-fer announcement. We know who is going to be making these announcements in the future, don't we?
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
A Drunk Mayan Cowboy
Later in the day I walked over to the El Tigre tienda and bought a few phone cards in honor of Three-Fer day. Not wanting to spend all my quetzals in one place, I also walked up to the village center and inquired with one of the other phone-card sellers regarding availability of additional cards. The man in charge explained that they were out of cards but that he could transfer funds from his cell phone to my cell phone and that the value would triple in the exchange. This little feat of technological wizardry, especially considering the overwhelming rusticity of our location, seemed almost unbelievable. Despite my doubts, I asked him to demonstrate, which he quickly and professionally did. In only moments, my phone had been charged up with hundreds of quetzals, for which I paid him only one-hundred. Impressed, and anxious to take advantage of the great deal, I asked him to do the same for Jennifer’s phone.
As I stood in the open face of the tienda, protected by the sun by overhanging corrugated roof, my elbows resting on the wooden counter, I watched in amazement as the fellow on the other side rapidly typed in the commands required to transfer funds to Jennifer’s phone. I pulled my own cell phone out of my right-hand pocket and dialed my wife to warn her that a credit was about to be transferred to her phone, so that she could confirm the transaction. Being a bit hard-of-hearing on the left-side, I held the phone up to my right ear.
While I listened to the phone ring on the other end, an old drunk campesino with a cowboy hat and bright pink eyes staggered towards me from out on the road in a zig-zag pattern. The custom in this village is to simply ignore drunks. Most people don’t even walk away when one of them gets too friendly, though I am not sure why. There seems to be a tacit acceptance of their presence, if not their condition. This old Mayan cowboy, carrying a half-crushed plastic bottle of cane rum in one hand was definitely slobberingly drunk. He bellied up next to me, actually, he bellied up to me, standing to my left, and rested his head on my shoulder as he mumbled something unintelligible in mixed Spanish and Mam. He drooled slightly and was looking down as if at my foot. He kept pointing at my left pants pocket with his free hand as if to say that he wanted some money or something. After mumbling for a few moments and being much too close, he began to use foul language. The few words I could make out I didn’t like much. I began to sweat and noticed that a small crowd of locals, who had been enjoying each other’s company under the same shady overhang, were watching me and my new best friend. I hesitated to walk away because, as I said, nobody here seems to do that. The other reason I did not was that the fellow in the tienda was not done transferring gobs of quetzals to my wife’s phone. I called Jennifer over and over again while tried to edge away, without success. For some reason, Jennifer never answered the phone. The drunk followed me around, holding out both hands as if to say he wanted what was in my pockets. The small crowd also watched with an odd look of detached amusement.
After calling Jennifer six or seven times, I began to get agitated at the fact that my wife had neglected to keep her phone with her, as we agreed she would. Or, she wasn’t answering because, perhaps, she was having another, more important, call! I began to sweat profusely as I slowly walked just out of range of the drunk, calling Jennifer again and again. I finally simply paid the man at the tienda without confirmation and headed in the direction of home so that I could express my angst to my wife for her lack of procedural integrity - not having her phone with her. I would then confirm the transaction myself – because, after all, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!
As I reached our home and stepped up on the cinder blocks that we use for steps, Jennifer called out a cheery hello and asked me if I had seen her phone anywhere. I was about ready to begin my speech about “why can’t you keep track of your cell phone” when I decided to make a quick check of my own pockets. I was somewhat amazed to discover that there was another cell phone in my left pocket, but I always keep mine in my right pocket. Upon further investigation, I was equally amazed to discover that there was one in my right-hand pocket too.
It took me a few moments to piece together what had actually happened, as my perception of the drunk followed everything I had expected from drunks. In reality, what had transpired at the phone tienda was this:
After dialing my wife and putting the phone to my good (right) ear, Jennifer’s phone began to ring, in my left pants pocket. As my own phone was occupying my only really good ear, I couldn’t hear her phone ringing softly in my left pants pocket. The drunk, being a socially responsible kind of guy, heard my pocket ringing and was on his way over to help me notice the obvious, as drunks are prone to do. When he rested his head on my shoulder, he was looking down into my pocket, wondering why the heck my pants were ringing while I was talking on another phone. As I nudged away from him and called Jennifer again and again, it made him all the more curious as to why I had a phone on my ear, but my pants were ringing. Naturally he followed me around, trying to point out this apparent incongruity. I can only guess what the group of folks in the shade of the overhang were thinking.
Honestly, I am the source of endless amusement here in Mayalan. I should charge admission.
As I stood in the open face of the tienda, protected by the sun by overhanging corrugated roof, my elbows resting on the wooden counter, I watched in amazement as the fellow on the other side rapidly typed in the commands required to transfer funds to Jennifer’s phone. I pulled my own cell phone out of my right-hand pocket and dialed my wife to warn her that a credit was about to be transferred to her phone, so that she could confirm the transaction. Being a bit hard-of-hearing on the left-side, I held the phone up to my right ear.
While I listened to the phone ring on the other end, an old drunk campesino with a cowboy hat and bright pink eyes staggered towards me from out on the road in a zig-zag pattern. The custom in this village is to simply ignore drunks. Most people don’t even walk away when one of them gets too friendly, though I am not sure why. There seems to be a tacit acceptance of their presence, if not their condition. This old Mayan cowboy, carrying a half-crushed plastic bottle of cane rum in one hand was definitely slobberingly drunk. He bellied up next to me, actually, he bellied up to me, standing to my left, and rested his head on my shoulder as he mumbled something unintelligible in mixed Spanish and Mam. He drooled slightly and was looking down as if at my foot. He kept pointing at my left pants pocket with his free hand as if to say that he wanted some money or something. After mumbling for a few moments and being much too close, he began to use foul language. The few words I could make out I didn’t like much. I began to sweat and noticed that a small crowd of locals, who had been enjoying each other’s company under the same shady overhang, were watching me and my new best friend. I hesitated to walk away because, as I said, nobody here seems to do that. The other reason I did not was that the fellow in the tienda was not done transferring gobs of quetzals to my wife’s phone. I called Jennifer over and over again while tried to edge away, without success. For some reason, Jennifer never answered the phone. The drunk followed me around, holding out both hands as if to say he wanted what was in my pockets. The small crowd also watched with an odd look of detached amusement.
After calling Jennifer six or seven times, I began to get agitated at the fact that my wife had neglected to keep her phone with her, as we agreed she would. Or, she wasn’t answering because, perhaps, she was having another, more important, call! I began to sweat profusely as I slowly walked just out of range of the drunk, calling Jennifer again and again. I finally simply paid the man at the tienda without confirmation and headed in the direction of home so that I could express my angst to my wife for her lack of procedural integrity - not having her phone with her. I would then confirm the transaction myself – because, after all, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!
As I reached our home and stepped up on the cinder blocks that we use for steps, Jennifer called out a cheery hello and asked me if I had seen her phone anywhere. I was about ready to begin my speech about “why can’t you keep track of your cell phone” when I decided to make a quick check of my own pockets. I was somewhat amazed to discover that there was another cell phone in my left pocket, but I always keep mine in my right pocket. Upon further investigation, I was equally amazed to discover that there was one in my right-hand pocket too.
It took me a few moments to piece together what had actually happened, as my perception of the drunk followed everything I had expected from drunks. In reality, what had transpired at the phone tienda was this:
After dialing my wife and putting the phone to my good (right) ear, Jennifer’s phone began to ring, in my left pants pocket. As my own phone was occupying my only really good ear, I couldn’t hear her phone ringing softly in my left pants pocket. The drunk, being a socially responsible kind of guy, heard my pocket ringing and was on his way over to help me notice the obvious, as drunks are prone to do. When he rested his head on my shoulder, he was looking down into my pocket, wondering why the heck my pants were ringing while I was talking on another phone. As I nudged away from him and called Jennifer again and again, it made him all the more curious as to why I had a phone on my ear, but my pants were ringing. Naturally he followed me around, trying to point out this apparent incongruity. I can only guess what the group of folks in the shade of the overhang were thinking.
Honestly, I am the source of endless amusement here in Mayalan. I should charge admission.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill to Fetch a Tinaja de Agua
Monday, December 31, 2007:
WX: 7:30, 65 degrees, partly cloudy, no wind. There seems to be a pattern…
Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill to fetch a pail of water…
Jennifer and Beto took a walk down to the creek to get some water. We use what is locally called a tinaja. It looks like one of those ancient water jars you see in greek paintings. That particular shape actually serves several purposes. For one thing, water does not slosh around in it when it is completely full. Secondly, it is easy to pour water from it even when it is full. It is also mechanically strong shape to hold a liquid. The ones we use here are made of plastic, but otherwise look identical to the clay versions of yore.
While I was still wiping sleep from my eyes, Jennifer and Beto took two tinajas (a baby one for him and a 3 gallon size for Jennifer) to get water from the creek for cooking and washing. Walking down to the creek is relatively easy, as it is only a couple hundred meters away and downhill about seventy feet or so. The harder part is coming back up, with full tinajas of water. Jennifer has nearly perfected the skill of carrying a full tinaja on top of her head – balanced with the help of two hands. Beto is getting the hang of things as well.
Jack fell down…
There are some fairly steep and slippery parts of the path that lead back up to the house from the creek. Beto has not mastered the complete art of climbing steep, dusty and slippery hills while carrying an eight pound water jar yet. At the steepest part of the trail, he hesitated and then balked – whining and squealing like a stuck piglet for mama to come and pick him up! This distracted Jennifer, who was ahead of him (and above him on the trail). She set her tinaja down and headed downhill to help Beto. After a few steps, the big round jar with three gallons of water in it, not being a particularly stable shape, tipped over and began to roll**. Downhill is the direction everything rolls here, including thirty pound jars of water. Beto, being on the trail directly below Jennifer, happened to be in the path of the sloshing, spilling, rolling green-and-white-striped projectile. Jennifer clearly and loudly instructed Beto to “get out of the way”, but, alas, he did not respond with sufficient alacrity. He was momentarily preoccupied with what he must have thought was hopeless hill climbing chore carrying an unbearable load – by the time he looked up to see why his mother was shouting, it was too late to avoid being flattened by the speeding and now muddy tinaja. His whining and complaining about his previous predicament ceased immediately. Jennifer was truly afraid that he had been injured as the tinaja apparently had time to reach substantial speed before its progress was interrupted by my stalwart son. Even though he is only three-years-old, he weighs in at over forty pounds. Of course, that isn’t much when you consider that the tinaja might have still had twenty or so pounds of water in it when it hit him. You never have a video camera when you really need one! I would have paid good money to have seen the action in person.
Jennifer send Beto up to the house ahead of her. She shouted to me from outside indicating that she would like a little assistance if I was not too busy. Beto was a wet, muddy mess. I rinsed him off and stripped his muddy cloths and sat him on a bench to wait for his mother who was now recovering, and re-filling and retrieving the tinaja.
Breakfast: Somebody stopped by with a pound of sow-belly. Jennifer had a really hard time cutting it and started to get a bit testy after I suggested using a sharper knife. I guess having to make two trips for a jar of water is irritating.
I made toast and the kids and I ate toast and juice for breakfast while the pork fried – mmmm!
Later, Jennifer and Beto and I went back down the hill to fetch some more water.
** Most accidents happen close to home
WX: 7:30, 65 degrees, partly cloudy, no wind. There seems to be a pattern…
Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill to fetch a pail of water…
Jennifer and Beto took a walk down to the creek to get some water. We use what is locally called a tinaja. It looks like one of those ancient water jars you see in greek paintings. That particular shape actually serves several purposes. For one thing, water does not slosh around in it when it is completely full. Secondly, it is easy to pour water from it even when it is full. It is also mechanically strong shape to hold a liquid. The ones we use here are made of plastic, but otherwise look identical to the clay versions of yore.
While I was still wiping sleep from my eyes, Jennifer and Beto took two tinajas (a baby one for him and a 3 gallon size for Jennifer) to get water from the creek for cooking and washing. Walking down to the creek is relatively easy, as it is only a couple hundred meters away and downhill about seventy feet or so. The harder part is coming back up, with full tinajas of water. Jennifer has nearly perfected the skill of carrying a full tinaja on top of her head – balanced with the help of two hands. Beto is getting the hang of things as well.
Jack fell down…
There are some fairly steep and slippery parts of the path that lead back up to the house from the creek. Beto has not mastered the complete art of climbing steep, dusty and slippery hills while carrying an eight pound water jar yet. At the steepest part of the trail, he hesitated and then balked – whining and squealing like a stuck piglet for mama to come and pick him up! This distracted Jennifer, who was ahead of him (and above him on the trail). She set her tinaja down and headed downhill to help Beto. After a few steps, the big round jar with three gallons of water in it, not being a particularly stable shape, tipped over and began to roll**. Downhill is the direction everything rolls here, including thirty pound jars of water. Beto, being on the trail directly below Jennifer, happened to be in the path of the sloshing, spilling, rolling green-and-white-striped projectile. Jennifer clearly and loudly instructed Beto to “get out of the way”, but, alas, he did not respond with sufficient alacrity. He was momentarily preoccupied with what he must have thought was hopeless hill climbing chore carrying an unbearable load – by the time he looked up to see why his mother was shouting, it was too late to avoid being flattened by the speeding and now muddy tinaja. His whining and complaining about his previous predicament ceased immediately. Jennifer was truly afraid that he had been injured as the tinaja apparently had time to reach substantial speed before its progress was interrupted by my stalwart son. Even though he is only three-years-old, he weighs in at over forty pounds. Of course, that isn’t much when you consider that the tinaja might have still had twenty or so pounds of water in it when it hit him. You never have a video camera when you really need one! I would have paid good money to have seen the action in person.
Jennifer send Beto up to the house ahead of her. She shouted to me from outside indicating that she would like a little assistance if I was not too busy. Beto was a wet, muddy mess. I rinsed him off and stripped his muddy cloths and sat him on a bench to wait for his mother who was now recovering, and re-filling and retrieving the tinaja.
Breakfast: Somebody stopped by with a pound of sow-belly. Jennifer had a really hard time cutting it and started to get a bit testy after I suggested using a sharper knife. I guess having to make two trips for a jar of water is irritating.
I made toast and the kids and I ate toast and juice for breakfast while the pork fried – mmmm!
Later, Jennifer and Beto and I went back down the hill to fetch some more water.
** Most accidents happen close to home
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