Machetes, Gringos and the man's way to chop wood

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There is an old saying from someone like Samuel Johnson that goes something like "When you're tired of London, you're tired of life". I don't live in London, but if San Jose had it's own version it would be along the lines of "When you start to think men walking through town holding Machetes is normal, it's probably time to go home". It is something that we see maybe two or three times a week and whilst it was shocking and more than a bit scary on the first few occasions, now it hardly warrants a mention and anyone who does bring it up is usually looked upon as an attention seeker or a wide eyed, naive youth, as yet unaccustomed to everyday life in San Jose.

The Machetes always seem to be carried by guys who don't look like they either should own them, or know how to use them. Worryingly, they are also almost never in their covers. (I'm sure there's a proper word for them and I want to say scabbards but I think that's just from watching too much He-Man as a kid). The strangest thing about it, as I say, is how quickly you get used to seeing them around, particularly as someone who in twenty six years had never previously seen one that wasn't pictured next to a gun and a man with a mullet on American news footage alongside the phrase "jilted lover", "high school massacre" or "before turning the weapon on himself".

In terms of things that it is a good idea to get used to very quickly, spitting should probably be chalked up on the list too. I don't think you are straying to far from the curve if you think that it is somewhere between unnecessary and repulsive to openly spit in public, but here it is positively encouraged. It is not an activity that is restricted to Sportsmen and the young either. In San Jose last week, an old lady spat on my friends leg. She apologised and all that but the damage was done because once you've seen a woman with white hair and a walking stick do that, it's like peering through the Looking Glass, and realising that somehow nothing seems to make sense or look quite as beautiful in your world anymore. It's a bit like finding out Santa doesn't exist, or when Venus takes the mist away from Aeneas' eyes during the fall of Troy (one for the Classicists there), it's difficult to see everything the same way again.

On my first day here I was warned about names that you are likely to get called by the kids or the locals. I don't mean names like 'smelly bum' or 'poo head' - although maybe if my Spanish was better I would have heard a bit of that too - but names relating to people's size, shape, colour or nationality. Apparently these aren't offensive and are actually almost always affectionate but I could be here for the next decade and I wouldn't feel comfortable with shouting 'Old Man' when trying to get the attention of an elderly gent in the street, or calling anyone older than me 'Granddad'. The only one of these that has been directed at me is 'Gringo', which I'll be honest, I didn't take well. I'm fine with nicknames, but I prefer Dave (or here, Davide) unless I am close enough with the person to have a nickname-type relationship and the truth is that my ego is far to fragile to be happy with a generic, one size fits all moniker. Explaining that, in Spanish, to an eight year old boy was a challenge though. As I understand it, 'Gringo' is a white American, and I am neither of those so until a phrase is coined for 'light brown British man', I'm retaining the high ground on that one. The whole shorthand, nickname thing is dressed up as a cultural custom, but it just feels like an excuse to be lazy and not learn a person's name.

All that said, a few weeks ago in Carpio, me and a guy called Charlie were outside chopping wood with a pick-axe (cos that's just the kind of man I am. I do it in my spare time now. That, sharpening pencils with a knife and poking fires with a stick. Grrrr) so we had something to burn to cook the food on. When we got towards the end we dispensed with the axe and started jumping on it to break it up, we got some of the kids involved and everyone had a good laugh. There was, however, one piece that wouldn't break and even raising it up, and jumping on it with three kids wasn't breaking it (you might be able to see what's coming). So, one of the kids had the great idea of getting one of the girls who work with us to give us a hand and so yelled inside "Gordita, gordita. Aqui. Ayudame, ayudame" (translation: Little Fat Girl, little fat girl. Here. Help me, help me.) It may sound rude but the kid had it right, one jump and the wood was in pieces.

Which blatant hypocrisy pretty much undermines everything I have just said.

Apart from the old woman spitting bit, that's still rank.

Pura Vida.

Dave

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Comments

[Becky Ryder]

hahaha
This has just made me laugh at my desk at 5.16 on a weary Friday evening in Security. I'm going to think about that crazy old lady spitting on your friend's leg all the way home.