Category: Culture (Page 4 of 8)

When I finished reading Nelson Mandela’s memoir, there were many things that stuck with me.  One detail in particular, rattling around in the back of my mind, was the Xhosa tradition of leaving milk in the sun to sour it.  Apparently this makes it easier to digest for those that have mild lactose intolerance and is common practice for the Xhosa people.

Mandela related a specific incident involving this spoiled milk while on the run from authorities.  He was staying in a safe house in a white area, and without thinking, put some milk on a windowsill to sour.  A couple of laborers noticed it and remarked, “Why would a white man put milk in the windowsill?  We are the only ones that do that.”  Nelson was spooked by his near discovery and left for a new hiding place that very night.  Interesting, I thought, and yucky.  But, I mused, sour milk is absolutely perfect in baking, cakes and… pancakes.

“Yes, pancakes,” I said, “I resolve to make Mandela Pancakes.  I will call them Mandela Pancakes, and I will sing an African Folk song while I make them.  Nel-son  Man-del-a, Nel-son Man-del-a. ”

Yesterday, I zipped out on my bicycle to fetch a small carton of whole milk for the purpose of spoiling it.  I left it out the entire day in the hot Caribbean sun, the sides bulging as gases pressed on the waxy cardboard container.  I picked it up several times to check it, shaking it for good measure and when the night arrived,  I opened it and took a whiff.  It was there, yes it was, that faint sweet acrid smell of spoiled milk.  Aha!  Tomorrow, we shall have Mandela Pancakes, and they will be delicious.  “Nel-son Man-del-a, Nel-son Man-del-a,” I sang, and the kids laughed.  I then told the story of how he was almost caught because of his soured milk.

Who knew the things one can learn from a man on another continent?  And it is suggested to me that these things we learn, the serendipitous delights of interconnected knowledge, are made possible by diversity, by embracing the pluralism we find everywhere.  And the pancakes?  They were delicious.

Me: I just thought of something.  Where did the word guapo come from?  Do you think it’s a word from indigenous peoples in the Caribbean?

I was noticing that the gua (Gooah) diphthong sound is associated with the language of the Taino peoples of the Caribbean.   A good many of these words, guanábana (fruit), Guánica, G­uaynabo, (places),  guayaba (another fruit – guava), etc, are all indigenous and you can see their origins from the gua sound. 

Me: So I am wondering about the word guapo (Spanish for handsome).  Could that word have come from the New World?  And if so, why would the Spanish people have needed to appropriate it?  Wouldn’t it have already existed in their language?

My error is a basic one, as I was to soon find out, but enlightenment is surely a blessing and one of the many benefits of being married to a smart cookie.

Laura: Interesting track of thought, I mean train, or whatever, but remember,  "gua" frequently occurs in Spanish in words that are borrowed through commerce and contact that have a "w" sound in the original language.  Remember "waffle?"  In the Basque Country they called it gofres. Ok, it did not go to GUA but it went to the gutteral "g". Perhaps a better example is the Spanish translation for "wow" is guao or "William" which is Guillermo.  Perhaps the Taino people’s spoken word for the town of Guaynabo, was Whai-NA-bo, and the fruit guanábana was Whai-NA-bah-na. 

Laura: I don’t know for sure, but some time ago I looked up Taino grammar and vocabulary and I found out that "gua" was a common article like "the", "this," "that." This results in phrases, rather than words being translated or transformed into current taíno words we know today. I think in my research I was able to come up with towns that were descriptive phrases "the settlement by the water," "the area by the big tree." Who knows if the name was an actual taíno name or a common way of referring to an area that became Spanish shorthand for a place and hence a name we know today.

Laura: However, in my limited knowledge of taíno words I can’t say they use a strong consonant sound such as "p." So I would be inclined to say that guapo is NOT of taíno origin. But then where did it come from?

This story starts out with some little details. I can’t really make them up, I wish I was that smart. These little details, represent metaphors for life in Puerto Rico, things that make up the backdrop of our lives. I’ve touched on them before. Flat tires is one good example.

This time, at the top of the hill exiting our urbanization, there was a backed up sewer. It had been spewing funky toilet paper laced waste water for the better part of a week. Each morning as I climbed the hill on my bicycle, I would gingerly pedal through the torrent, careful not to splash any of the filth on me or my bike, my poor bike. I was reminded of Jerry Seinfeld removing and discarding shoelaces which had touched the floor of a public restroom. I could do no such thing with my tires.  Ay bendito.

Thankfully, I had avoided the dreaded splash from cars or my own bike for the past four days. Cranking slowly up the hill increased my exposure, but I gaged my ascent carefully and with a bit of luck managed to avoid cars. I was ascending, however, where I would spend more time dancing on the razor’s edge, taunting fate as zippy cars raced off to the day of labor, their windows rolled up tight.

Coming back down the hill should have been a breeze, a smelly breeze, but a breeze nonetheless. The shoulder is wider, and the rivulets of dung laced paper mache ran farther from me. If I took to the shoulder, I was on dry pavement. Hurrah!

Fancy my surprise as a Toyota Corrolla flew past me at a breakneck pace, sending a tsunami, a cascade of putrid liquid over me. This was no splash, a few splatters, but a drenching shower, the kind that only happens in movies and to Ben Stiller.

Ah hell no, they did not actually just do that!

I chased the person to their house. I was surprised to find that this careless person was a 60 year old woman doing her morning shopping. Mrs. Maggoo, was her name. She was a sleepy phlegmatic character.

"Hey, thanks a lot for throwing that disgusting water all over me!" Should I have led with sarcasm? It’s too late for that now.

"What? Um, where was this?"

I couldn’t believe she was going to pretend she didn’t see me. "It was just up the hill here," I pointed, "You know where the sewer is leaking. You drove past me and covered me in that water, that disgusting dirty water."

"I passed slow, and you were off to the side."

"What? I thought you just said you didn’t see me? And are you saying now that I’m making this up, that you didn’t drench me? Wanna smell?" I approached her and leaned in. "Here, smell!" She backed away. Or maybe recoiled is a better right word for it. For you see, I did indeed smell like shit. She continued to protest her innocence, I didn’t see you, but passed slowly, carefully because I was being careful in my careful slow moving careful-mobile car of carefulness.

One pissed off, drenched smelly-assed cyclist in her front lawn seemed to have no bearing on her deny campaign.

I’m sorry, she finally said, or rather, "Perdona." Which in my mind never actually owns the fault. Maybe I’m wrong, but "pardon" just seems like a, oops I just touched your foot in a crowded room, not I just gave you you a shit shower.

At least she could have offered me a wipe to clean myself, a cookie, anything. Bitch.

"Next time, wake up, woman." And I pedaled off to scrub myself and my bicycle.

*shudder*

I bag on Puerto Rico a lot, but there is one reason why I am still here. There are lots of things for an American to dislike, but one thing continues to stand out and surprise me in pleasant ways.

I was pedaling my bicycle up the hill from my house to buy groceries, as I do every morning. At the foot of the hill there is a junkyard, rusted and hidden by bamboo and vegetation. From time to time, a dog from the area takes it upon himself to assume authority over all in his domain. Little packs of them charge and bark with all that their little yippy lungs can muster. They are an annoyance, but not much trouble.

Today, however, was different.

This time the dogs were big. Huge. They were not the little yippy dogs that bark from the safety of their porches, but big ass rottweiler or pit-bull muts, a couple of big 80+ lbs dogs, furiously barking at me and racing up in my blind spot.

I did what I usually do, dismounted my bicycle, put it in between myself and the dogs and slowly moved toward them, hissing and seething at them. I find that the hissing freaks them out and I’ve never failed to cow a dog with this technique. I felt relatively safe with my bike as a shield, and the dogs tucked their tails and took off. Whew.

Unfortunately, as soon as I turned my back on them, mounted my bike and started pedaling again, they regained their courage and came roaring back. Sigh. I’m going to have to open up a can on these asshats. I had to let them know I meant business. Perhaps I should pursue them farther, stand my ground for longer.

At that moment a little Suzuki Gran Vitara bounced up the hill, and first, I got the friendly advice^TM:

"Necesitas un palo (you need a stick)." The person yelled.

Step two after the friendly advice was the actual help, as my new friend proceeded to weave all over the road and shoulder chasing after the dogs, yelling, ye-ah ye-ah! I smiled. "¡Gracias!" I yelled.

Yes, I thought, this is why I am still in Puerto Rico.

Tomorrow: Same hill, different story.

Know who else doesn’t answer prayers, requests, complaints, or issues? Read this to catch up on the whole answering prayers thing.  Now let me share something with you atheists out there, about the whole God not answering prayers, meme. You have no idea. You have no idea of the depths of indifference to which other entities stoop. Let me tell you who really doesn’t answer prayers, and they don’t give a flying rats ass if you boil in your own bile for all eternity… in fact, they revel in it. No, scratch that, they just don’t give a shit. Who am I talking about?

Customer service.

Ha! You just CAN’T make this stuff up.

This evening I assembled my favorite photos to print out using Walgreen’s internet photo printing service. It’s great, I can upload my photos over da intarweb and get them printed out at the store AND pick them up in an hour – so convenient. What they don’t tell you, is that if your photos are too good, and by too good, I mean better than what the slack-jawed minimum fucking wage stooge in the photo development area could snap, then they will confiscate them.

"Sir, I can’t give you those photos," she sneered.

"Huh? Why." I’d never heard this one before. What was going to come next? Do tell.

"I need the release in order that I may release the photos to you."

"Huh," I’m thinking… what the hell. Release? Of the models in the photos? They are my kids. Release of the photographer? I’m the photographer. They are pictures I took. "I took those photos," I said, those are my kids. That is my wife. You see, we look great, don’t we?"

 

"Well then who took that picture, if you’re the photographer?" Like a burly detective she was sure she had me, like, smartass, who took that picture if you’re in it, hmmm?  Well, truth be told, since I’m never in pictures myself, I handed the camera to my son’s godfather to snap.   Laura and I were dressed in formal-wear… all gussied up and shit. Sigh, he’s not a photographer. It’s my camera. I set the shot, and told him to push the button. They are my pictures. He was my assistant. Maybe I used a tripod. Why are you interrogating me. Just give me my pictures!

"And hey, wait a minute, since when do I get to be treated like a crook for printing out my photos at Walgreens?"

"I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to see the originals so that I can release these photos to you." She was a snot, a horrible little snot. Arrrgghhh.

"You can keep the pictures, I’ll just print them someplace else," I ranted and walked away.

I considered my predicament for a second. Although I’m flattered that my pictures have raised so many eyebrows here at the Walgreens Institute of Photography Art, I’m still pissed that I don’t have my pictures to put in my wallet. They are beautiful pictures of my beautiful family and by God I would like to show them off.

 

"I want to see a manager," I demanded.

"I’ll get her." And she got on her little phone and called her little manager.

So by this point I was fuming. First, I wanted those pictures. Second, that smug little bitch thinks I’ve stolen some photographer’s work, trying to recreate these to get out of paying him for his prints. I’m mad, but flattered too… it’s just all kinds of messed up.

"Look, I’m not happy one bit," I said in a loud voice to the manager when she showed up. "You’re calling me a liar, that I am stealing some photographer’s work. How dare you. Are you going to resolve this!" I was being kind of loud. Fuck it, I’m a big loud American. It’s who I am. I can’t help myself. It doesn’t help that Puerto Rican’s are like the Japanese without the efficiency. They shy away from conflict. They will not raise their voices. They will not engage. They go limp. They will redirect, be indirect, but they will not deal with the issue in front of them.

I know this, but it still doesn’t do any good when I’m pissed.

"Sir, would you let me talk. Please lower your voice."

"Is what you’re going to say something along the lines of ‘here are you pictures, sir, sorry for the inconvenience?’"

 

"If you would let me – "

"I’d really like to know what you’re going to say. Please say it. I’m waiting."

"Please sir, lower your voice. If you would let me talk."

Frankly, her attitude is so common in so many walks of life. It’s really just a technique "ad hominem" to redirect her inaction, fabricating as its cause, my emphatic and irritated voice, like she is some clucking mother, I’m sorry I cannot help you until you use your indoor voice. You’re making this difficult, sir. It’s you who is wrong. It is your demeanor that is making this difficult.

Bah!

"So what do I need to do to get my pictures?" And I stood there, and although I couldn’t see them, I’m sure my nostrils were flaring.

"As I told you, we need to see the originals in order to release them."

"What is an original? They are digital!"

 

"Sir, lower your voice."

"Look, just forget it. I’ll get them printed someplace else. Ignorante!"

And I left.

So, I’m now at home. On the one hand, I had the fact that The Walgreens Institute of Photographic Art thinks my pictures are so good that I couldn’t have possibly taken them… which I guess makes me feel okay, until I consider the minimum wage drone working the counter… which sends my blood boiling again. On the other, I did this transaction through the Walgreen’s website and no where anywhere did it mention that I could face the copyright theft gestapo at my local Walgreens. No where. The terms of use clearly state that I must have the right to upload pictures, which I do. I have violated no policy. They have my contact info.  Why the hell then, did the store take it upon themselves to refuse to deliver me my photos?

My next step is to call The Walgreens Institute of Photographic Art’s corporate headquarters. I dialed up the 24/7 customer service number.

"Hello, this is Gale, how may I help you."

I explained to Gale my predicament, my irritation, and my confusion at this arbitrary policy. No where on the website was this mentioned as a possibility.

She said that I should call another number. I thanked her and called it. "We are not available to take your call now, please leave a message and we will get back to you."

WTF. I looked at the contact information on the Walgreens website. Customer Service 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It says it right there. I call it back.

I launch into my story again, get part of the way through it, when Gale cuts me off. "Sir, we just spoke. I told you have to call that other number."

"That’s funny, because I’m calling the 24/7 hotline that says Customer Service. It’s right here on your website."

"Well, the problem is that this is an in-store issue and needs to be escalated through the proper channels."

"Again, I see ‘Customer Serivice, 24/7’ What is it that you do there, anyway?"

"Well, I’m not going to get into that with your, sir."

I had her on the ropes. I could tell. She was getting flustered. My logic was ironclad – my resolve, firm. "Okay, I can kinda see what you’re saying, but I don’t see this as an in-store problem only. I initiated the transaction online, through www.walgreens.com so if anything you’re partly responsible for the issue as well. I should have been notified of this policy. Is there, in fact, any policy at all?" I asked, channeling Monty Python’s Cheese Shop. Funny how often that comes up, huh?

"Actually, you’re like the fourth or fifth person to call with this issue. I don’t really know. I haven’t heard of it either, but I’ve gotten maybe four or five calls. Maybe there’s been some change. I don’t know. If you want I can take your information and we will get back to you."

"Okay," I sigh. I know where this is going. My complaint will be filled out in triplicate, stamped, processed, filed and sent on a on-way ticket to a happy place, a place of rainbows and unicorns and magic butterflys with candy fountains. No, there’s no fighting it. I lose. Customer Service, you win. I acquiesce.

*I ended up happily using www.shutterfly.com to print my pictures.  No problems.  Cheap.  You have to wait for them to come in the mail, but at least I don’t have to go to submit to the fascists at Walgreens 

Just to document the incredible experience of customer service in Puerto Rico, I present this nugget for your pleasure. There will be and have been many more, I assure you.

Place: Western Auto on Avenida los Frailes

I walked to the service counter and took a number. There was not one employee at the six or so available stations. My place in the queue according to the little number displayed beneath "Now Serving" was eight. I had sixteen. Okay, I’ll just hang here with the other patrons as they smile and compliment me on my adorable children.

Olaia and Jaimito entertained themselves looking at seat and steering wheel covers. "Daddy," Jaimito began, "How can such a big seat fit in such a small box?"

"Jaimito, that’s just a cover for a seat. It’s folded up. It’s like a pillowcase. You take it out and use it to cover your old seat. It’s for when your seat is old and beat up and you want to make it look nicer."

"Oh," he replied. "Daddy, I like this one." And he pointed to a blue flaming skull on a black background.

"Oh, very scary, Jaimito. I don’t think Mommy would like it though. It’s too scary."

"I like it." He smiled.

"Daddy," interjected Olaia, "I think Papa Jim would like this old fashioned looking cover for his steering wheel." She pointed to a wood grained Model-T looking cover that was indeed old-fashioned. It’s funny that she associates Papa Jim with old-fashioned. It’s so cute that she picks up on his tastes, and I thought to myself, he would definitely like that steering wheel cover.

"It’s all cool, Olaia," I said. "We could do a mini Pimp My Ride."

"Really?" Her eyes got big.

"Yeah, we could do a pretend Pimp My Ride… but it would be cool if MTV came and pimped out our old car for us, huh? Lights, TV’s new paint, etc."

"Yeah, but it would cost a lot of money, right?"

"No, MTV does it all for free."

"Really? Well, how would be get the car to them?"

"I think they would come here… but I don’t think they would come to Puerto Rico. Too bad, huh? We’ll just have to settle for our do-it-yourself little mini Pimp My Ride."

"You’re funny, Daddy."

I turned to the service counter. Fifteen minutes had passed and there was still no one there. The clients were looking around anxiously. I peered into the rows of parts behind the counter and spied four employees huddled around a hidden counter, performing some sort of witchcraft that had nothing to do with, from what I could tell, anything. "Ahem, are you attending to clients at this counter?" I queried

"Yes, yes of course." They answered like sheep just realizing that a wolf had entered the pasture.

"Um, well, I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes and there’s nobody here and the little number has not advanced past eight since I got here."

"The guy on that counter must be with a client."

"The clients are here," I answered, "Waiting. Wondering."

"Well, we don’t work that counter." And they turned back to their important work – all four of them.

I spoke up again. "Look, aren’t you going to do ANYTHING?"

I guess I had piqued their annoyance meter and they would be forced to deal with me. One of them got on the intercom and called his compatriot back to his station. Two minutes later, he appeared and began to call out numbers. From where he came or what he was doing, I have no idea – or why there was only one of him. I also have no idea what the other ten or so employees were doing. They buzzed in and around not making one smidgen of eye contact with anyone. They seemed to hope to ignore those of us who came with money to – get this – purchase something.

"I need to change the filter on my transmission."  I finally declared once we had arrived at the number sixteen.

He took out a service order slip and speaking to himself, wrote 1 (one) air filter change.

"Um, I said transmission filter – a filter for the the transmission."

"Oh sorry. Just a second," he said and scurried off.

Two minutes had passed and back he came.  I anticipated his news, quickly fantasizing the following scenarios: It will be done in a hour. It will be done in an hour and only cost $25, or we’ll have that taken care of in just a jiffy for our most valued customer. Why am I your most valued customer?  Correct answer: because you are a customer.

"We don’t do transmissions anymore," he deadpanned.

Gil the Jenius picked up my short piece on the management/employee disconnect in Puerto Rico and ran with it. He pulled no punches, and he’s right to a degree – but… let me add a little more personal detail to my opinion to clarify. I believe in the Puerto Rican employee. The sickness that befalls them, the sleepiness, the rudderless attitude, cluelessness, listlessness, and lack of initiative that we might see isn’t because they are naturally that way.. I think they get a bum rap. I’ve always said it (actually it was Demming, but I can steal, no?):

Bad results are 85% the fault of management.

With that said, my only direct experience with leading/managing a large group of Puerto Ricans was in the Army. I commanded roughly 128 soldiers most of whom were local. I took a dual track with my management style. I made sure that I engaged them, both by seeking and accepting opinions/advice. After all, I wasn’t afraid of being wrong, I just wanted the best way forward.

You know what happened? They came alive. The zombies warmed up, their pallor turning from a gray to a clean clear sun kissed tone. They responded with enthusiasm. They took ownership of their jobs. They accepted responsibility. They became agents of the organization. Once they had authority to match their responsibility, they rose to the occasion.

In fact, they did BETTER than their American compatriots.

I didn’t do much, and I can’t take extreme credit for everything. All I did was treat them as valued assets. I didn’t take privilege. I sleep and ate and suffered as they did, simple stuff, really.

But they’d never been treated that way before. They’d never been given respect the way I respected them.

In my little essay, I do recognize that there are two problems. Employees who won’t act and managers who won’t lead. So yeah, it takes two to tango.

But guess which one I would change first, if I could?

Rain was pouring down in sheets and the traffic had all jammed up, crumpled, jagged, and steaming in the tropical heat. As is my custom, when moving at 3 feet per minute and upon coming to an intersection wherein cars may poke out their snouts and cross through the great slow moving migration, I did indeed complete what had already been apparent, my relative lack of movement, and came to a stop. I had left a good twenty foot gap between myself and the car in front so as to not block the intersection. It was nothing new. It was courteous. It was lawful. It would have been unselfish except for the fact that those twenty feet meant nothing to me… a gap covered in five seconds once the migration should begin anew with a start and a lurch.

We were all there to pick up our beloved children from Catholic School. Mostly we are members of the same community and share a common devotion to braving this cursed traffic jam every day in order that we may fetch our darling children.

So it was therefore surprising that the blowing horns would have begun to fall upon me. Move up! Move up came the frantic wails. Can’t you see those twenty feet are essential to us? Can’t you see that you must move or we shall risk being crushed by the great disaster that comes from behind. And frantically they redoubled their efforts, blowing and snorting.

I held firm, resolute in my righteousness and irritation at the small-mindedness.

Then, without warning a small red Toyota Echo whipped from behind me and lodged himself diagonally into the space, the gap in the intersection directly in front of me. Now even the cross traffic was blocked. But the final straw? Someone in a Mercedes followed suit.

I had had enough. I blocked her. In our little game of chicken (if you could call it that), I could not have been defeated. My car? A twelve year old Chevy Lumina against the beautiful new Mercedes.

Just try it, bitch, I mentally cursed.

So I won. I looked her dead in the eye, shook my head, and mouthed. "Usted es una mal criada." Akin to saying, "The lady is a miscreant."

I love how Spanish allows one to insult with the air of an English butler. It’s fun. You should try it sometime. "I’m very sorry, sir, but the gentlemen is an ass."

So the madam was now stuck in the oncoming lane of traffic, blocked by myself and the stupid little pendejo, Toyota Echo. She attempted to back up and resume her station at my rear, but lo and behold, her traffic jam mate had closed her off from behind. She had no where to go. Oh how I wished there had been a lion or tiger to cull her ass from the herd.

The rain poured harder and I made a decision.

I flung open my door and sloshed my way to her driver’s side window. I leaned on her car and rapped on the window. She cracked it open a smidge.

"The lady is a miscreant. In the whole of my life I have never viewed such a manner. Does the madam believe that no one here to pick up their beloved children does not have hurry. Does the madam have more hurry than myself? Or them (pointing) or them? Does the madam not have the smallest portion of shame? I frankly would be ashamed of myself, a person of the madam’s age (55-60) and maturity to take it upon themselves to comport themselves in such a selfish and uncharitable manner."

Through, she kept attempting to interrupt with indignation, "Perdoname – perdoname – " make no mistake, ’twas not the tone of contrition.  No it was the "Look whippersnapper, I don’t know who you think you are – " the cold icy tone of "Excuse me?"

Indeed.

I had finished what I wished to communicate, so I got back into my car shaking my head and continued along… three feet at a time. Inch inch inch.