cultural confusion

While Lesley’s studying at an ashram in India, her husband Crayton is guest-posting. Please be kind to him.

Today my cab driver mentioned a concept I had heard before but hadn’t really had the Spanish expertise to pay much attention to. So now I pass it on to you!

An “albur” is a Mexican form of wordplay through the use of sexual double-entendres, often used as a putdown like the dozens in the U.S. There are some common albures that everybody knows (see a great overview here), but the quick-witted people who are really good at it get to make a career out of it.

One of these is Victor Trujillo, better known as “Brozo the Creepy Clown,” a green-haired wisecracker (pictured above) who, behind the makeup, has become one of Mexico’s sharpest political critics, to the point where the big names in government have to kowtow to him. Here’s President Felipe Calderon on Brozo’s show, back when he was running for the office. (In this sense, Brozo seems to me to be kind of like a Mexican Jon Stewart.)

My Spanish comprehension and Mexican cultural sophistication aren’t nearly good enough to get most of the jokes, but the ones I have managed to digest are pretty great. Brozo, for instance, used to have a show called “El Mañanero,” which can be translated simply as “The Morning Show,” but can also refer to a morning roll in the hay. That crazy Brozo!

(Also, according to this, Brozo did the voice of Lion-O for the Spanish-language version of Thundercats. Hooooooo!)

My cleaning lady and I have a routine: she walks in, asks if she can sit down, and I say yes and then offer her water. We usually talk for about 20 minutes or so about life, her daughter, the things I’m doing not to remain “encerrada” in the house all day. (I swear up and down that I like being home, but she doesn’t believe me.) Eventually she grabs her checkered smock and gets to work.

A few weeks ago, maybe five minutes into our conversation, she said, “Can I ask you a question?”

I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. A few days earlier, I’d read on Alice’s blog about how her doormen had asked her for money, and not knowing what to do and feeling weird, she gave it to them. A commenter said that whole experience was common, and that next time, she should pretend she didn’t have any cash, lest she be thought of as the American Bank Machine. I wondered if Lola was going to ask me the same thing.

“The thing is,” she began, “my phone is going to be shut off, because I haven’t paid my bill.”

The sinking feeling deepened.

“And… usually I would ask my other boss for a loan” — Lola has another job cleaning corporate apartments — “but I can’t right now, because his mother just died, and he’s been consumed with that.”

I nodded.

“So, I understand if you can’t, but I just thought I would ask: is there any way you could help me, and lend me the money to pay this bill?”

“Of course,” she added quickly, “you can take the money out of my check.”

I asked her how much it was, and she told me — it was about the equivalent of $100.

That’s not a huge amount for us, and we could probably pay it. But I felt offended and kind of ambushed that she was even asking, especially during our chit-chatty girls’ time. Hadn’t we kind of built a semi-friendship here, over these past few months? Didn’t she know that things would be stilted between us from now on, with this debt hanging over her head? Worst of all, after months of working for us, and me talking to her about my family and my life — had she only seen me as a bank the entire time?

I told her I needed to talk to Crayton first.

“Of course,” she said.

“When is the bill due?” I asked.

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow?

“Well,” I said, irritated, “let me run to the supermarket, which I have to do anyway, and I’ll call Crayton on my way there. I’ll let you know what he says.”

She thanked me profusely for even considering it.

On my walk to the grocery store, I tried to think about what to do. I called Crayton, but he didn’t pick up. My inclination was to pay the bill, because I knew she was good for her word. But I couldn’t get over the fact that she’d even asked me in the first place. Didn’t she know that was rude? Why was she not considering how this makes me feel? Was she secretly some sort of housekeeper con-artist who befriended her employer and then escaped with the cash?

Suddenly I realized how American I was acting. Maybe she didn’t know asking for money was rude. Maybe in Mexico, it isn’t rude, because so many people don’t have money and need it badly. Lola is a single mom who works cleaning houses, and the simple fact of the matter is, she can’t afford to pay her bills. And a home telephone line is like gold in this country. You need it to sign up for all sorts of services. Reconnecting a line costs hundreds of dollars.

I called my landlady, who is Mexican, to ask for advice, but she wasn’t home. I emailed an American friend who’s been in Mexico for two years and she basically said, follow your gut. I also finally reached Crayton. He told me he was fine with whatever I wanted to do.

I tried to recognize my American-money-attitude for what it was, and then push it aside. The core issue here was simple: Lola needed money. I had it. Worst comes to worst, we’d be $100 poorer, if she decided not to show up at work the next week. But I trusted that she’d come back.

When I got back from the grocery store, I told her yes, we’d pay the bill for her. But just this once.

“Of course, of course, I wouldn’t ask again,” she said. “I know you’re not rich. But I just thought, well, maybe they can help me.” Then she smiled a big smile, and thanked me over and over.

Since then — we’re going on about three weeks — life has been normal. She’s showed up to work just like she always has. She walks in, puts her stuff down, and asks to sit, and I say yes and offer her water. We chat. I turn on her favorite radio station, hits of the 70s and 80s, while she cleans the kitchen and the bathrooms.

My Mexican landlady did end up calling me back, by the way. She said it’s quite common for a housekeeper to ask for money.

“You’re not obligated to give her anything, but if you trust her, I would do it,” she said. “The fact is, they need it.”

I never asked Lola why she hadn’t paid her bill in five months. (Yes, it was five months overdue.) But she pays to send her daughter to school, so I’m guessing it was something having to do with that. I have my fingers crossed that this doesn’t happen again, because I would really, really hate to say no.

One of the strange things about banking in Mexico is the popularity of bank transfers. Meaning, instead of writing a check, you go to the bank and deposit the money directly into someone else’s account. This is how I paid the carpenter, when we got shelves installed in the kitchen. It’s also how we pay our rent and our bills.

Usually I don’t mind the “transferencias bancarias,” as they’re called, but sometimes it can get annoying. Last month, when I wanted to attend a Mexican wine dinner at a cooking school south of town, they would only confirm my reservation if I deposited the fee in their bank account first. (It’s like, Dude umm… what if I had to cancel at the last minute?) I wrote down the account number wrong and then I was so frustrated I didn’t want to go anymore. Then I got a stomach bacteria, so I couldn’t have gone anyway.

Had to stop by Banamex this morning to deposit money into the American Benevolent Society’s account. They’re throwing a Fourth of July party this weekend with beer and hot dogs and potato salad, so of course you know we’re going. Unfortunately, Banamex kind of stresses me out. The lines are always long, and they’ve got tons of windows, and I never know which section I’m supposed to go to.

Today I walked up to a little machine and pressed a button, which spit out a number. But the number-display screen wasn’t working, so they had a man in a Banamex uniform calling them out. (I thought: In Mexico, you really get paid to be the number-shouter-outer?) He was on 135 when I walked in; I had 166. Tried to pull out my newspaper and read, but the guy called them out rapid-fire, so you really had to pay attention.

“155!” he’d bark.

And then someone would jump up and rush to the window. I wondered how invalids were supposed to make bank transfers here. It’d be impossible.

After about 10 minutes it was finally my turn, and I deposited the money fine. (Deep, heaving sigh of relief.) The teller printed me a receipt and stamped the back. I have to fax that to the ABS, so they know I’ve paid.

On a related banking note, I will soon have my own Mexican ATM card. Not at Banamex — at Ixe, where the lines are much shorter. We had to make a special request since I’m not the principal name on the account. (I am the co-principal, which is much, much different.) Crayton had to sign the form authorizing me to receive my own card. Luckily he left the “monthly allowance” part blank.

Thanks, honey.