Liabilities

I was sure to encounter vast cultural differences during my tenure here in Mexico, and yesterday I did just that. I signed up for a once a week elective class for which I am unlikely to receive credit at UGA called “Introduccion a la Escalada” – Intro to rock climbing. I expected what came on our first day of class, which of course was a lecture about safety, procedures, and how rock climbing is much more than just climbing rocks – it is, and I translatedly quote, “an adventure towards the core of your being.” We showed up at the gym for class number two, where attendance was taken and volunteers to drive were elected before we piled into to whoever’s car and headed to La Hausteca, the nearby pass in the mountains.
Once we got there, the instructor pulled out some equipment, somehow got to the top of the rock pictured below, tied up some ropes, came back down, gave us all harnesses and helmets then asked us to follow him. We walked to to the base of a trail of sorts that lead to the 3 foot wide landing at the top of the rock face. Milton, our instructor announced in Spanish, “Ok compañeros, follow me carefully and watch out for the small plant with (something that I didn’t understand) as it is will give you the (something else I didn’t understand but it sounded bad).” Everyone laughed. I didn’t, because Milton just told me to avoid a plant I can’t identify or something bad that I don’t even fully understand will happen to me. We scurried up the rock face, mostly on all fours until we reached the right height and could walk across to the ledge where the rappelling was to take place.

The trek was by no means easy or safe, and as I was walking on the two foot wide flat sliver of rock with a slick wall to my right and a thirty foot tall fast lane to lots of broken bones in a foreign country to my left, the aforementioned cultural difference hit me: I haven’t signed a waiver, Milton isn’t holding my hand, and no one thinks anything of it. At first I was shocked. There was no guide rope, no rubber mat to keep you from slipping, no steel handrail, nothing to hold onto, no handicapped access, and no moonbounce at the bottom. No “warning, falling off tall ledges hurts” signs. No yellow paint to mark the edge. No Lawyer’s business card’s sticking out of the rocks. When I recognized the absence of the business cards, the concept hit me. Mexico, my university, and the person who ass is on the line if I die (I don’t know who this is, which concerns me), thought it a novel idea to leave it up to me as to whether or not I would enjoy falling off of a forty foot tall rock face today. Whaaaaaaaat? If Mexico means to say that there will be no one to sue except for me (and I’ll most likely be dead or severely injured if there’s suing to be had) if I should fall, who is to take the fiscal punishment for the irresponsibility for my actions? Beer me back to America, Pronto.

We finally arrived at the top of the ledge. Three of my classmates and I were up first, and Milton gave a lengthy explanation and demonstration of the procedure and left us to ready ourselves. I was fumbling with a caribeener and tightening some straps before I leaned back over a fifty foot tall ledge when Milton came by. He gave me the thumbs up and I leaned back to start the decent. He looked me over quickly and asked “Randál, entiendes bien el Español?” (Randall, do you understand Spanish well?) I stuttered when I answered “Si” which I’m sure was convincing. This was a pertinent question as I’m sure Milton was thinking “Yea, everything looks secure on this kid, but I would hate for this gringo to die on account of a faulty translation.” I was thinking “Dude I am currently leaning at a 45 degree angle off of a sixty foot tall cliff, this is one hell of a time to ask.” This did, however, make me think of a new assessment method for high school Spanish teachers. Bring your class to the top of a sixty food ledge, throw some rock climbing equipment on the ground, explain how to use it in Spanish, explain how to rappel in Spanish, and those who live pass. Underachievers have no fear, those who break bones and live will receive C’s.

After I landed more or less safely, that is to say I passed with a B+, I looked back up the ninety foot tall rock face that I just rappelled with a sense of accomplishment. And that’s the story of how I rappelled down a one hundred thirty foot tall rock face.

-Randall

Firsts

Life is starting to settle into a routine for me, so while last week everything was a first time Mexico occurrence, now the new experiences are a little less frequent. Here are a few recent ones.

First Mexican haircut: My confidence in my ability to communicate was seriously put to the test when I sat down in the chair in front of Alfonzo, a three hundred pound man with impeccable fingernails, and the familiar buzz of hair clippers filled the room. He asked me how I wanted it, and in my broken Spanish I tried my best to tell him my simple vision for my haircut: 1cm 3.7 mm on the sides with a gradual grade of 17% up to the top hairs, which should be sheared to a length of 2 cm 3.8 mm, and a Nike swoosh shaved into the back. He went to town for a solid thirty minutes while I watched aerosmith music videos on VH1. At the conclusion of my cut, he insisted upon my looking at my own head in two mirrors for a solid five minutes while he asked me questions about his work, which I approved of from the start. Then told me it would be 70 pesos. I gave him a 100 peso bill. Then he gave me 50 pesos in change. Maybe he noticed that I noticed his nails…?

First house party: La casa azul, the house I moved into, is notorious for being a party house. Everyone kept warning me about this, imploring me to reconsider living there, at which point I would tell them that I am in a fraternity, and they would laugh, be surprised, and ask me if I had to drink anyone’s spit at any point. The house has room for 12 and has always had only international students living there. Right now, there’s four of us living here, which makes for quite the awesome deal as I have two toilets, two sinks, and three showers all to myself. The party last night consisted of lots of Tecate, more bottles of cheap tequila than I care to think about right now, a horrifyingly bad mix of french techno music, mexican ranchero, Spanish language rap, and lil wayne, and total and complete destruction of la casa azul. When I was cleaning up this morning I discovered that Mexicans are the absolute worst about finishing their beers. There were more dead soldiers than the day after Antietam, and I had to pour them all out, pledgeship style. I also found four french people passed out in a twin bed – something quite impressive in itself.

First time I spoke in class: This was big for me. Apart from having to say my name, where I am from, and why I took the class I was in on the first day, Thursday marked the first time I have ever sat through a class discussion and not said anything. Its harder to be opinionated in Spanish. I generally refrain from speaking in class in order to maintain my bay-boy image and avoid being labeled a gringo because, surely, the moment I speak people will get it. In my last class of the day, aka the last hour and a half of silence I would have to endure, the opportunity presented itself to answer a question in three words, so I decided to pounce. I ran through what I was going to say 3-4 times in my head to make sure it flowed well and then I pulled the trigger. “Es muy internacional,” I announced, in the best Spanish I could muster. The professor said nothing at first, and I sat, sweating, in silence waiting for some validation or rejection of my comment. Finally, after what seemed like years, the professor opened his mouth to say “que?”. I had to repeat myself, which was disheartening.

Communication

After a collective 5 and a half years of studying the Spanish language intensively, I thought myself prepared to arrive in a Spanish-speaking country and hit the ground running, linguistically speaking. Let’s be real, it’s harder than I thought. I have discovered that talking as expressively as possible will help my listeners wade through my sticky pronunciation and skewed diction. I figure that if this works, that pictures and diagrams might help further, and am considering carrying around a whiteboard.

I had my first full day of class today in which I tried to pay attention to 6 hours of rapidly spoken foreign language dealing with normal class material (Epistemology, Mexican Society and Culture, Sociology, and Anthropology of Europe). I found several things bothersome in this process. Firstly, it is much easier to daydream when being talked at in Spanish. On top of this, regardless of where my class is located, I have a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains out of any window. This is bothersome as, while I am daydreaming about mountains, important information concerning whether or not I need to run like hell from the class I am in is being doled out.

I have an experiment for you all. Open up a word document that you intend to read that contains some kind of information pertinent to your life. Now delete every tenth word, and replace every fifteenth word with a word you recognize but don’t know the meaning of. Good Luck. That is how long discourses have been received by me thus far. That being said, you know when that guy or that girl in that class with that professor who is that kind of particular about that thing is talking rather loudly while you’re trying so very hard to listen? That annoys me in English and infuriates me in Spanish. If only I knew how to tell someone to be quiet, please…

Similar to the document missing the words, try doing one with a word that is very similar to the original but means something completely different. Tonight I encountered such a situation. Juan Pablo, my Chilean Jimi Hendrix of a roommate (he plays lots of traditional Chilean guitar, as well as any classic rock song that’s ever been on the top 40, from memory, blows my mind) asked if I wanted to head out with him and another friend, Carlo, in 2 minutes. I said yes and asked what we were going to do. He said he didn’t know, and using one of the four english phrases he knows from songs, quipped “just go with the flow man.” I did, and was sitting in Carlo’s apartment with 3 or 4 other guys, still wondering what the plan was. So I asked again, in Spanish. “Carlo, what are we doing tonight huey?” He was one person away from me on a couch in a loud room, so when he answered I gathered this: “Vamos a un bar de chichas.” I had assumed that we were going to a bar and thought it strange that I was in the company of 6 dudes, so when Carlo stated the above which, literally translated, means “We’re going to a bar of tits.” It made sense. I was pissed, however, that I had gotten roped into going to a sketchy Mexican strip club when I have neglected to go in the US for the one year and ten months that I have been able to do so. I also hear that Mexican strip clubs are more or less brothels. Not to mention that I’m too stingy to even like the concept of strip club, but alas, I had an obligation to go as I am still proving my manhood to my new dogs and chose to take the diplomatic route instead of urinating on their property. We called a few taxis and as we were getting into them (I’m in a sour mood under the surface at this point), Jan, one of the German guys asked me in Spanish “So have you smoked Chicha before?” Chicha? Did he leave off the S? What is that? Surely he can’t be asking me if I’ve smoked tits before? So I asked him “Lo siento, una vez más?” This time, he answered me in english. “Have you ever smoked sheesha (hookah) before?” I laughed, said yes, exhaled, and went to the hookah bar.