10.30.07

differentiate |_dif__ren sh ___t| |_d_f__r_n(t)_i_e_t| |_d_f__r_n__e_t|
verb [ trans. ]
1 recognize or ascertain what makes (someone or something) different : children can differentiate the past from the present. See note at distinguish .

• [ intrans. ] ( differentiate between) identify differences between (two or more things or people) : he is unable to differentiate between fantasy and reality.
• make (someone or something) appear different or distinct : Twain was careful to differentiate Huck’s speech from that of other white people.

One might think that because Andy and I have decided to up and move to a third world country that our every day experiences are completely abstract to that from back home. It is true that there are some things that have taken time to “adjust” to. During the assimilation process there have been stressful and awkward moments, humorous and ridiculous ones as well. However, there are as many things usual and predictable as strange and unfamiliar.

The children here are a perfect example of similarity. We have a crap load; yes I am using this as an actual unit of measure, of ninos in our neighborhood. Ninos everywhere, however most heavily concentrated right underneath our windows. They like to screech and squeal, draw on Andy’s car with sharp rocks, smack each other upside the head for no reason, play with imaginary caballos and test their parent’s patience. Yes, that’s right folks, it’s NOT just in the US but worldwide children are slowly driving their parents insane. Just last week Andy was walking down our very steep hill towards the bus stop. He said he couldn’t help but notice the rather frightening man who lives two casas down from us quietly screaming at someone at the bottom of the hill. Anyone who has a parent or who is one, so that’s everyone, can relate to the “quiet scream.” It’s when you’ve actually shoved your parent right over the chalk line and they’re lying there, motionless from the anger. All they have to do is look at you, raise the bows just about halfway from the hairline and open their mouth partly. There’s an overwhelming calm that comes over their whole body and the calmer they are the shakier you become. You can almost predict how swollen your ass will be depending on the tone in your parent’s voice. Andy said he peered down the hill past a group of dog in the middle of a meeting, and identified the suspect. Small boy, devilish pupils, scabs on both knees and a clump of hair sticking straight up. He turned back to spy once more on the General. A pillar of steam was now exiting his ears as he ripped a thin, soft, long branch from the tree above him. Without hesitation or pause he slid his fingers from the top of the branch to the bottom removing every last leaf. The General then proceeded to apprehend the suspect, who knew at that point running away would earn himself more than just a Mexican switch. Back up the hill he went, this time with his left arm extended, the suspect’s neck and shirt fabric tightly inside his grip with his shoes eleven inches above ground. Andy kept walking but could hear the tears hit the gravel.

What we have found alarming is the apparent lack of birth control. I would venture to say that 95% of all the Mexican women, 18 and up, we see regularly are pregnant, accompanied by ninos or both. Even more alarming is the amount of young girls in this same predicament, some as young as 11 and 12. We have spoken to several locals about this situation and it has been explained to us that this is partially cultural however the young girls getting pregnant is now an epidemic. The majority of this area is Catholic. Being the good Catholic that they are, little pills arranged in a circle of 31 are not common, condoms can only be purchased behind the counter at a pharmacy and apparently no one is pulling and praying in Puerto Vallarta.

There is something that Andy I noticed right away concerning the men in Mexico. It must be some sort of initiation into manhood, passed down from father to son, son to brother. It’s rarely spotted these days in the States and if so very few can pull it off well without looking like an introverted pedophile. Bear has got a handle on it, well not literally, and my Uncle Donald looks quite fetching with one but that’s about the only two I can think of. I am speaking of the mustache. No beard or goatee to accompany it. Just a mustache. We have numerous variations on the ‘stache from long and skinny to short and thick. We’ve got the teen ‘stache which looks more like a dirty upper lip than a crop of whiskers. We’ve also got the “That ‘stache is hiding something” ‘stache and the ever popular classic “Cheech” ‘stache. There are many different widths and girths to the ‘staches depending on age, genes and the size of the cowboy hat.

Imagine our shock when one afternoon, while waiting for the bus, I noticed the guy next to me sin (without) ‘stache. He was of mustache age. He was wearing steel toed boots, skin dark from the sun and pigment, but there in the middle of the afternoon, a Mexican man SIN ‘STACHE! Then Andy turned around and saw two more gentlemen sin ‘stache. Then a cab driver without a single whisker between his dimples. I examined two different bus drivers as they came and went and guess what? Not one mustache. I couldn’t take it. I looked at Andy with fear for what awaited us in the worst episode of the Twilight Zone ever.

With a look of discovery as if he had unlocked the mystery of the rubix cube he smiled eerily and said, “Do you realize where we are?” I waited, longer than I felt necessary. “We are on the corner of Sin St. and ‘Stache Alley.”

We’ve yet to go back to that intersection since.
There are dozens of other comparisons we’ve made between our temporary home and the home we’ve only known. Consumer products, service wait times, friendly greetings for no reason other than it’s a Tuesday, gay boyfriend opportunities, food and money, musical ego and professional respect. Some differences are extremely frustrating like the fact that “Manana” doesn’t actually mean “tomorrow”, it just means “not today.” And then there are similarities that are just terribly disappointing like the cost of groceries at the Super Amigo. We get our gas from a guy who drives around the village with a bullhorn crying out “Global Gasssssssss. . . ..global gassssssssss,” and homemade hot corn tortillas every morning from the tortilla factory at the end of the hill.

It was the morning I woke up feeling like absolute hell. The sleepy sand was trapped in morning eye glue, my throat was sharp and I could feel every sinus cavity in my face. Hank was roosting louder and more frequently than the norm and Andy was having some sort of conversation with Ms.C in the hallway.

“Yeah, Kirsten is definitely not feeling well. She was complaining of a pretty bad headache last night and she was wheezing this morning.” I could feel the frequency in his voice behind my eyeballs.

Ms.C gave a sympathy sigh before replying, “That’s awful. I was sick all last week. I have tons of drugs. Let me see what I’ve got upstairs.”

I heard Ms.C’s clogs clank every step upward, over my bed and then off into the living room. Andy came back into the room and pressed the back of his hand against my forehead. He shook his head to confirm the fever and offered to make me some soup.

“I’m just going to take a shower and then I’ll run down to the market and grab some veggies. I can use the chicken from a couple days ago,” he said placing his palm behind my skull. Lifting my head forward he carefully slid another pillow behind, handed me some chamomile tea and the crossword book.

I squinted back at him. “Thanks babe. I would love some soup.”

Andy grabbed a towel and disappeared into the hall, “Oh. I almost forgot,” he said passing through the shower curtain. “Ms.C has some drugs for you. You might have to answer the door.”
I opened the book of crosswords we had been working on for over two months. I had just found the perfect grip for the pencil and the perfect looking puzzle when I heard someone calling from below.

“Buenos dias,” the unfamiliar voice cried out. “Perdon!”

I pulled myself up and outside the covers. I peered out the window to find two men with white t-shirts on. Upon further observation I spotted the TeleCable insignia over the heart.

“Sweet,” I thought to myself forgetting I was sick. “The internet guys are here!”

Quickly I grabbed my running pants, inserted my legs and ran downstairs. Of course they didn’t speak English and my Spanish is horrible. They gestured to the name on the work order.

“Francesca Ortiz? Francesca Ortiz aqui?”

I told them no one by that name lived here but explained that we and Ms.C were waiting for TeleCable to install our Internet. Just as they had opened the door handles and climbed into the white VW bug with an extension ladder atop Andy came outside to investigate. I explained that they were looking for Francesca Ortiz.

“Maybe that has something to do with Ms.C?” he said with hope. “Could you go try and find her? I’ll stop them,” he said running after the vehicle.

I ran into the hall and called out to Ms.C. After the forth attempt and several knocks on her door she came down. I asked her if the TeleCable people were supposed to come that day but she said no. I motioned out the front door to Andy to let the workers go. I heard the diesel engine spin before closing the door.

“You know what? Maybe I should go check my work order. Don’t let them leave just yet,” said Ms.C climbing the steps again with her ever so clunky clogs. I ran back to the front door and strained my neck around the wood.

“WAAAAIT ANDY!” I yelled straining what little vocal chords I had left.

Again Andy chased the guys down the hill, this time requiring a bit more zest.

“Uno momento por favor,” he asked, breath behind him.

I turned back into the hallway to find Ms.C knee-deep in confusion and receipts. I began scanning the print for anything resembling a work order from the cable company. After a cell phone bill from Canada, a note from her old roommate who 20 years before that used to be her husband, five liquor receipts, a prescription for something I couldn’t translate and bar tab we found it. There was nothing on it for Francesca Ortiz and the date for the work order was for the following Monday. I shrugged my shoulders and lurched my whole front half back out the front door.

“Never mind, never mind. Desculpe.”

Andy looks back at the guys shaking his head. “Los mujeres (women).”

The guys all start laughing.

I guess in the end the similarities far outweigh the differences.