Lost The Translation

*From the 2006 Archives*

And more than once, at that.

At a time when illegal immigration is a hot topic, and Gunsmoke is relating his own experiences with our INS, I digress back to a time and experience when I had the opportunity to undermine that great myth of international travel, The Ugly American.

Or to underscore it.

In the summer of 1989, I was assigned to accompany another corporate investigator and auditor (who doubled as our translator) on a trip to Mexico City; seemed that an asset there who'd helped to uncover a case of embezzlement in the corporate facility (a couple years prior) wasn't terribly amused when the embezzler got what amounted to a slap on the wrist. So he decided to join the fun.

Clumsily. Amateurishly. Badly.

At any rate, it was to be my first trip outside of the continental US in this life time*. The senior (and very well-travelled) investigator undertook to enlighten me about Mexico City, customs, and the way things were. The stories he told were eye-openers, including his experience of being in his Mexico City hotel room when the big quake hit in 1985; it cured him of his love of high rise buildings ever more.

We flew from Denver to Houston, went through Customs, then flew onto Mexico City. Enroute, he enlightened me about the horrific air pollution that usually shrouded the city, worse than anything I'd ever see in Denver, as well as the madcap cab drivers and the harrowing trip we'd most likely endure from the airport to the hotel downtown.

And he cautioned me about my sense of humor with the Mexican customs officials: leave it in my carry-on. El horsefeathers.

Murphy's Law was along on the front-half of that trip: we flew into Mexico City through a crystal clear, cloudless sky, with visibility for miles. Our trip through customs was a breeze (and yes, my sense of humor stayed put, despite temptations and opportunities); and the cab ride in a renovated Volkswagen Beetle was a pleasure, not in the least what I had been prepared for. The auditor and myself -- newbies to south of the border -- needled and tweaked our senior guide accordingly.

He just smiled and took it in good grace; he knew.

For the next three days, it was an experience I'll never forget. Just a few examples:

-- our first walk along the main avenue through Mexico City, on which the hotel was located, revealed groups of Mexican Federales (police), in bands of 12. All armed with shoulder-fired automatic weapons. A further eye-opener came from the Mexican corporate attorney we would work with on the embezzlement case: as a gringo, he counselled, never leave the main avenue for more than a block either way on foot, alone, and not even on the main avenue on foot at night.

-- during another of our walks from one office building to another, I noticed that many of those on the street were looking very intently at my new Reebok tennis shoes; when I asked about it, our guide chuckled and told me my shoes would be worth hundreds of thousands of pesos on the black market, and they'd slit my throat like a chicken to get them, if I were off the main avenue.

-- during the suspect interview, it became apparent that our auditor/translator was woefully out of her league in translating; her Spanish was classic Castillian, which was fine in Spain, not here. Our guide took over the duties, remarking that persons of single language abilities were handicapped. Weak grins all around.

-- on our walk back to catch a cab to the hotel, we happened to be walking past what appeared to be an armored car (aka, a Brinks-type), when I heard a distinct *clunk*, followed by a sound that sent a chill through my toenails: the cocking of a machine gun bolt. I glanced to my right, and not six feet away, behind the plexiglass of the car, stared an armed guard, with his machine gun barrel out the gun port. Pointed at us. Our senior member just muttered "just keep walking", while he took our ready-to-faint auditor's left arm, and I took her right, and we "just kept walking" while carrying her. The spinchter battled me for dominance in that instance; still don't know how I won out.

-- but it got a second chance to win the day, on the cab ride back. The wild, madcap, "no rules, just go like hell" style of cab rides he'd described from his previous Mexico visits, on top of the other day's events, was just about what the doctor didn't order. The auditor was green; my sphincter wanted to scream. I was too busy holding on (in more places than one) to even think of cracking open my book of English-Spanish translations for something that would convey "whoa, dude!" to the driver. Despite the horns, angry shouts, a few screeching tires and one very green auditor, we arrived at the hotel, and crawled out. I thought about kissing the curb, but decided it'd be in bad gringo form.

-- that evening, the senior member decided I should 'christen' my corporate credit card, and buy dinner for our little group of four. Which I thought nothing of, until the bill arrived: 339,800 pesos!!!! It took a moment for the exchange-rate gear in my head to kick in and remind me that it was only about $148 American dollars (the rate of exchange back then was something like 2300 or so pesos to the US dollar). I'm told the look on my face was "priceless"; I'm glad it wasn't added to the bill.

-- and, of course, the 'lost the translation' moments: I tried my very elementary Spanish when making a call back to the Denver-based corporate office; I started with an afternoon greeting and started to slowly state the numeros uno at a time, when the operator deluged me in a virtual avalanche of, to me, unintelligible espanoel. I was forced to meekly mutter "no habla espanoel", at which time she glided seamlessly into accentless English. And when I stood in the hotel gift shop, getting a promised souvenir for our corporate receptionist, thumbing through my English-Spanish dictionary while the senior member and the gift shop clerk waited with patient, condescending smiles. When I was finally unable to find the spanish word for "wrap", I wound up making a rotating circle with my hands, and muttering "uh...wrappo por favor", which she did with a smile, while the senior was convulsed in the corner. I had to hear that story recounted for the next year at the office...

-- and, of course, the "tipping" episode: the next morning, I was asked if I'd left a tip on the pillow of the bed; "uh, no...care to enlighten me?". When we returned from the day's activities, I found that my room had been serviced marginally. *El TOING*. So the next morning, I left a $1 US bill on the pillow. Upon our return later that day, I'd of thought I was a visiting dignitary: the place was spotless. I hope I didn't cause a riot on check out day, when I left a $10...

-- finally, the trip back to the airport. The cab ride...eh. I'd had worse ;-) Going through Customs, I wasn't concerned, having only the el wrappoed por favor souvenir to account for in my carry-on. Our auditor, however, decided to put her Sony Walkman in her carry-on (on the trip in, it'd been in her checked luggage), so she could listen to tunes on the flight home. When her bag went through the x-ray machine, a security official directed her and her bag off to the side. And up behind her stepped a Federale with an automatic weapon at the ready. We couldn't step over to support her this time; she wavered, but remained upright until cleared to proceed.

Fortunately, it wasn't far to our gate, so carrying her and our luggage was awkward, but manageable...

And yes: despite my knowledge of the admonition about the water, and my careful adherence to it, I did contract a mild version of Montezuma's Revenge a day after returning home.

At least I didn't have to worry about losing the translation on that.

* if you subscribe to the previous life thang...