International Understanding
...written on 02.21.02, @ 12:51 p.m.
Wed February 20, 2002
I'm still having problems with punctuation on this computer. Please bear with me for a while.
It was Akari's birthday and we were sharing stories about the Dominican Republic over coffee and strawberry cake. She asked me if I wanted to go back there and I took a deep breath and held it, mentally looking at the darkest and brightest points of my life there and exhaled with a laugh and a nod when she added, "As a tourist".
I told her that I loved traveling and meeting people from different cultures and have been known to revisit previous points in my wanderlustful life. Sometime this year I will be giving a presentation on International Understanding to a group of elementary students and their parents. It will be in a locale fare removed from the urban web and for some people I will be their first contact with a foreigner. I plan on sharing a couple of stories of my travels, like the following that occurred during my trip through South America in 83-84.
Kathy and I had just finished with the Peace Corps in the Dominican Republic and had planned a three-month tour of Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, Brazil, and Costa Rica. Halfway through the trip, in La Paz, Bolivia, Kathy announced that she was cutting her trip short and returning to the States, leaving me free to continue the journey with Hiro, a young Japanese man we had met on the train down from Macchupicchu. Hiro unwittingly had sabotaged my only agenda for the trip, which was to kiss a native from every country we visited. By then I had already kissed a Colombian waiter and an Ecuadorian schoolteacher, but I abandoned my plan when I fell for Hiro and decided to keep my lips to myself, and to him of course. (Note: I shall edit this little bit from my presentation at the elementary school, but you lucky readers got the whole unexpurgated version.)
In Argentina, Hiro wanted only three things: a big steak, a glass of wine and to dance a tango. This he fulfilled on almost a nightly basis while we were in Buenos Aires. After we left the capital, we headed for the border of Argentina and Brazil to gaze in awe at the Iquazu Falls, 14 roaring natural spigots of water in a semi circle forming the border of three countries. We saw them from the Argentine side, crossed over into Brazil and saw them from there. We then took a bus on to Sao Paulo, spent New Years 1984 in Rio de Janeiro and traveled to the heart of the hinterland, Manaus, where the Rio Blanco and the Rio Negro converge.
We had a delay in getting out of Manaus, but finally we arrived at the small local airport. I was in my comfy traveling togs, which consisted of a simple dress, leggings, shoes and a hat, all of which were black. Hiro was also sporting a black hat. I guess we looked kind of odd as our arrival caused a stir as people craned their necks to watch us pass through the gauntlet of Federal agents waiting to process papers and passports.
Hiro spotted a group of Japanese tourists and went over to talk to them while I wandered over to a little shop to find some chocolate for the trip. I started talking to the shopkeeper in Spanish, which he understood well and responded to me in kind, brushing aside my concerns that he might be offended that I was speaking to him in Spanish and not Portuguese. Frankly, he didn't strike me as a shopkeeper. Something about the way he was dressed or his manner, didn't sit right, but I continued chatting with him.
Out of the blue he tells me there is a problem at the airport and was wondering if I might be able to help. After the initial jolt of surprise, I asked how I might be of service. He said he had seen me with my Japanese friend and wondered if I spoke Japanese. I said no and the man's face fell somewhat. Then he asked me if Hiro spoke Spanish or Portuguese. I replied no and asked him why. The man cleared his throat and pointed to a table away from the crowds where a tense Japanese couple sat with a group of Brazilian Federal agents in business suits. He explained that the Japanese couple was trying to leave the country, but their passports showed no entry stamp for Brazil and the Feds wanted to know why, but noone could communicate with them. He was hoping we could somehow find out what happened and translate it for them.
"Hey! I know what we can do!" I exclaimed excitedly. "My friend Hiro can talk to them in Japanese, then he can tell me what they said in English, Ill tell you in Spanish and you can tell the Feds in Portuguese!" The man's face brightened and he nodded in agreement. He went over to his coworkers, the Feds (yes, I found out he was an agent as well), and discussed the plan as I went over to tug on Hiro's sleeve and tell him the story. We walked over to the table where the Feds waited with the by now distraught Japanese couple.
Hiro took his place by the couple and started asking them the questions in Japanese that the Feds passed to the shopkeeper in Portuguese, he to me in Spanish, and me to Hiro in English. The answers came back in reverse: Japanese to English, English to Spanish and Spanish to Portuguese. I imagined myself pulling back and observing our own unique twist to the game of Telephone, where a word or phrase is whispered from one end of the line to the other and usually hilariously mangled by the final utterance out loud.
The story was that the couple had gotten a taxi at Iguazu Falls and the eager-for-a-fare Brazilian driver bypassed the passport checkpoint, telling the couple that they didnt have to get their passports stamped; a very simple explanation, given four times, in four different languages. Everyone was relieved that the problem was solved and the Feds graced us with smiles and warm slaps on the back, a 180 from their icy stares when we first arrived.