Cactus writing competition October 2012: runner-up Alex Wolfson
Tuesday, 8th November 2011
In our competition themed 'language blunders and cultural faux pas', Alex Wolfson entertains us with his adventures in South America - and how he would have got the girl if it hadn't been for a simple misunderstanding...
Way back in 1997 when cool Britannia was at its height, England were still losing Ashes series and my Spanish was rather more basic than it is now I found myself in Venezuela.
I had done GCSE Spanish a few years previously but had never spoken it in a Spanish speaking country, but being 19 this did not put me off exploring the continent with which I had always been fascinated – South America. I arrived with my backpacking buddy Adam in the run-down, working port called Guiria on a hot sticky night. It was a dirty city full of stray dogs, rats the size of cats running across the port between cargo boats, piles of garbage, groups of bare-chested men hanging around smoking unfiltered cigarettes, scantily clad girls hanging around on street corners and the like. It was exactly why I’d wanted to discover South America and see its slightly less than legal rough edge. I’d just got off a cargo boat from Trinidad and my travelling companion and I were the only gringos in town. We made our way to the recommended hostel from Lonely Planet only to find a boarded-up graffitied shell.
Clearly we could not sleep there and were beginning to attract attention, though luckily from the scantily clad ladies rather than some of the rather more ominous looking port workers. “Una mamada, 20 mil Bolivianos” they suggested with coquetish eyes. It was probably fortunate I did not know what they meant and simply said “no gracias” and walked on. We saw another hotel a block on. The front door was closed but the lights were on, and there was no-where else, so we knocked and a friendly mustached man answered. He didn’t speak any English and Adam didn’t speak any Spanish so I had to communicate somehow. Out of necessity my brain kicked into gear and I started remembering things. It was a little laboured at first but we soon discovered what the man’s name was and after a stilted conversation I succeeded in sorting us a stiflingly hot and very basic shared room and asked about the possibility of a shower. “No hay problema”! I was taken to an outside courtyard and directed to an area partitioned off by a green screen made of blankets to protect my modesty, behind which was a bucket of cold water and a jug. This was the shower! I was in a world without hot running water and I loved it!
Even though I could only remember just a few phrases at first, the friendly hotelier was keen to know more about us and once we’d taken “showers” he re-opened the bar for us and sat down to “chat”. I don’t know what we talked about or even whether he understood me but it felt fantastic to have a beer a friendly local face after our introduction to Latin America. Somehow, I think through use of a carefully drawn map, he even managed to point us in the right direction the next day to change travellers cheques, get some snacks and find the bus to Caracas. Just goes to show that even with a little language, if you need to, you can get a lot done!
A couple of weeks later, and light years later with my Spanish (or so I thought) I found myself in the backpacker town of Merida We’d travelled Venezuela, climbed Mount Roraima, explored the capital and been cursed by a witch on the Orinoco Delta, and my Spanish had improved – though my gut had not! I’d just got back from my first big trek in the Andes, was on a high from conquering 5,000m Pan de Azucar (Sugar Loaf) mountain and headed out for beers. We found ourselves in a dark and slightly dingy if cool rock bar called Birosca full of trendy young Venezuelan students, backpackers, and, of course, beautiful women. Venezuela has won more Miss World competitions than any other nation and even the young dark-skinned women selling café on Plaza de las Heroinas seemed beautiful. As the voice of Lenny Kravitz blared out through the soundsystem and the place started to get moving a found I was the subject of some very welcome attention from a señorita of around my own age. Our eyes met, we exchanged smiles and we danced (in as much as it is possible to dance to Lenny) in front of each other as he asked, as I did in my mind, are you gonna go my way?
Would she? I certainly hoped so and as Lenny faded out she asked my name. Hers was Carmen and she was a student. So far so good, I was a mochillero – backpacker, a useful new word I’d learnt on the trip and all seemed to be going well. The beat quickened as The Prodigy’s “Breathe” followed Lenny and, as this was a pretty new song at the time, people began to sit down unfamiliar with these crazy boys from Essex. “Eres casado?” she said. “Ah” I thought, she is asking me if I am tired so we can sit down, have a beer and talk more privately – yes! I said.
No sooner had a said this, she was gone! She had not asked me if was “cansado” (tired) as I thought but “casado” (married). I figured this out after about 20 minutes but by then she was at the bar with a cold Polar beer in one hand and with the other wrapped around the neck of a burly Australian.
Tags: writing competition
Posted by Sarah Watkins 2011-11 under Anecdotes,
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