What You Miss When You Don't Know Spanish


by Douglas Bower - Date: 2007-03-24 - Word Count: 1046 Share This!

Occasionally, we go out to the campo (the Mexican countryside) to visit an artist friend. She is one of the most unique individuals I have ever met. The woman has the most interesting assemblage of stories and, frankly, I find her so entertaining. She never fails to amaze.

To arrive at her little artist's nest between Guanajuato and Silao, we have to take one of the chicken buses. Around the corner from Guanajuato's first Supermarket, we catch one of the buses that services the campo residents. The country folk take these buses into town to shop, sell their wares, to go to school or jobs. You never know exactly what you will be sitting with in these buses. We've seen people with all manner of animals, hardware, lumber, bags of rocks (go figure), and sometimes you might be able to see a chicken or two carried home for that night's meal, thus: The Chicken Bus.

Our friend bought this property about two years ago and transformed a frightening dump into a dream hideaway. She called it, as I recall, her secret garden. She had a vision for what this place could become and has slowly but steadily made this place into a home for she and her husband. She also included studio for her painting. I could move there in a heartbeat. She has all the comforts of home out there in no-man's-land. Sort of, anyway.

Though she has electricity, water, and a phone of sorts, it is still very primitive. The electricity is an iffy proposition, especially when the wind blows. The water isn't drinkable so they have to "go to town" to get huge, backbreaking bottles of purified water. There is a phone in the house but it really an "in-house cellular" phone. There are no phone lines out there in the campo. She has a phone system that is like a static cellular phone installed in the house. She has to pay a dollar a minute to use it. And whatever affects the signal reception on hand-held cell phones also affects her phone. To talk to her on the phone is like screaming into a well.

But, she loves her life out there. My wife and I could also get to love that kind of life in the campo.

Our beautiful friend has been living in Mexico for many years. She has, in fact, been in Mexico for decades. She has put in the effort to learn Spanish and has learned it well. You have to be able to speak like a native to live in the campo. Things come up in that life in the campo where being able to speak and cuss like a native can be crucial to your survival.

So many Americans expatriating to Mexico simple don't get this. They do not get that they miss out on so much of the culture because of their linguistic deficits. They either are too scared to try to learn Spanish (because they think they are "too old") or they simply refuse. That's right, some refuse to even try.

Gringos typically will move into areas of Mexico with well-defined American expat communities. These communities have so altered the local landscape that speaking Spanish is not required. It is like living in a country club with English-speaking Hispanic servants.

Even in the city in the American enclaves, so much is missed in the culture because the residents cannot carry on an in-depth conversation with the Mexicans. Yet, when you talk with these American expats, they act as though they are experts in Mexican culture because of the number of years they've been living in an English-speaking enclave in Mexico. Being Spanish-challenged puts them at a huge disadvantage.

This is even more the case in the campo. Something is liable to happen in the campo that, unless you know Spanish and know it well, you will find yourself in some pretty unbelievable situations. Some situations are right out of the old west. For example, this situation recently happened where our artist friend lives.

Down the dirt road from her is a small village of sorts. It is really a collection of houses with families that are more or less related to one another. They were all going to have a coming-out party for one of the female teens. Traditionally, when a girl turns fifteen, the family holds something called a Quinceñera.

This poor girl's coming-out party turned into a drunken brawl. Apparently, rival factions within the family that came from afar got into some family feud with those relatives in the village. Alvaro, my artist friend's handy man, who also lives in the semi-village, ran to a government installed public phone in the village and called for the police. In the meantime, out came the guns and machetes.

Apparently, those in the campo go merrily through their daily lives with guns and machetes at the ready in case a dispute has to be settled. And, how would you know this if you stay holed up in your little American Expat Enclave and cannot communicate with those within the culture? But, I digress.

Alvaro ran home to get the family onto the floor of their house to avoid being shot. Bullets did start flying but the shooters were so drunk that they all missed each other. And, they were so soused that they couldn't stand up long enough or walk straight enough to chop each other's heads off with their machetes. So, where were the police?

They showed up three days later. Three days later, two trucks of riot police showed up, sirens wailing, and lights flashing.

THREE DAYS LATER!

My artist friend heard the small war. Alvaro, who only speaks Spanish, relayed the details to our friend (his employer). Our friend told us about this "party" several days later.

I know some expats in the town in which we live that would tell me, some to my face, that I am lying about this story. They are so convinced that from their perches in their gilded English-only expat cages, they are experts in Mexican culture and, check this logic, if they haven't experienced it, then it could not have happened-their actual words to me.

So much is missed.

So much is ignored.

So much one will never know about Mexican culture apart from learning more of the language than saying, "Sí", "No", and "Gracias."


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