Tag Archives: Curiouser and curiouser

Empleadas

Today is a strange one.  This morning our first “empleada,” Marta, began work at 8.  Meaning, we now have a cleaning lady.  WHAT?  Why don’t you just clean your own little apartment?!  It’s just the two of you!  You don’t have kids!!  You don’t work full time even!  I know, I know.  It’s part of the culture here.  It’s cheap.  I’m taking it as part of the experience of living here.  It is sure to provide hours (or at least minutes…I already have worries about this lady) of entertainment for y’all.  We always have the windows open and never use air conditioning, so the place is constantly covered with dust and dirt.  There are all kinds of ways I can justify it.  Al fin, it’s just plain nice to have someone do all of this.  Laundry, mop the floors, heck, right now she’s wiping off the outside of the cabinets.  When is the last time you even thought about doing that?!

So this will likely take many more posts to explain, but there’s this whole crazy culture around these cleaning ladies.  There are a billion rules about how to treat them, how much to pay them, what they can eat while they’re working.  You should be nice to them, but not too nice.  You should be authoritative, but not mean.  A few of these rules:

  • The woman of the house is the one who issues the instructions to the empleada.  As we all know, the woman of the house is the one who ALWAYS cares for all household matters, so obviously she is the authority here.  A big change from the workplace in Panamá where a female boss gets no respect, not even from her female employees.  A male boss gets immediate results.
  • You just plain can’t be friends with your empleada.  They will think you are weak and stupid, and they will begin to manipulate you.
  • If you feel sorry for your empleada’s situation and want to help her to get an education, for example, you just can’t…or rather, shouldn’t.  It won’t work.  Period.  My friend from high school who moved here 10 years ago said this is really hard.  She’s the nicest person ever, and she wanted to help a young girl who worked for her by helping her to go to college.  The girl ended up using the money to buy shoes or jeans or something – wasted it all – and ended up exactly where she started.  There are a million stories like this.
  • You have to tell them exactly what food they can eat while they are eating and what food they can’t have.  You generally have to feed them breakfast and lunch when they are working.  One woman told me that her daughters drink Tropicana orange juice, which is $5/carton here.  She tells her empleada that she can’t drink that juice.  She buys cheaper juice for her.
  • You have to tell them exactly how much food they can eat when they are working.  This same woman told me that she told her empleada that she could make a sandwich using the ham in the fridge.  The empleada used ALL the ham.  She ate the whole package.
  • You have to be very literal and very specific about your instructions and about the privileges that you give them.  Another story:  A woman had a live-in nanny/housekeeper for a number of months.  When the woman and her husband went on vacation with the kids for a weekend, they told the nanny she could watch whatever she wanted on tv, including pay-per-view.  I guess it was a few years ago.  🙂  When they came back, they found out that the nanny had just constantly had the tv on with a pay-per-view movie playing.  Not the same one, but different ones, one after another, for the whole weekend.  They had a huge bill.  But the reasoning, so they say, is that the nanny was told that she could do it, so she did exactly as she was told.  No need for common sense to kick in.

People talk about these women as a class, as a singular group.  It sounds awful.  “You have to treat THEM this way.”  “You can’t let THEM have the good juice because they’ll drink the whole $5 bottle in one day!”  “If you let them get away with being late once, they’ll never be on time again.”  I did it in the rules above.  It’s how people talk about them.  It’s the culture.

I can’t imagine being one of these women.  They are treated this way, so they must be forced to behave in a certain way to get by.  I imagine that you get to the point where you have to try to take advantage or manipulate your employer because otherwise you’re going to get treated like a slave.  Or maybe not.  I don’t know.  This is all so foreign to me!  Aren’t there empleadas out there who are honest hard-working people who do a good job and earn the money that they are owed and get along with their employers?  And aren’t there employers who treat their employees well?  Or is the entire system too messed up by all these people who don’t treat each other well and by the stories that everyone tells to ever be decent?

I’m already jaded, and we’ve had an empleada in our employ for a little over an hour!  I’m nervous.  I’m completely on edge.  I’m don’t know if I should be following her from room to room to make sure my stuff is safe.  (Luckily, we didn’t bring much with us, so we don’t have much to take!).  I think carefully about each thing that I say to her and how I say it.  Be nice, but firm.  Say it with authority, but don’t be a jerk.  Set precedent from the very beginning.

I even dressed up.  Since we got here, and especially since I got sick and since I’ve been recovering (yep, still recovering…you don’t want details.  Ever heard of Clostridium difficile or C. Diff.?  Don’t look it up.  TMI.), I’ve been wearing shorts, tank tops, and my rainbows (flip-flops for Eric…I swear, we’ve been together for over three years and he still has no idea what I mean when I say Rainbows.  Yep, STILL means my same flip-flops!  Clearly he didn’t go to Carolina.) every day.  Yes, I look like a Gringa at the grocery store, but guess what?  I’m a Gringa.  They’re gonna know it no matter what I wear or no matter what color I dye my hair.  I’m pale, my Spanish isn’t up to par…there’s no hope.  I’m gonna be comfortable.

But today, I got up super early, showered, and put on a dress and heels, hoping to look like una dama, a lady, a respectable woman that this woman, Marta, should listen to, like, and…well…respect!  I think the height helps my confidence too.  It’s hard to be 5’3″ and confident.  It really is.  I don’t know how my sister does it as a pediatric CT surgeon.  She’s my size, but when she walks into the OR, it is HER OR.  It’s HER surgery.  The patient whose life is on the line is her responsibility, and she has to command respect from everyone working with her.  I try to do it in the courtroom too, but at least I have some distance from the judge.  I don’t have to stand right next to him or her and show exactly how short I am.  It helps.  🙂

One of these days, I’ll have to go into all the politics about how Panamanian empleadas are different from Colombian and Nicaraguan empleadas b/c of changes in immigration laws passed by the last (very corrupt) president of Panama and all the new prejudices and attitudes that each group has towards the other because of all of this.  It’s amazing how involved all of this is.  This ain’t Merry Maids!

I’ll let you know how the rest of the day goes…

Big trip to the big mall

*Written on Thursday, February 19.*
Yesterday was probably the most productive day I’ve had yet this year.  Carnival was over, so everything slowly opened back up around noon.  It was high time for Eric and I to schedule wifi installation, open a bank account, and buy some necessities for the new apartment like more dishes, towels, and kitchen supplies.  Although I still had/have not completely recovered, we had to make the trip to Albrook Mall, the biggest mall in Panama City, and in my mind, the world.  It’s huge.  See?
45f6cc826a9e6fa619c46d493ae39e71
Our new place is still just a few blocks from metro, so we hopped on and rode the few stops to the mall.  Luckily, the cable place was right in the middle of the food court – you know, right by the carousel – so it was easy to find and shockingly empty.  Within about 20 minutes of talking to a very nice woman and giving her a copy of our apartment lease (strange, right?), we had an appointment scheduled for the cable company to come out within 48 hours to install the Internets.  I’m trying not to get my hopes up too high for the actual installation to happen on time and go smoothly, but I was really grateful that the first step wasn’t painful.  Amazing.
We next went to the bank.  Now, as you know from older posts, this is not the first attempt at getting a bank account.  We researched this heavily before we left the US, and everyone told us it was nearly impossible to open an account as an Estadounidense (American…but as I might have mentioned before, some people down here don’t love us using that term b/c this whole hemisphere is full of “Americans”!  North Americans, Central Americans, South Americans…why does the USA get to claim it?  We don’t have another word for it in English though, do we?).  Eric boldly tried a few different banks while I was sick and worked really hard to overcome the language barrier.  Unfortunately, each bank has a slightly different set of requirements for opening an account, and he was never able to make it happen.  I can’t tell you how proud I was of him for trying without me, but as he said, it needed to be done and I was too sick to make it happen.  You do what you have to do.
So this time we were trying a bank that has several more convenient locations – both of ATMs and branches – than did the banks we’d been told to try.  We walked in and it was a complete madhouse.  Maybe 40 customers in a tiny location.  The line system was not immediately discernible, other than for the main counter.  After asking the security guard where to go, we stood in line by an empty desk for several minutes waiting for someone to appear to help us.  Eventually Eric’s passport info was taken and we were told to have a seat…when one became available.  By this time, I was feeling a little weak and my still-water logged cankles needed relief, so Eric was gracious in staking out and giving me a seat.
We were asked to fill out an application while we waited, and in doing so we gave them home (US and Panamá) and work addresses, personal and bank references, passport info, marital status, eye color (well, maybe not that), and every phone number we’ve ever had.  We had also finally come prepared with the appropriate reference letters – one from Bank of America saying that Eric has been a customer for over 3 years, listing the date he opened his account and balances from several dates, and the other from Red Hat (Eric’s work) saying that he was receiving steady income.
After another 45 min or so of waiting and boxing out when a new old lady would come in and try to skip ahead of us in “line,” we were finally called to a desk to speak to a bank employee.  She had to call Bank of America to verify that the letter we had was legit.  She asked for Eric’s passport, driver’s license, and debit card from BoA.  She asked for his former employer.  She asked for two references in the US, but for some reason only wanted the phone number of one and the address of the other.  She asked for two references in Panamá.  She asked for his beneficiary.  She asked how we decided to move to Panama and when we first visited the country.  Social security number, pants size, favorite color, and on and on.  In short, if you are reading this, Banistmo bank of Panamá probably knows you and your family, and may have custody of your first born.  Sorry about that.  We really needed to open this account.
The good news is that after two hours of figuring out the waiting system, waiting, filling out paperwork, and generally trying to convince this woman that we had more than $500 to our names, we had a bank account!  No waiting for weeks as we had been told we would have to do.  We made a deposit – with a US check, no less – and our account was ready to go!  I can’t tell you how exciting it was.
I was exhausted when we left the bank, but since we’d been sitting for most of that time, I still had some energy left to shop for new apartment necessities.  We managed to find a set of dishes, silverware, spatula (which is surprisingly hard to find down here!  We can’t figure that one out.  How do they flip pancakes?  What do they do about scrambled eggs?!), hot pads, glasses, hand towels, and measuring cups all in one store.  It was at that point we decided that a cab ride was in order.  Once the lady put nearly all of the heavy things mentioned above in one bag and handed it to Eric, we decided metro was no longer a feasible option.
The cab ride home was worth the cost.  We haggled a bit with the very old man driver (I wanted to use the word octogenarian b/c it’s a great word, but would’ve call myself pretentious for using it) who couldn’t talk – an interesting ordeal in and of itself – then hopped in.  This guy was perhaps the best cab driver I’ve had since I’ve been here.  He was hilarious.  Again, he had no voice, for one reason or another, but he was very animated and clearly enjoyed what he did.  About halfway home, we came to a point where the left turn is blocked, and you are supposed to go down the road a ways, do a U-turn, then make the right hand turn.  He was not having any of this.  He stopped short of the blocked off part of the road and floored it around the barrier.  It was a great move, and he knew it!  He made this hand signal that was part snap and part shaking off his hand like it was wet***…hard to describe, but just precious…and cracked up.  He was so proud of himself!  He then made a bunch of hand motions indicating that he would have had to go all the way around, but he totally pulled off cheating the system.  So cute.
We were just a few blocks from home when the cab slowed.  I looked around, positive that he couldn’t be slowing to let another car out in front of him b/c that just plain doesn’t happen here, but couldn’t figure out what he was doing.  Suddenly, he did the snapping motion again, laughed, and sped up.  After he let us out, Eric explained to me that he had been checking out a lady on the sidewalk!  Too funny.
All in all, a very successful trip.  Hardly any Panama-isms had befallen us and slowed us down; we had actually accomplished that which we had set out to do!  Incredible.
***Eric just came into the room and explained to me that a better way to describe the hand motion was part snap and part what you do to pack a can of dip or chew.  Wow.  So proud of that boy.  Then again, I’m guessing that at least half of you completely understand the motion now.

Agua y las Adventuras de Katie!

I promised a little rant on water. I have no idea if this is a universal thing. Eric thinks I’m picky and crazy, but I know the truth. Water tastes different everywhere. I was raised in Asheville, which is known for its pure water. Microbreweries are all over the city because the water tastes so good. One of the founders of Asheville Brewing Company said here “We get first crack at some absolutely pristine water coming down from Black Mountain. The water is not too hard, not too soft and has low levels of minerals. It’s perfect water for beer.”

So  when my family would vacation each year to Hilton Head Island or visit family in Savannah, I HATED the “beach water.”  I didn’t even like to brush my teeth with it.  It just tasted dirty.  I couldn’t stand to drink it and would go the whole week drinking just juice and soda in order to avoid it.  “Julie, do you want some ice in your drink?”  NO, thank you!

The water in Panama City is perfectly safe to drink.  SAFE to drink, meaning that you can drink it without getting ill.  Whether you want to drink it, being an Asheville water snob like me, however, is an entirely different story.  I’ve been driving Eric crazy since I got sick last week and started getting dehydrated because I simply could not bring myself to drink this stuff all day long.  The aftertaste was like sanddollar flavored gatorade.  You can’t live with that all day!  It’s awful.  I admit that I’m no outdoorsy, do-whatever-it-takes kinda girl, so I found giant bottles of Dasani downstairs, and everyone’s a lot happier now.

Am I the only person like this?  Ashevillians?  Help me out.  Were we not spoiled growing up there?  Is it like that anywhere else?  Does anyone from a beach recognize that they grew up with crappy water?  My dad’s from Savannah and fully admits that their water is terrible.

Now for the exciting part of the post:  Katie’s adventures around the city!  My dear friend and former roommate Katie arrived last Sunday night.  I had asked that the caretaker of our apartment, Oscar, pick her up since he speaks English and is a careful driver, and he agreed.  I called him a few hours before she got in to confirm, and he assured us that he was tracking her flight.  Turns out, he sent a friend of his who spoke no English to pick her up and didn’t think to tell me this.  It would’ve been fine, except had I known that Oscar wasn’t going to go, I would’ve asked our friend and cab driver from last year’s trip, Jorge, to pick her up!  He doesn’t speak English, but I know and trust him and would’ve loved to see him.  Oh well.  She got here.

Sadly, I’ve been sick all week still, so I haven’t been able to join her on any of her adventures.  I’m okay, I just have some…ahem…reasons that prevent me from being able to leave the house for long.  Still.  Ugh.  But Katie is an adventurer and has found her way around.  She took a bus tour of the city, a ferry to a nearby island to relax on the beach, explored the old city, took Eric to the Canal yesterday, and went on a tour of a lake along the Canal today.  She’s had a great time, judging from her stories and photos, and a great sport about me not being any fun.

We have been getting takeout from the little restaurant downstairs a lot this week and have made friends with the owner, a lady named Neli.  Two nights ago, Katie and I went in while Eric went to the grocery store, and Neli introduced us to a Canadian twenty-something who was eating there.  He was heading out to some of the islands, then off to do some surfing, and Neli wanted to set him up with her daughter.  She said he was cute and she wanted beautiful grandchildren!  So I found myself in the position of translator between the two as this guy and I tried to negotiate a photo of the daughter out of Neli.  Oddly, Neli’s phone “was out of battery,” even though she had it plugged in, and for all her searching, she just couldn’t find a picture of her.  We’re still not sure what happened there, but surfer guy went off without a date, and Katie and I left pretty amused.  Eric showed up in the middle with groceries and locked out of the apartment wondering what was taking so long.  Anyway, I’ve enjoyed talking with Neli, eating her amazing cooking, and having a bit of a friend.

I’ll post pictures of the food and of Katie’s adventures when I can get them from her.

For now, a few random tidbits.  I finally caught a photo of the guy who I said sounded like he was doing a Call to Worship.  Here he is in his pickup truck:

IMG_4247 IMG_4250

Next, in case I didn’t mention this earlier, the mystery bugs in our bedroom turned out to be termites.  Lovely.  We move out next week and I can’t wait.  I’m not going to announce our next apartment until we’re in because I don’t want it to go all Panama on us and fall through.

CB is not doing well at all.  He’s not eating.  I’ll spare you the details, but if you can spare a prayer that he isn’t/doesn’t suffer, we’d appreciate it.  It really sucks not being with him.  We skyped with him/Eric’s parents this morning, so at least we got to see him.  He definitely does not look like he feels good.  I’m feeling really guilty that we’re not there with him.  The timing is horrible.  The two unrelated cancers are just ridiculous.  We are so grateful to Susan and Ed for caring for him so well.  He’s a lucky dog.

As for Addie, she is being tortured at my parents’ house, as you can see:

IMG_4251 IMG_4232

 

Too bad she’s not allowed on the couch, huh?

Lastly, I found a map comparing the size of Panama to the size of North Carolina.  Cool, huh?

Screen Shot 2015-02-01 at 11.47.05 PM