Code Monkey Happy Ninja Banana Surprise!

I need me a milkshake. Chocolate, please, with whipped cream.

Yesterday started out with “musical gates” in Dallas, followed by “musical gates” in Mexico City before finally ending with “I’m sorry, HOW MUCH!? for a cab ride home”. I got ripped.

Today’s lesson is: how to stay cool, how remain patient, and how to not panic when all means of communication are null and void.

For starters, I was in Dallas. Not my favorite place, but as there’s significant family members there, and as we all gathered for Aunt Ida’s birthday, it was all well and good. Very good, and quite well. Happiness!

But I had to get outta Dallas to get back to Mexico. Yes, supposedly the fun country of swine flu.

My political two cents worth (and intelligence) is if you hear anyone talking of only Mexicans as carrying the flu, remember this: viruses don’t give a pig’s snout what nationality you are. You are human. You are a potential host. Viruses are older, better, stronger, and more deadlier than we’ve ever been as a human race. Please remember this the next time someone’s ranting about a particular nationality of people as if they’re the only ones that could carry it across the border. Ignorance is lame.

Meanwhile, at “musical gates” round one, I felt so bad for the people who were just trying to get back to their families and didn’t enjoy mindlessly wandering the airport while jamming out to Jamiroquai / Beastie Boys. Our flight was supposed to leave at 9:40am. We were not airborne until 12 noon. A super storm line was just south of the DFW area and playing air hockey with the planes. Oy. I didn’t really plan on having Starbucks, McDonald’s and two more Dremamine, but I did. Yum! Crunchy white powder tongue annoying motion sickness bleah. We seriously changed gates four times.

And then we were in Mexico City, where about 50% had masks on. No big deal. But I missed my connecting flight. So I hauled my butt to the American Airlines counter (my first flight carrier) and explained the situation while Screaming Head Child Twin #1M couldn’t figure out why his sister (Non-Screaming Head Child #1F) didn’t like him hitting her with the plastic non-flying jet model. Or wrapping his mask around her head. Anyway.

I then asked where my luggage was. HA ha!! Actually, that wasn’t a problem. My luggage was happily on the way to Oaxaca, with me, sans masks. Oh no!

And then…. then I waited some more. Because ya see, once again, Murphy’s Law was trumped by O’Neal’s Law. Murphy’s Law woulda been like “heyyyy yer gonna get delayed by storms in the US, but you’ll make your connecting flight but your luggage will be on the flight behind you”. O’Neal’s Law states “heyyyyy yer gonna be delayed by storms in the US AND you’re gonna miss your connecting flight, BUT you’ll have your luggage BUT you’re gonna get delayed by a storm line in Mexico City. And there’s no air conditioning in the terminal you have to wait in. And the flight boards aren’t correct, you have to LISTEN for your flight gate, which they won’t announce until 20 minutes before you take off, because THEY’RE playing “musical gates” too! And you have no working phone. And the phone machines won’t read your card. Even backwards, with spit on it.”

I really like Sala E, F and G compared to Sala B at the Mexico City airport. They have air conditioning. But B had a Starbucks too. And I had more Dremamine. Yum. Lunch. And early dinner.

We finally left Mexico City for Oaxaca. Rock. But, due to delays in Dallas, and delays in Mexico City, instead of leaving at my planned 3:05pm and getting into Oaxaca at 4:05pm, we were leaving at 7:00pm and getting into Oaxaca at 8:00pm. Wow. Just. Wow.

Mask? What mask? I got coffee, punk!

Got to Oaxaca. No phone. No working phone machine. And… the phones at the ticket counters wouldn’t call thru to the cell phone of Janelle or Jill, my only tele-contacts.

Taxi. Which really hurt. ‘Cause I can drive, I just didn’t have a car, truck, or big giant bus at my disposal to use! And I told the cabbie this and he just laughed. We figured out where I was heading, which, according to the map was Zone 3 and on the price chart wasn’t even listed, which meant me, the blonde little gringo got RIPPED on the price. I know this ’cause Habacuc’s cousin (?) drives a cab and Habacuc told me over dinner that night. I mean, I knew I was getting ripped, but I didn’t know by how much. Let’s just say a lot and leave it at that.

All that being said, I made it, safe, in one piece, all luggage in hand, just needing a place to sleep.

peace

Or… subtitled: How I Got To Know Miss Communication Just a Wee Bit Better…

Or… subtitled: How I Continue to Learn How to Squeeze a Big Grey Bus Into Smaller and Tighter Spaces…

Seriously. Let me tell you how!

It allll began Wednesday night on the way to the soccer game. I know, sounds a bit like “…I saw it on Mulberry Street” but seriously, that’s how it started.

So I was bored a little bit on Wednesday afternoon, due to me not having a working computer of my own, and the internet not being great at all, and not wanting to start on another bike, because it’d be a half days’ work and blah blah blah and one of the university girls, Erika, was like, “come to my game tonight” and I’m like, “sure”!

Which of course meant, not just me with Erika and her boyfriend, but also Niche, one of the staff, about six other boys, and a couple of the girls. So a van full. And I’m driving. Here we go! Whee!

Soccer game, awesome. Erika “Kika” ROCKS: she scored twice, and assisted once and I think the final score was 10 – 0. They pummeled the other team.

Story! On the way, Niche turns to me and asks (or so I thought), “can you take Monse (the girl, not the cat) spanish spanish spanish to Oaxaca spanish spanish tomorrow at 3:40pm spanish spanish?” And I’m like, “sure”!

Recognize that I’m blonde. Recognize that the dye is still seeping into key logical and computational areas of my brain. Recognize that hotter weather, such as that found in Mexico during the dry season, tends to cook said areas of brain even further. It did not occur to me that 3:40pm is a really weird freakin’ time to do ANYTHING, anywhere, especially with a culture as found in Mexico that’s not so anal-retentive about time. Nope. Didn’t think that. Watched girls playing soccer. Drove back late. Went to bed.

Thursday morning. 7:00am. Monse the CAT is doing her usual meowing that starts around 5:30. I’ve learned to sleep through it. I’ve not learned to sleep through a car horn outside my window and Niche calling out “Memo! Meeeemmmmo!” (my name in Spanish)

I get up, go to the window, and there’s Niche, looking up at me, smiling – so I throw on a shirt, go outside and she’s like “meet me in the front [of the main house] at 7:40.” And I say “ok, no prob!” thinking “uhhhhh… hmmmm… 740… toast.”

So I go to the front, and it is communicated to me that I’m driving the primary kids to school, in one of the big grey buses. Cool. I’m also apparently taking Monse (girl) and Sergio to their school – high school. I’m like, sweet! I can do this! I feel useful! NOT bored!

Take the chatterboxes to primary, drop them off. We’re late to the high school, so Sergio’s like, “punch it!” – but we first have to put gas in the bus. We do that, and while at the bus, Sergio and Monse are like “yeahhhhh we’re late, we don’t see anyone waiting for school” to which I’m thinking “if we’re late, why would there still be students?”

We get to the school, and I open the door to let Monse and Sergio out, but they don’t move, and instead, a whole slew of high schoolers come on board, as if it’s normal, and this is what they’re supposed to do. I pretend to be the stupid gringo bus driver and just smile and say ‘buenos dias‘ as they’re all boarding and then the teacher gets on and I’m asking Monse “what the heck?” And she just smiles and little do I know what lay ahead.

The teacher then says something about going to Oaxaca. I can do that.

We get going, and I manage to tell the teacher that yes, I can drive, yes I know where Oaxaca is, but no, I don’t KNOW Oaxaca, I don’t know street names, and I sure as heck don’t know where the tv station is that we’re going to. Wait, what? We’re going to a TV station?

So. Confused.

What I do know is izquierda [left], derecha [right] and derecho [straight]. And carril [lane]. That’s what I know. That being made clear, we go to Oaxaca, wherein begins the “where are going?” conversation that lasts about twenty minutes.

Know that when I have several different high schoolers and one teacher telling me ‘derecho’ and ‘derecha’ at the same time, and someone else, randomly, saying ‘izquierda’ just for kicks… well, as one kid put it “his head is like a piñata”! Yes. Truly, my head was a piñata. And I was hungry.

I now know that being at a place “for an hour” means two hours. I know that there’s some kickin’ graffiti in some weird places (click the image). I know that the convenience store clerk doesn’t really know why a blonde whitey is wanting peach juice, not orange juice and certainly not apple juice, and no REALLY, I DONT want a Pepsi at ten in the morning.

I know that second breakfast at Las Pines is good, made fast, and cheap (50 pesos and that’s including a 20 peso tip).

I know that when you stop into a small grocery store because you remember you need laundry detergent, and you find that, but then you also find bags of cacahuates con salsa and oh look! bananas! and shiny! toy! and buy all those that the clerk, a different one, again isn’t sure what to make of the white person buying those things. At 11 in the morning.

I know that when looking for parking in central Oaxaca in a big 20 passenger bus in the middle of a Friday afternoon, I have a better chance of meeting a leprechaun than finding an actual parking space. I also know that when people double park, they don’t realize what an interesting challenge they have set before me and NO, the grey buses are NOT articulated!!

So yes, what I thought was just missing the whole time thing, and SOMEHOW mistaking ‘tres’ for ’siete’, and just taking kids to various schools in the morning was in fact a request to be El Chofer for the day for a bunch of high schoolers.

And… we’re back!

Just as with anything, there’s a honeymoon period, and then, supposedly, the honeymoon is over, and there’s nothing left but mundane repetition of errands, chores, and general living.

All that being said, if I did indeed have a “honeymoon” here at the children’s home, it’s either A: not over, or B: never existed and so therefore I have no high point of reference from which to come down. And I believe B is truer than A, because here’s the deal: I came down to work. Period. I knew that coming down here. I knew I’d made a minimum 6 month commitment. I knew that working with kids will try anyone’s patience, no matter how many different types of sedatives they own. I knew there’d be bad days and good days, and that, as always, because we’re so freakin’ human, the bad days are remembered more oft than the good ones.

So, I came prepared with that frame of mind, knowing there’d be days I would have to tenaciously remember my reasons for coming, my heart’s desire, and the end result of all those things. The past two weeks have given me a chance to, shall we say, practice a good habit, that being “remember the reasons you’re here”. Ha!

First, I wish to clarify something immediately: the place I am at would not be labeled an orphanage. It is definitely more correct to call it a children’s home. For that is what it is for all the kids except for literally, four of them. Out of the 51 kids, only 4 are true orphans. The rest have family and their families are either broken, or their fathers are imprisoned, or missing, or dead. Quite often the reason kids are here is because of those previous reasons which then often force the mothers to find work – but when the mother doesn’t have as good an education as the father, or most likely doesn’t have the same skillset, she’s not going to make near the amount of money he did.

And so the kids that need school, need clothing, need food and need all of that consistently, come here under those kinds of circumstances. Many of them know full well the kind of opportunity they have living here – for here they are guaranteed an education, food, shelter and clothing. They may not always like it, but it’s better than where they were.

I hope that gives a better picture of where I am at – so sorry to have used the term orphanage before, but unfortunately that term gets bantered around a lot – and… I believe the staff here is trying to rectify that so that it is more clearly understood the circumstances of the lives of these kids and how they’ve been affected, but more than likely haven’t lost their families. Cool? Cool. Now you know.

Storytime!

So, once upon a time, there was this children’s home that was literally five minutes away from a water park. I real, honest-to-goodness-actually-has-*some*-chlorine-and-some-cool-slides waterpark. Fer cheap. Like 5 bucks cheap.

And then one day, alllll the kids from the children’s home were brought to the waterpark by the staff because the staff were pretty tired of the kids since the kids had been on spring break for nearly TWO WEEKS and they were getting bored,and restless, and irritated and then reflecting that back on the staff and the staff was getting irritated, wasn’t bored at all, and finding getting anything done to be quite the…. challenge, shall we say? Yes. We shall.

Waterpark = fun! Waterpark = sun. Waterpark = red hot skin on white boy. Yum! But that’s not the story. Nope.

Here’s a lovely secret about a lot of things in Mexico: there aren’t a lot of rules like you find in the US. For instance, per each slide, I’m quite sure in the States there’s like a mini paragraph about how tall you should be, how old you should be, if you’re on any medications, do you have any chlorine-related allergies, are you pregnant? Do you smoke? Do you have insurance? set right by the slide making sure that OMG are YOU SURE can ride this?? Because, God forbid anything bad happen to you we just want to make sure it’s not OUR FAULT, because God forbid we actually pay for any accidents that occur on our own property.

I understand the insurance is messed up in the States and if that’s actually news to you, I highly suggest going back to school, learn to read, and then peruse your insurance coverage line by line. You will soon realize that basically, the gist of the whole thing is, don’t get sick, don’t break anything, and please don’t do the same to someone else. In fact, try being a robot. Forget being human.

Sorry. Story.

So we’re all going on the slides and stuff, having a great time blah blah blah and one of the older girls, Monse, and I are at the top of the straight fast slide and we’re like “let’s go together, fun!” So I sit in front and she’s behind me and we go. But then a girl we don’t know comes down right after us, nails Monse in the back. I figure no big deal, but as time passes, it seems to be a bigger deal than first appeared. So it’s decided that she should go to a clinic in nearby Tlacolula.

Recognize that this is the first week I actually have a group of visitors to take care of at the home. Four of them were with the kids at the waterpark, others were working and I believe at this point two were most definitely sick. Otherwise, I’d been doing the “find work for them” dance, and making quite a few missteps. So… stressin’.

We take Monse and a couple other people back to the home, then Leti R. was going to take Monse to the clinic, in one of the trucks that she can drive ’cause it’s automatic. But there are no keys and the keys aren’t in the office. So I’m tagged to drive the other truck because I can drive stick. Cool. No problem. I can do this!

As I’m getting out of the first truck, for some odd reason I decide to shank my toes on the sideboard and I’m wearing sandals and all of a sudden my right big toe is most definitely, almost, missing half of its toe nail and there’s fresh blood saying “we’re free! we’re freeeeeee! look at the sun! omg!” seeping from my toe. I think “huh. ok. we’re going to clinic. Sweet!” (and no, I don’t really feel pain – I merely recognize its existence. we get along pretty well)

Things take longer here at times.

The first trip to the clinic was… I think… an hour? An hour and a half? I don’t know. I fell asleep on the couch out in the waiting area. And oh, by the way – all magazines in all waiting areas in all hospitals are ANCIENT. I found two magazines from October 2004 on the table. Seriously.

I say “first trip” because we left Monse there and came back to the casa for dinner. Grabbed a bite, then went back to the clinic – because we were supposed to pick her up at a certain time. Well, we were there at that time, but they weren’t done with her yet and we waited for quite some time. We had taken the silver minivan this time, again, a stick shift.

Finally, we’re ready to go – an hour and a half later – and I walk out to pull the minivan up and ohhhhh crap. It won’t start. I had left the lights on.

Dead. Battery.

So then we call Edgar, Leti’s husband, to come pick us up / charge the battery. Sweet! But then Edgar gets there, and he’s never had to charge the battery on the minivan and I’ve never had to charge the battery on ANY minivan and so then we begin the search for the battery because seriously, this car was made SOMEWHERE ELSE. Not the States, not Mexico, I’m pretty sure somewhere close to Nepal. By midgets.

The battery isn’t under the hood. Nope. And it’s not in the back either. Nope.

It’s under the driver’s side seat. Because you know, that’s the FIRST place I’d look for a working, live, car battery. Totally in reach of curious children.

We get it charged, we get it going, and finally we all head back home.

Monse will be fine, my toe will be fine, the minivan is fine – but it was definitely one of those days of just “what? serious?” and ya just had to shake your head, pull a smile outta the air and think ahead to the next day.