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| The Bewildered Traveler |
| How men help women's self esteem |
ne of my Spanish teachers in Ecuador, a reasonable man educated at University, explained the unique way that Latin American men treat Latin American women. He explained that it was important to whistle at a pretty woman or say something flattering when passing an attractive woman on the street. He explained that although nearly every woman will appear to ignore the attention, inwardly she's happy to have received the compliment. "It's important for the woman's self-esteem," he explained. "If a woman doesn't get many whistles and compliments from men on the street, she may feel unattractive, insecure, and have self-esteem problems." So, he concluded, as men we must do our duty to help build the self-esteem of women.
I found this hard to believe, so I asked the 20-something daughter of the family of the family I was staying with in Quito. She was bilingual and spent some time in school in the States although she grew up in Ecuador, so she was in a position where she could comment on the cultural differences. I asked her for her viewpoint. "As a single young woman, how do you feel about the way Latin American men whistle and make comments at women?"
She explained that although she realized that it might be considered rude or crude in the States, she never considered it as such in Ecuador, unless of course the "compliment" was in any way vulgar or offensive. A whistle or a compliment in passing from a stranger made her feel good. Yes, it helped her self-esteem, and yes, she knew girls who got few whistles or compliments who sometimes felt hurt or neglected. She confirmed that a properly behaving woman will ignore the whistle or comment or gesture outwardly, but you can assume she is smiling inside.
This was a cultural difference that was hard for me to understand. But it did make a difference in my flirting style. I couldn't bring myself to whistle at women I passed on the street. But I felt less inhibited when talking with local women. I felt more free to hand out compliments that in my country might be interpreted as too forward.
For example, one lovely young woman named Nuria asked, "Do you like my name?"
"Es tan bonita como tú" (it's as lovely as you), I replied, and was rewarded with the most adorable shy smile and further conversation.
Or, although it might not have been good Spanish grammar, "¡Mirale!, Encontré un flor, la más bonita en todo el mundo" (I've found the most beautiful flower in the world!), was understood and did wonders for international relations.
| Note to fellow travelers: Polite Customs When visiting Latin American countries, learn a little about the local customs for being polite. For example, don't be shy about making eye contact and greeting acquiantances or strangers wherever you meet them. Don't be afraid to shake hands. When leaving a dining table express a buen provecho to those remaining. When you leave a shop, express a gracias to the shopkeeper, even if you just stepped in for a brief look. Better yet, take time to chat a bit and learn something about the people you meet. Watch how people with few possessions can be so content and happy. Watch how it's possible to live happily with a slower pace of life, without the competition and hurry that we're used to in this country. It's a rich culture. The most valuable things you will bring home with you are things that can't be declared on a customs form. NOTES INDEX |
| North is South: Getting Turned Around |
'm one of those people who almost always knows which way is north, no matter how many turns I make or how many curves there are in the road. But south of the equator I got all turned around and mixed up. I hadn't previously realized how many subtle cues I unconsciously use to know which way is which. I've always lived between 33° and 46° north latitude where the sun always traveled an arc in the southern part of the sky. At night, familiar constellations of the zodiac followed the same path in the ecliptic. But south of the equator my shadow was on the other side of me. What felt north was really south, and no matter how often I checked my compass, it just felt wrong.
In the northern hemisphere satellite dishes aimed at geosynchronous satellites point somewhere south because geosynchronous satellites are parked in orbit above the earth's equator. South of the equator the satellite dishes are aimed northward, which did weird things to my sense of direction. There were probably many other similar cues that subconsciously affected my sense of direction.
On my last day in Ecuador, in the little crossroads called Papallacta, I hung my little pocket compass on a nail on the wall of the wood cabin I was in, then forgot to put it in my pocket the next day. It may still be there hanging on the nail.
| Moneychangers |
he bus that crossed the border from Ecuador to Perú got us into Piura, Perú at about 9:00 p.m. There were two other gringos on the bus who, like me, needed a place to crash for the night. One was Jean-something from France who spoke as little Spanish as English. The other was Sean from New Zealand who spoke English acceptably well, as far as I was concerned. We consulted our guidebooks. They all mentioned a cheap hostel, named Hotel California, obviously geared for gringo tourists, near the business section of town. We decided to share a taxi and go take a look at the Hotel California. Sure enough, they had dormitory-style rooms with a shared bath (cold water) for the equivalent of about US$6 per person. But they only accepted Peruvian soles, not dollars. (The plural is pronounced "SOLE-ess".) No problem. We decided to crash there for the night and change some currency the next morning to pay for our room.
The next morning, the Kiwi and I went out in search of a bank or casa de cambio (money change house). Our guidebooks also told of a third way to change dollars into soles -- individual money changers on the street, but of course be careful about counterfeit bills.
It was a short walk to the banking district, but all banks were closed with armed guards at every door. Right under the noses of the armed guards, two money changers materialized out of somewhere and offered to change cash for us, citing an exchange rate equal to what the banks had been offering the previous day. Sean was much better at Spanish and so did the haggling. He demanded an exchange rate of 4 soles to the dollar. The moneychangers haggled among themselves and with Sean for some time, upping the rate from 3.56 to the dollar, finally stopping at 3.99 soles to the dollar. They wouldn't budge from there. That was good enough, so Sean exchanged $20 and I exchanged $60. Like good travelers, we held every bill up to the light to check for the three signs of a legitimate bill: (1) the watermark, (2) the embedded strip with microwriting, and (3) the iridescent dots that change colors as you moved the angle of the bill in the light. All our bills looked good. Except I had to look twice at a 100-soles note that I received. It was slightly more worn than some of the other notes, and I took a careful look at its embedded strip. Just to make sure it was really a piece of embedded material and not some fake watermark, I "rolled" the bill between my fingers and felt that, indeed, it was really was an embedded strip. I asked Sean to take a close look at that particular 100-soles note to see if saw anything amiss. No, it looked legit to him, too. So we took our soles, shared a breakfast, then headed back to the hostel to pay our room bill.
On the way back, I stopped at a store to buy a little something and handed the clerk a 100-soles note (about US$28). As soon as the clerk felt it, she handed it back and said, "es falso" (it's fake). What? A fake bill? Sean and I asked how they could tell. They patiently gave us a lesson about the dangers of counterfeit bills in Perú. They explained how that the texture of the paper on my particular fake bill gave it away. Sean and I compared the texture with the texture of a good bill and we couldn't tell the difference. They explained that it was such a problem in Perú that even ATM machines sometimes dispensed fake bills. They recommended accepting cash only from bank tellers in person, and checking every bill received in change from any source, no matter what the source. Sure enough, it was common in Perú for clerks to hold up every bill to the light to inspect it before accepting it.
Somewhere along the way I accidentally picked up a fake 1-sol coin as change (about 28 cents US). At one little store I tried to buy a small bottle of water for one sol, but the shopkeeper immediately handed the coin back to me and asked, "¿Tiene otra moneda?" (Do you have another coin?). I asked why. He explained that the one I gave him was fake, and then happily gave me a lesson on how to spot fake coins. He explained that it was quite a problem in Perú and that I should take a look at every coin that I received as change, no matter what the source. He then winked and smiled and said that the fake coin that I had would work just fine in a public telephone.
| May I see your passport? |
t the little $9/night hostel in Vilcabamba, Ecuador I had just finished my dinner at the communal dining area. Night had fallen, the tropical air was becoming cool, and I was chatting with two very pretty travelers from the Netherlands about destinations exotic and mysterious. A worker at the hostel who spoke only a few English words walked up to me and asked, "You are David Miller?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Come, por favor, some persons want to see you pasaporte."
"¿Quiénes?" (Who?).
He responded vaguely in Spanglish that "some persons" were here to look at my passport, and said something about "routine" that didn't sound in any way routine to me.
For the first and only time during my vacation I had a twinge of concern. I had heard of Ecuadorian law that requires imprisonment for offenses that are minor misdemeanors here. Did I inadvertently do anything wrong? I certainly hadn't touched any illegal drugs and I hadn't flirted with anyone's relative in town. I said that it would take me a few minutes to dig my passport out of my bag in my room.
While digging out my passport, I also grabbed my copy of emergency information, such as embassy and consulate contact information and my lawyer's phone number back home, just in case I didn't have another chance to collect anything else from my room.
The two officials greeted me with a friendly "buenas noches." They seemed in no way hostile, and I felt more at ease. They inspected my passport photo, and looked especially closely at my name. There was a short but polite discussion between the officials and the hostel worker which I didn't follow. Then one of the officials took a piece of paper out of his pocket that had a name written on it. The first name was "David," but the last name was something very foreign, very long, and very unpronounceable. I couldn't hold back a chuckle. The officials thanked me profusely for my time and wished me a good evening.
It was then obvious to me that it was to their benefit to be as gracious as possible. If I wasn't wanted for any crimes, then it meant that I was just another rich gringo in their small town, and if they were nice to me I might spend a lot of money there before I left town.
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