CHỈ SỐ VỀ TÍNH NHẤT THỂ TÀI CHÍNH CỦA CHÍNH QUYỀN ĐỊA PHƯƠNG

One of my four favorite things about being in Ha Noi is that I have absolutely no idea what anything means. I’m here developing an index for local governance that I call the Fiscal Integrity Index. I just got it translated to Vietnamese for a meeting with government reps. It looks so ridiculous to me. “Fiscal Integrity Index” apparently translates to the following: CHỈ SỐ VỀ TÍNH NHẤT THỂ TÀI CHÍNH CỦA CHÍNH QUYỀN ĐỊA PHƯƠNG. The one word that I actually understand and brings me solace is my name. But then it's followed by 1209 other words I am totally lost on.

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I do hate the flaming ignoramus feeling when it comes to local languages, so I try to feign apprehension with cab drivers by repeating whatever they just said to me. The other day I met a lovely cab driver who had the most endearingly awkward bowl hair cut. He was so smiley that I couldn't help but want him to think I knew Vietnamese:

Lovely cab driver: Anh bao nhiêu tuoi?
Me: Ah! Yes, anh bao nhiêu tuoi .
Lovely cab driver: Tôi duoc ba mươi lăm tuoi...
Me: Oh--lăm tuoi—haha!
Lovely cab driver: (turns around, confused) hahahahaha!!!

Sa' tu donest'ah laof'ina de fax?

And now: a guest post. From Ms. Hina Strayer:

The most giant soft old woman with painted lips of coral and misaligned pencil drawn eyebrows just sauntered up to me. It was as if a Floridian shower curtain had ripped itself from a retirement home bathroom and found its way to my desk. She asks, in a dialect that could only be Caribbean Spanish, a long melodic question that sounded like "Sa' tu donest'ah laof'ina de fax?", followed up by an flagrantly frustrated "Oye, hablas espanol?". I reply amicably, "si, pero no se donde esta...", and she interrupts me by rolling her big tired-lidded eyes back into her head, just shaking it slowly back and forth. And waddles away without another word.

Sigh.

Vietnam: I like my pants linen and my moto without a seatbelt

Crossing the street in Vietnam is like walking through a beehive and just trusting it will be ok if you go at the right pace. If you stop or get scared, ZING, you.are.dead my friend. Every time I do it I feel like a 13-year-old boy is directing all the motos from his Nintendo controller up above, just waiting to confuse one of the opponent motos into crashing into me.

I first discovered this while on my way to a meeting on the other side of town. A professor and I walked to his motorcycle and I put on my helmet in a way that wouldn’t mess up my hair, which is not possible. He couldn’t believe I’d never been on a mototaxi in Ha Noi, or that no one had told me how to cross the street Vietnamese style.

Time to look cool: “Well I’ve only been here 24 hours.” Even cooler: “also, I’ve been in Caracas, where riding these things is likened to a death wish.”

“Hah! Here too!” he shouted as we sped off around the corner, all of my precious papers nearly flying out of my lap and into the street. “The good thing is,” he continued, “I’ve only been in one accident. But it practically wasn’t my fault, you know?”

No. No I don't know.

I then determined why everyone in Ha Noi wears those face masks while riding motos: exhaust fumes. Mmm.

A few white-knuckled miles later, it was yet again time to enter Super Mario land o' oncoming motos. I stayed directly parallel to the professor and copied his movements exactly, in an attempt to use him as a buffer in case of emergency (likely).

Just because they stopped for two seconds is not going to keep them

from starting up while you're mid stream.

When we got to the meeting, rife with chivos (higher ups) in the international development community, I noticed many U.S. expats here like to wear linen, a look that says “I’m humble because I work in development—no 9-5 office clothes for me, no sir. I can take it without AC--just look how simple my office is--except when I get home to my U.S. tax-paid cushy palace that has three local maids and a cook. I also like to have peace of mind—an attitude embodied by these pants that easily adjust to locally practiced meditation poses, which I never do.”

For the love of a generator.

I saw a three year old in the park in Ha Noi today. He was all about this generator so I decided to take lots of pictures of him. And now I've created a mystical tale about their romance:

He had a feeling from the beginning that this generator was the one.

At times, he did wonder if this inanimate object was The one. After all, the tree was tall, dark and organic.

He soon realized though, that his love for the small gray metal box was unstoppable.

He ran into its nonexistent arms.

He greeted it with love and smacks.

He was sure: for him, there was no other generator.

The frirk

I’m on my way back from my 5th trip to Caracas and feel removed enough from U.S. culture to make some superficial generalizations. Namely, that we gringos are so awkward. I asked for soda water with a lime and this caused the stewardess to get all “uhh!! I’m going to have to—look—uhh! for that...later..uh!”

Alternatively, the Venezolana approach might have been to say no hay before flashing a deadpan upside down smirk (like a frown + smirk: frirk). The frirk no hay combo is deceptively simple but roughly translates to:

And what are you going to do about it? I’m not even going to mention what the other options are because you went and asked me for something I don’t have. And when you tell me what you want instead, I’m going to look in the other direction and pretend I didn’t hear because you know what? I have better things to be thinking of right now. God, it’s hot in here. No, you can’t get your money back, because I already made your receipt and the manager’s at his wife’s cousin’s aunt’s baby shower, and only the manager can give you your money back. He’ll be back at six. But we close at five.

’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii

Having a bilingual Venezuelan boyfriend is similar to having a personal translator. All I have to do is say a Spanish word with a certain intonation and he auto-feeds the translation back to me. It also works for phrases. My favorite is “You better WATCH yoself:” Mucho cuidado con una vaina. We mutilate it into a snobbier, single word: ’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii always pronounced with an open, lazy mouth and sometimes an accompanying finger snap or threatening “OK” sign. I use it as an extremely dramatic overreaction to anything: getting too close to another car on the highway, stealing a fry from my McDonald’s meal—basically any act that slightly resembles a transgression calls for ’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii.

Cheaper than water

Colleen just forwarded me one of those email jokes. This one looked promising because it was about gas prices, something I rarely concern myself with as a car-less freeloader.

The whole gas thing of course got me thinking about Venezuela's petroleo. On a lovely four-hour mountainous drive to the beach, Giulio and I pulled up to a gas station.

Oh yeah—offer to pay for gas. I’m getting a free ride here.

“No no—let me get this,” I selflessly offered.

"It’s ok,” he said, scrounging for some coins between car seats. "Do you have like, 15 cents?"

I looked at the register and wondered if the figure we saw was for one liter, or if they should have been using the old currency and forgot to add three zero's to the end, or if the machine was broken and computing incorrectly, or if the mountain air had induced in me a form of temporary numerical illiteracy and 98 cents really meant "109080 cents".

Nope. The whoooole tank: 98 cents.

Bienvenido a Venezuela.

Caracas: Why walk two blocks when you can drive?

My Paris parenthesis

It is greedy to dream of traveling abroad while in a foreign country, but I just searched for pictures of Paris because I have ahuge crush on it. If I were a city, I'd want to marry it, but would surely have to get in line with all the other (certainly more financially capable) admirer cities.

The photos stirred up my latent fantasies of being a petite Frenchy for a month or two--doing nothing but drinking vin rouge and writing about the quirky things Parisians do and say in the public places I'd stealthily observe them, like bus stops and park benches. My intermediate French language barrier would ensure mild alienation and thus an ability to feel completely at ease in taking notes while staring at strangers.

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I would live in an exorbitantly-priced closet with a view of the Sienne; eat fresh nutella crepes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and stroll around listening to the Amelie soundtrack on my 'pod as though I were starring in my own petite scene. I'd probably try to find an old, bitter, but quirky and ultimately lovable, artichoke vendor like the one in the movie; but I wouldn’t be able to converse with him (or anyone) without sounding awkward. That’s fine though, because Paris would be lovely for exploring life as a hermit.

Raid and vulgarities: Venezuelan futbol

Going to a soccer game in Venezuela is the same as going to a Red Sox/ Yankees game, but just everyone is on crack. Upon arrival, I made the assumption that the fire shooting from the hands of fanaticos originated from special fire-spouting devices that one can only purchase in Venezuela.

Upon further inspection, though, I realized they were cans of Raid with a lighter held to the spout. So that’s fun to inhale in an enclosed space.

I got pretty decked out for this game and even bought my own devil horns to celebrate the red glory that is the Caracas fútbol team.

I wrote down and memorized the chants that everyone sings to the other team. Also similar to chants sung at Red Sox/ Yankees games, but everyone is 10 times more pissed off and 100 times more vulgar. When a special goal kick is made (I’m sure it has a name other than ‘special goal kick’ but we’ll take care of that bit o’ knowledge at another time), everyone shouts HIJO DE PUTA!! to which the other side of the stadium (Tachira fans) responds TU MADRE!!, to which we retaliate with LA TUYA!!! We also sing about how everyone says that Caraqueños are drunken delinquents.

This fan only looks innocent.

You better put that budget right.

Being part of "management" in an office where I am not a native speaker and am half the age of the people I "manage" is always fun, particularly when I get pissed off at employees and write threatening emails in awkward Spanish:
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"Paola, I waste the time on this. I don't want more. Please put the budget right next time. Make me know if you have the questions about this. A thousand thanks. Bye."
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This love is in its air!

I have a lot of free time here, so naturally I like to find special Babelfish translations of websites.

Some gems:

-From cooking websites:

“Although by house several tons of candies have left still the other day desired to me to do the muffins for breakfast. It is possible to be said that they have left delicious, very spongy to us!”

“This time I have used pumpkin because it was an idea that it had in the head since I made those cakes the Christmases.”

“Is time to watch at the mirror with horror when discovering meat unknown during the covered months of winter so I am going to make a pause with candies."

“We did it for Christmas Eve since after the supper the latest that desired to us was a forceful dessert. It gave something me of fear to annoy it. But the truth is that he is not nothing difficult!”

“I continue taking advantage of the strawberries; it could not lack a jam!”

- From horoscopes:

"If able one exists somebody to defy your mental capacity and to make annoy your heart... because he is very lucky!"

"Two together hearts, much more have power that one. To give a breathing to the people who surround to you, really will be a lightening for all!"

"It considers the first days of this week like a phase of preheating. Soon you will enter yourself in a new space station, in which you will have renew your loving life."

"During a pair of days, it tries to walk to your own rate; if you feel that something clay is approached, probably is the incredible energy. This love is in its air!"

A stroll through Caracas

Karla is my favorite shopping buddy, even though we’re in a city where a white cotton t-shirt runs about $45 minimum.

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Sambil: The place to go for grotesquely overpriced clothing.

On our way to Sambil in order to sambilear (kindof like Macy’s-ing), I asked her if it’s safe for us to walk there at dark. She assured me no hay problema--it is a nice neighborhood, but in most other places we wouldn’t be doing this.

I then told her about my gringo friend Matt, who thinks it’s safe to walk most anywhere in Caracas at night. As I blabbed on about all of the "crazy" neighborhoods in which our feet have tread the earth, Karla bowled over. She laughed in the way that sitcom actors react to the crazy neighbor's harebrained antics, turning her whole body away from me while waving her hand in disbelief.

I arrogantly concluded my stories: Y bueno en fin no estoy segura que Caracas sea tan peligrosa como se dice. (“In the end, I’m not sure Caracas is as unsafe as everyone says..”).

Karla smugly giggled at my wrap up and forced a pause.

Jajajaja pero Erin--mira esto.
("Hahahaha but Erin--look at that.")

She grabbed my shoulder and pointed ten feet behind us, to a man tapping on the window of a gridlocked car, clearly in an attempted stick up.

In my nervousness, and Karla’s lighthearted jadedness, we both threw our heads back in laughter, turned, and resumed our leisurely stroll to the mall.

El crimen de la comida

I woke up at 3 a.m. last night to realize the not-so-fresh sushi I'd eaten earlier was having a despedida in my estomago de gringa. At this point I am so pitifully familiar food poisoning that I mechanically know what to do—even at that hour, when I can barely remember my name. Charcoal pills (sounds weird but they absorb toxins), a tall glass of water and the wastebasket huddle by my bed. That night was truly maravillosa.

Calle bello

My clothes are blissfully drenched right now. For el 13 de abril, a municipality sponsored a free last minute Calle 13 concert in Plaza Venezuela. AMAZING.

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El Residente (see pic) has so much energia. I couldn't understand most of his Puerto Rican accent, but I am a little bit in love. He has the playful spirit of a kid and the mouth of a sailor.

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By the time they played their most famous song, it was pouring and everyone was bailando. In my Caracas heaven, every night ends dancing bajo la lluvia to the rhythm of an inappropriate serenade from el Residente.

Morning with a mango

I'm eating a Venezuelan mango right now and my hands are dripping with juice. My friend plucked it from a tree in her backyard and proudly offered it to me as a unique "you don't find these in the U.S. do you now" gift. When I told her we have mangoes up in el norte too, she smiled.

"Just smell it," she said.

It hadn’t been cut open yet, but it had an aroma—even the skin radiates fruity sweetness. That's why it's a Venezuelan mango--el perfume.

I was late to meet friends this morning, but it smells so luscious that I had to just sit with it. My romance with the mango was interrupted by the nosy neighbor next door, though. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she had dropped the pan she was scrubbing to get a better look-see at what that weird gringa's up to now. She was probably trying to figure out why I had my eyes closed and a piece of fruit plastered against my face.

Peanut butter no more!

My coworkers held the door open as we stepped into the elevator, discussing our dinner plans. They were both so eager to get home and cook, but the mere idea of standing by an oven after a long day made me drowsy.

“Well, I hate cooking,” I said, unthinkingly.

-Silence-

I had exited the realm of Venezuelan social propriety and crossed into the land of nonconformist oddballs. One would have thought that I said I detest newborn babies. They looked at each other: Did she really just say that? Uh... maybe she got the Spanish wrong and meant to say she adores being in the kitchen.

“But Erin… Why??”

OK. Maybe it is a nice thing to do for oneself. I figured I would give cooking a try instead of the usual peanut butter crackers (my treasured Skippy jar is a smuggled staple in places where I don’t have the means to safely get to a market by myself, or haven’t yet figured out how the produce machines at the grocery store work).

I almost turned the kitchen into a fiery inferno, but am so pleased with my creation: boiled plantain, fried eggplant, and goat cheese on toast, with a side of passion fruit juice in a champagne glass.

I'm going to tell my coworkers all about it tomorrow.

I'll take one cake and... 5 trillion tanks of gas.

Whenever someone has a birthday, a mass email is released in the halls of our inboxes, signaling a fiery and exclamation-point-filled debate on what breed of cake shall grace our kitchenette table.

27 demands/pleas/negotiations later, we giddily arrive at our decision: mil hojas... "even though it will make us fat."

One time, we missed the birthday of the secretary of one of our partners. This heinous error prompted an informal meeting by the café station:

Ay!! Qué hacemos entonces??? Cuándo era?? Cuánto cumple? Ay no puedo creer que lo perdimos!!! (“Ay!! What are we going to do then?? When was it?? How old did she turn?? Ay, I can’t believe we missed it!!!!!”).


When all is said and purchased, I like to check out our spending reports just for kicks. With absurd inflation and ridiculously low gas prices (drinkable water costs more than gas), they generally look like this:

• Five full tanks for gas-guzzling SUVs: $4.12

• Single layer b-day cake with minimal frosting: $107.98

Powdered (or boxed) victory.

Lucho and I were waiting for our food when the juices arrived. Oh, divino, delicious juices. I told Lucho that strawberry drinks (thick and sweet tart with chucks of berry) are one of my favorite things about Venezuela. Here, I rest assured that even a filet mignon will always be accompanied by frosty strawberry juice, if I so choose.
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When I told him I can’t get this glorious drink in the U.S. unless I order the crappier imitation—a virgin daiquiri—Lucho looked at me like I’d actually said “Houses in the US don’t have doors—just spaces on the ground, where you get beamed inside.”

Lucho nervously ran his hands over the table in an attempt to regain a sense of reality.

He then asked for a confirmation of my outlandish statement before resigning to the fact that his next visit to the U.S. would be devoid of fresh jugo de fresa.

I further explained that the only juices you can easily get in the U.S. are boring: grape, orange, apple, and cranberry.

“I bet they’re not even freshly made,” he ventured, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Nope—from a bottle,” I confirmed.

In spite of our fresh juice deficiency, Venezuelans are in no place to judge the U.S. on the basis of its liquid consumables. There is no fresh milk in Caracas. If you’re lucky, you can get your hands on that boxed stuff that lasts longer than any animal product should, or the powdered kind, which I have trouble classifying as milk.

Going to the grocery store on a day when there’s boxed or powdered milk is to be avoided at all costs. When this happens, the grocer yells HAY LECHE!!!! at which point people dash for the back as if a tsunami were on the horizon: arms, bodies, and carts flail in all directions.

Having hoarded sufficient amounts for their families, customers proudly resume their shopping. The game doesn’t end there, though. Competition is so fierce that if you take your eyes away from your cart for even a second, you can kiss that pasteurized prize goodbye.

Worth fighting for.

If you do manage to make it to the front of the store with this precious commodity in hand, there is a special line for you and the other victors. In this line, people brag and congratulate themselves on their brave feat, eying how many boxes the person in front of them grabbed; and loudly fantasizing about the creamy stews, flans, and dulce de leches that now loom in their milk-laden horizons.

No room for granny panties on these beaches

There it was--every Venezuelan woman’s “must have” and every gringa’s worst nightmare: the thong bikini. Blindingly pink, yet so small it was practically invisible to the naked eye.

Veronica anxiously waited outside, amidst rows of other tiny pieces of fabric that also called themselves bathing suits. "Are you ready? How's it fit?? Do you need a bigger one?"

When I opened the curtain 5 inches, she insisted that I looked espectacular and demanded that I step out of the dressing room to spin around (in front of other people? that happen to be gorgeous Venezuelan models??). That’s it, she said: I absolutamente had to purchase it.

I was more of the opinion that I would/could/should never appear in public wearing something that resembles a four year old's headband. But I’d heard it all before on the beaches of Venezuela: my JCrew bikini might as well have been pulled directly from my grandmother’s underwear drawer. It was time for a change.

The sales associate interrupted her gossiping to corroborate Veronica’s ridiculous claim that I looked arrechisima. I pointed out all the blah blah blah criticisms women always make of their own bodies, and Veronica responded with her this gringa has so much to learn head shake. She reminded me that any woman who thinks she’s drop dead sexy looks sexy and—more importantly—she really didn't want to be seen with me wearing those granny panties anymore.

Two minutes later, I’m handing cash to the saleswoman and walking out of the store wondering what the hell just happened. Now it's time for a weekend at the beach. And exposing parts of my body that have never seen the sun.

Dengue Dreams

One of the weirdest things about Caracas is the fact that you can still get Dengue from white footed mosquitoes (I thought mosquitoes just had long dainty legs but apparently there’s feet too).

Matt and I laughed about this idea as we hiked el Avila: Hah, who gets Dengue, am I right? Isn’t that prehistoric or something?

Then he called me a week later and said he had Dengue. I knew he was joking, so of course I laughed. Then he said he was at the hospital and his voice cracked. Matt’s not that good of an actor.

We learned Dengue is not so prehistoric when your temperature goes to 106˚ and you have to eat smelly chicken’s feet soup while doing nothing but lying around for six days. A dainty mosquito did all that to a grown man, one thousand times its size! Pobre Matt.
Now, every time I get bit by a mosquito in Caracas, I say a little swear and check out its feet.