Once Upon a Time

Once Upon a Time

 

Time. We can’t stop it, we can’t fast forward it, we can’t do shit but watch it “march on,” as the saying goes.  We are a world obsessed with time, some cultures to more or lesser extents than others. In the US we are pretty obsessed.  Everything comes down to when – at work, at play, with friends, at home, with kids, at the doctor, at the auto shop, at the grocery store – everywhere.  We cannot escape time, and we often feel that we have so precious few minutes that every minute must be regulated; accounted for.  “Well, let’s meet at 10:15, because at 11am I have a meeting until 1pm and then at 1:15……” and so it goes for most of us, most days of the week, most weeks of the year.  I am no exception – I schedule, plan, distribute and then redistribute my hours and minutes.  I get irritated when someone is late – therefore causing me to loose 15 or 40 precious minutes, which could have been allocated to something more exciting than waiting for someone or something.  Due to the fact that my life isn’t really that exciting, I’d say that I become irritated with the waiting more because I lack patience than because I have something more exciting to do with those minutes.  I do love the cell phone commercial with the roll-over minutes – where the kids want to throw them away or sell them at the garage sale and the mom gets so pissed.  For me that commercial embodies how most of us feel about time, especially for those who are busy – work, families, homes, travel, friends, etc. etc.  How much does time rule our lives?  Are we even capable of knowing? Let’s compare!  Having lived and worked in a few countries, I’d like to use this post to discuss global perceptions of time.  My sincerest apologies if I describe time in your country and you disagree – comments welcome!

 

Mexico: Ahorita.  That pretty much sums it up.  Ahorita means “in a minute,” and that minute can actually mean 60 seconds in rare cases, but what it really means is later.  And what later means is anyone’s best guess – an hour, 3 hours, tomorrow, next week, and quite often it just means never.  At first I really thought it meant “in a minute” so I would wait and wait, not wanting to pester people (and for a few months not really wanting to talk at all – since my Spanish sucked and it was stressful just to think about how to ask the question to begin with) or seem anymore “gringa” than I already was – which of course was 100% – maybe 150%.  When it had been longer than I could stand to wait, and then an hour or day after that, I would ask again, and usually get a response along the lines of “have some patience! No te preocupes. Te prometo que voy a hacerlo YA.”  This literally translates into “Don’t worry! I promise that I’m going to do it right away!”  This actually translate into “calm down you crazy American! I’ll do it when I’m good and ready, which might be in 2 minutes and might be never.”  The more adamant the response to promise to get it done immediately the less of a chance of it ever getting done – as if they know full well they’re not going to do it, so want to make it up to you by insisting that they promise it will get done.  Finally I just realized that shit might not get done, and the meeting that was scheduled for 1pm might happen at 2, or maybe 3pm.  The world was still going to keep on turning, and if I really wanted something done, I better just do it myself (which was usually impossible).

 

South America:  While my first example was specific to Mexico, this next section is relevant to all of South America, and probably all Spanish speaking countries, really.  I’m talking now about specified meeting times, whether it is a meeting for work, an outing with a friend, or a party at a specific location.  In these instances, it is imperative to NOT be the first loser to show up.  When you tell a Latino 3pm, it really means anytime that falls within the 3 o’clock hour – from 3:01 (loser!) until 3:59.  Through observation and through marriage to a Colombian, I have decided that 3:59 is by far the most popular time to show up for a 3pm event.  Whenever Max and I schedule a dinner or party, we schedule 2 things – the time to tell people to come and the time we will plan for people to actually show up – usually at least 30 minutes later for dinner, and close to 2 hours later for a party.  If it’s a mix of his friends and my friends, I tell my friends 7:30 so they show up at 7:45 and we tell Max’s friends 7 so they show up by 8pm (for dinner, not a party – we’re not that old yet).  Max plays soccer on Saturdays at 2:30pm – which without fail turns into 3:30 or 4pm, even though every weekend Max insists that this time they really are going to start on time. 

 

Africa:  I know that Africa is a continent full of countries, and that by writing this about the entire continent, I’m being quite presumptuous.  I accept this risk, with the disclaimer that I’m narrowing it down to Sub-Saharan Africa.  While time south of the Border is more like a suggestion, time in Africa eludes all scheduling what-so-ever.  A meeting at 1pm today may occur at 2pm, 5pm, tomorrow at 11am, in 2 weeks, or never.  Time is somehow slippery, evasive – like the spirit of Africa herself, unable to be caged or subjected to our flawed human systems.  South Africans have their own “Ahorita.”  Now means sometime, someday, so if you really mean now, you have to be specific and say “now now.” This could make a lot of people crazy, and I do believe that many Americans and especially Europeans at first go a little crazy trying to figure the whole system out – a system that is somehow mocking us.  “They said 2pm, right?  Yes, I thought so – but its 2:20, do we have the wrong place?”  “I don’t think so…?”  Frustration ensues – indeed builds as it is discovered that the meeting will not be happening, and somehow everyone else knew that, or didn’t plan to show up in the first place, or came and left.  But no one is upset, demanding excuses, or scrutinizing outlook calendars for the next possible option.  Whatever happens happens, and whatever really needs to get done will get done, somehow.  It’s the Motherland. 

 

Europe:  I’ll keep this short and not so sweet, in true European fashion.  No need to sugarcoat or be overly dramatic (as preferred by silly Americans).  2pm means show up at 1:50 because you better be ready for the meeting to start at 1:55.  Excuses not accepted.  Dirty looks will be given to late-comers.  No need to take offense, a round at the pub will take place later.  (A round of non-light beer, to be sure).

 

 

 

 

He Called the Shit Poop!

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m pretty sure I just got pooped on.”  This is my thought as I step off the piscero (microbus in Mexico City) and commence the 5 block walk to work.  Not that it would be the first time a bird has pooped on me – not in the least.  I can think of 3 other times in recent years off the top of my head.  I’m going to have to get a new hair-do, since apparently the one I have resembles a poop receptacle for birds.  Orale! Pinche pendejo pajaros.

 

Back to the poop. Not only have I just been shat on, but the damn bird shit ON MY FACE.  Immediately I want to go home.  Maybe cry a little bit, because I haven’t been in Mexico long, and I’m pretty overwhelmed with everything to begin with.  Alas, the trip to and from the office counting walking, riding the subway, and then taking the bus takes almost an hour and a half each way and I have to go to work.  The fortunate thing is that I’m wearing sunglasses and the majority of the squeege went on the sunglasses, and just a little on my cheek, but the fact remains, a bird SHIT ON MY FACE.  So, I walk to work, head to the bathroom, and wash my face (make-up free; my attempt to not draw attention to myself, though the blond hair / blue eyes just might be the real culprits).  Because my Spanish still sucks, I don’t even bother to try to tell anyone at work the story.  Though mortifying, it’s one of those things you really have to tell someone, so I email a funnied-up version of the story (minus the tears) to my friends back home, and they respond with hilarious emails that cheer me up, and ease the tequila bottle from my hand to back under the desk to save for a more dire situation (no lack, to be sure).  Someone once told me that a bird pooping on you is a good luck.  Apparently I’m super lucky.  How fortunate.

 

Other (less stressful and somewhat funnier) pooping incidents:

 

Dogwood Festival 2003 – Atlanta.  It’s April in Atlanta, the most beautiful time of year.  The weather is perfect, the flowers are blooming, and everyone is celebrating life and the great outdoors.  My awesome ATL friends and I go to the Dogwood Festival (at Piedmont Park every year – fun!) and hang out, secretly smoking joints and not so secretly getting drunk.  Some of my best friends in the A are guys, so the group was a mixture of both men and the fairer sex.  On the way to a porta-potty break (sufficiently carefree) with a girlfriend, a bird poops on my head.  On my head, out of the 10,000 heads in attendance.  “Um, Heather, I’m pretty sure a bird just shit on my head.”  “OMG!  That is HILARIOUS!  That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, let me see” (things were extra funny….).  She checks out my head to confirm that indeed a small pile of shit rests in my carefully high-lighted layers.  We look at each other, laugh for 5 minutes, and concur that there really are no options but to rearrange my hair into a ponytail, and continue with the festivities.  There was certainly to be no washing of anything in a porta-potty.  I make Heather promise not to tell the guys and the rest of the group.  She tells.  I don’t mind J

 

Spring Break 1999 – South Padre Island.  The 4 girls who went on the trip are sitting at McD’s outside enjoying a healthy lunch, when giggles and then out-right laughter emerge from the roomies.  “Ummm, you have something on your shoulder (giggle giggle).”  Of course I immediately think it’s a bug, jump up, and smack at whatever the “thing” is.  Well, smacking poop doesn’t actually get rid of it, more than it just kind of smears it around.  Hilarity ensues, and to my amusement, I was wearing Carrie’s shirt – which made it a little more tolerable for me. J  Carrie, you’ve always been a great friend!

 

I can only hope you’ve enjoyed my shitty stories, more than I enjoyed the actual events.  When life gives you shit, make a funny story.

The Runners Eye

                                           

I am a runner.  I don’t always love it, and I’m not always that good at it, but I run.  I’ve been running since Osseo High School track – 1995 (when I only ran to stay in shape for swimming).  I ran throughout my 5 years at UW-Madison (Go Badgers!!), mostly as a way to burn off the excessive calories I consumed from alcohol, pizza, and gumby sticks, but also as a way to relax, relieve stress, and hang out with some runner friends.  It was when I got to Atlanta in 2002 that I really started running.  I started running 10k’s and then half-marathons.  I loved it, and I felt great.  I had officially reached the “runners high.”  I got my friends to start running too, and we ran races together and ran in the cities we visited.  I couldn’t get enough.  In 2005 alone I ran 2 full marathons, 3 half-marathons, and countless other races.  Every place I went, I ran.  What a great way to get to know a place!!  Even in your own neighborhood you see stuff you normally don’t when driving, even if you drive by everyday.  Just the other day I found 3 abandoned houses down the street from us.  I can’t wait to have someone over, get them drunk, and dare them to go in.

 

I’ve run in every city and every country I’ve been to in which it was safe to run, and I will keep on running the world.  You learn about the place, the people, the landscape, the architecture, the air-quality, the traffic patterns, etc etc.  If you’re there for work, you can burn off some steam.  If you’re there for family vacation, you can really burn off some steam.  If you’re there for pure pleasure, you run to enjoy, relax, and pick a cute place to eat that evening and a fun shop to stop in that afternoon.  If you’re there to eat, you run to burn calories so you can eat and drink more.  No matter why you’re there you’ll discover some interesting stuff that you wouldn’t as a “tourist.”  It affords you a certain guise, almost as if you might just live there, and you can observe everyday life and culture like a fly on the wall.  Well, that is if running is a normal thing to do….which is not always the case!  Here are a few of my most memorable running experiences:

 

Bhutan: I lived in Bhutan for 3 months doing research.  Bhutan is in the midst of the Himalayas, a small, remote, rural country nestled between the world’s 2 largest populations – China and India.  It’s a Buddhist culture of easy-going, happy people – but nothing about their way of life in any way resembles the Western world.  I stayed with a family, and ran often – mostly out of boredom and seclusion, but also to witness the breath-taking beauty and wonder of the mystical Himalayan Kingdom.  When I stepped outside for a run, I could be sure of 2 things – I would see something amazing, and I would be the only runner – probably the only runner (and white person) that some people had ever seen.  Most people stared at me with a common thought in their head: “what is she running from,” as they glanced behind me to see what was chasing me.  The children were at once mystified and delighted, and often tagged along behind me for a short distance, giggling.  Once I apparently “drank the water” and had a Code Brown in the woods.  Another time a dog started attacking me and no one was in sight and I almost had a code brown in my pants, but as quickly as he began frothing at the mouth and nipping at my legs, he lost interest and ran away.  I could go on and on and on….

 

Mexico City: I moved to Mexico City (DF) in 2006 to work at the National Institute of Public Health (INSP) after quitting my cushy but boring job at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.  I could write 10 books about my year and a half there, but I’ll just stick to the running.  DF is dirty. Smelly. Crazy polluted. Crowded.  All the things that make a mega-city just that.  It’s also one of the most intricate and charming cities I’ve seen – packed with life where anything goes.  Space was definitely a limitation, so if I wasn’t dodging cars, traffic lights, and taxis, I was dodging people, dogs, and suspicious looking puddles.  But I saw things I never would have seen had I not taken to the streets and attempted to take it all in.  Life, on a grand scale, was taking place right before my eyes.  I was at once a runner and an amateur anthropologist.  Many a day I would run a few blocks, taste the pollution that I could also see, and call it quits – as a public health professional the pros of the exercise just didn’t outweigh the cons of the pollution.  I would go home, wash my hands that had turned a dusty black, rid my nose of the black boogers, and drink wine instead. 

 

Pretoria, South Africa:  I miss it.  I loved it!  The 9 months Max and I lived there were some of the best of my life, without a doubt.  The beauty, the contrasts, the energy, the peace among the chaos.  The feeling that you really do belong – we’re all citizens of the world.  But South Africa is like an “exotic dancer”  – as dangerous as she is beautiful.  Very few people are out on the streets, and if they are, it’s almost always because they’re walking home from work, or they live in the slums.  But I still ran.  We were fortunate to live in a gorgeous neighborhood, in the cutest little cottage.  Surrounding our cottage were many embassies and rich-people houses, complete with guards standing at the end of the electric-steel-gated drives with loaded rifles.  It can throw you off at first glance, the sight of those giant guns, but it makes you feel safer too. The safe running areas were limited, but I still managed to see beautiful homes (the ones with electric fences, not walls, surrounding them), gorgeous flowers and trees, exotic birds and wildlife, maids and grounds-keepers chatting in the street, and kids at the nearby school.  I could even go so far as run to a nearby restaurant district and pick the next delicious restaurant to try for a sun-downer or a braai.

 

Stay Tuned! Still on the docket: India, Italy, England, Scotland, France, Germany, Austria, Venezuela, Colombia, Costa Rica, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Lesotho, Uganda, Botswana, Spain, and of course the USA.