Specialist Canon gave the clutch a push and rolled the 5 ton over a dusty road. It was 0700 and already hot as hell. SPC Canon had his BDU jacket off and stuffed behind the seat. He was wearing an issue brown tee shirt, his BDU pants, and construction hard hat.
"Sir, it's just around the corner. We'll drop the stuff and come back around 0900 after formation."
"Fine, that's good." I looked at the small houses as we rumbled past. To call them houses was generous, though. They we little more than pieces of driftwood banded together into makeshift platforms under tin roofs. Their long legs looked like crooked old men, windows little more than gap tooth grins.
I glanced at the two soldiers in the back sucking in the heat, stoic enough though, basking in the dust cloud that settled over them as the truck came to stops. They were perched atop piles of lumber, plywood, tools, and a box of nails.
"You know it's my ass, if anybody catches us, " I turned and leaned my arm out the side of the truck.
"Pffphht, sir, you know everybody always blames the SPC. Yer ass... my ass!"
I laughed, "Well, that's because the specialist knows everything. How do you expect a Lieutenient to have organized all this by himself."
"That's what I'm saying, nobody would believe it... an then it's PFC Canon. Shit, then I got to go get new rank sewed on, that's a shitload of money for 16 uniforms."
He was grinning now, and I winked back at him. I would be the fall guy for sure, an officer with a bunch of lower enlisteds, stealing project supplies and running off to God knows where. I understood him though. I got yer back, sir. We'll all play dumb, just relax, an' we'll get you through this.
I think he understood me too. You guys were just following orders. You were with an officer, so you were just doing what he told you to. Nobody got killed, or hurt, so after a reprimand...
My career would be over, though. Beats having to sew new rank on 16 uniforms. I laughed to myself. Funny how people communicate in the Army. Last night, while in the showers, I listened to a couple of enlisteds talk shit to each other, a past time that military men seem to have mastered.
"How much you pay for your apartment?"
"Shit, I pay $700."
"Fuck, that's nothing, I pay $800."
"Yeah, well with utilities and condo fees, mine actually works out to $900."
"Shit, man, what's your old lady do?"
"Spends my money."
Snicker. "Man, how much does she spend a week?"
"Fuck, all I get is a six pack, and a TV guide..."
"Sucks to be you."
It's kind of nice taking a shower, not to wear rank. People don't act as themselves when you've got officer's rank on. If they don't know you, they look figety, uncomfortable. It made me uneasy watching them sometimes. And then there were the older guys, Master Sergeants and First Sergeants (1SG). They don't fear, which is good, but then they feel the need to bluster. "Damn kid, ain't been around for but a couple of years. Put that damn rank on him. He's my kid's age, for God's sake."
Either way, they act differently when you are in uniform. It's nice to take a shower. You wash off more than just the dirt and sweat.
I smiled, "Sucks to be you."
"Yeah, shit." He went back to washing his face.
I lifted the brim of my cap and mopped the sweat from my brow. The jungle was starting to steam now as mists lifted from the valleys and crags. They looked like full bowls of cream, or maybe big steaming mugs of coffee, with the rich savory aroma of wet, oxygen laden air. I started to feel sweat soak into my back where it was pressed against the canvas seat cover.
This part of Panama was rugged and breathtaking. Craggy, and mountainous, it didn't look like I had always pictured jungles. The peaks were like shards of bright green glass pushed up from the earth. Looked so sharp, you might get cut.
We were climbing now, up and out of the valley of coffee cups. The mist lay shimmering behind us as we trudged along. I could see the whole coast now, as irregular as the rest of the landscape. There were a million little inlets and harbors each with a mad bull kicking to get at the rolling undulating ocean, straining at the gates, like with one little kick, and they would come charging out of their pens.
"Sir, we gonna kick yer ass in cards tonight?" SPC Canon taunted.
"Quit talkin' yer smack, Canon. We've already kicked yer ass 3 times."
"Outa how many, sir? Ten maybe? And fer the last three I didn't have my partner. Tonight, it's gonna be different." He mimicked throwing down a card, "Smack. Take that."
I shook my head. "Canon, Canon, Canon... when you gonna learn. All right, we're gonna see." He was better at Hearts than me, we had been playing all week. Some would call it fraternizing. While the other officers were off in their own little stress world, I was hanging out with my troops. I figured it was a good way to keep an eye on them. Yeah, familiarity was maybe a little too easy for them now, but I have their respect.
"Uh, oh." SPC Canon said. "Sir we're busted."
I looked ahead. There was a check point. It's Sunday, and our day off. Why were they having a check point? "Relax, I'll take this one." I jumped down from the truck and trotted over to the MP, a burly Specialist, with a chip on his shoulder. It goes with the territory of MP's. Most of them are bored to tears, so a little action really gets them going.
"Sir, where are you headed with those soldiers?"
"We're taking wood to the abuttment work site in Adelante. It's our day off, " I volunteered, "but we've got a lot of work to do Monday, so we wanted to get a head start."
"Okay, that's fine, sir. But you can't go this way. They're setting up to repave over here. Tell your work crew to reroute around Adelante for tomorrow."
"Thank you, Specialist, I'll pass it along to my commander." I trotted back to the 5 ton, and pulled myself up into the cab.
"Way to go, sir." SPC Canon grinned.
"See, this bar comes in handy once in a while. Any other requests?"
He smiled a crooked smile, "You can get yer ass whooped tonight in Hearts."
We drove on.
"There it is, sir." Canon said pointed to a brightly colored stick shack. Looks like some the boards had come from an old bilboard,
I wondered who told them they were poor.
Cut from the land in their irregular shapes too, were the small houses of the Panamanians with brown-faced children standing on front porches shouting and waving. I waved back.
I was riding up E 14th St in Oakland, when a Susuki Samurai or some such vehicle came up along side me and proceeded to make a right turn.
"Hey!" I yelled swerving off onto the other street.
Oblivious to my scream, the two girls replied, "Heeeeeey-ee," a nondescript reply as if awakened from a slumber. I yelled for them to watch where they were going and continued on my way.
"And they want equal rights, " came the words of a grizzled beared man in a blue pickup. On the back it had a confederate flag bumper sticker, the words Old Fart on another, and a VA sticker in the rear window of the camper shell. A yellow, mut leaned its head out the window, tongue wagging in the wind.
I said nothing to the man. I accepted his words as a statement of solidarity. He had seen what had happened, the lack of remorse by the two women, and was reaching out to a brother. 'Hey man, I'm there for you."
I still shook my head, though. It could have just as easily been a couple of whites that might have cut me off. In fact, it's happened more often than I want to remember. In fact, once it was a cop. Cut me off in an intersection. I yelled, "Hey!" which always seems to work. It's not as offensive as "Hey, fuck you!" but still pucent enough to drive home the point. Would that it were a horn. They're so inoffensive, insomuch as people don't take them as personal insults of their family or some such thing. They don't feel obliged to get out of their car and chase after you with a tire iron (chapter 7).
The cop guns the engine of his Crown Victoria cruiser and very firmly and clearly yells, "Hey, fuck you!"
I remember the blue Ford pickup man's soft words as well meaning but ignorant. I shook my head and pedaled on.
ZZZZhuuuuummmmm, came the tires, "EEEeeeeeeee. Heeeeeeeyy-eee, we're sorry" Vrrrroooomm. There was the Suzuki, dodging and skipping catching up to me. An attractive buxum black woman leaned out the window. "Heeeeeyyy-eee, we're sorry. We didn't mean to cut you off."
"That's all right, " I yelled back in disbelief.
They skidded off, and stopped at a red light next to the blue Ford. I pulled up and leaned on the door frame. "That's the first time anyone's every apologized to me for cutting me off. Thanks, " I said smiling.
"We're sorry. We didn't mean it." She giggled and smiled.
And there was the man in the Blue Ford pickup. He had his dog, and his bumper stickers, and his beard. I wish I could have said something to make him feel more like a brother.
Today Laura and I called add agencies in San Sebastian looking to find out how the internet market was faring here. We didn't have much luck with any... we'll try again another day.
We also went to the mayor's office. Laura wanted to meet the mayor and let him know what she was doing, including him in the research loop. We met his secretary at the door to the office. She asked us what our business was with an air of suspicion. Laura explained herself, and the woman said she would introduce us to the minister of culture in an hour. We left to visit the sports complex to see if we wanted to belong. They had a swimming pool, squash courts, saunas, weightrooms etc, but it seems too expensive right now. Maybe later.
So we headed back to the mayor's office to meet the minister of culture. Jose Mari. He was a short balding man with a warm smile that he displayed as he shook our hands. In the course of the introduction it was mentioned that he had a daughter that attended school in Reno. As it turns out the daughter, Edurne, is someone Laura met and befriended while she was making trips to Reno to consult with the Basque studies department. Wow, what a small world, and the exclaimations went around the room.
Once the introductions with Jose Mari were finished, the secretary rushed off to find more people for us to meet. She was invirgorated now, all smiles and warmth. What had previously been cold reserve was now inviting hospitality. She talked for what seem almost an hour with Laura as she introduced various members of the staff. At one point Laura had to leave to meet someone else, leaving me alone with the secretary. We ended up talking about employment and the job climate currently. She was not optimistic about prospects, but engaged me with much gusto.
When Laura returned we finished up with pleasantries and said our goodbyes. The secretary mentioned that she was going to talk to some people for me to try to find out some job information.
It was kind of a long way to from her initial cold rudeness.
It got me thinking about networks. Almost everywhere we go, people require special stamps, certifications etc. If you ever have to return a piece of merchandise in the states, but don't actually have the warranty information, it's fine, because everyone knows what the warrenty is. I mean, hell, it's a Sony, and it's less than a year old. They know the warranty. Not here. I tried to get my Walkman fixed/replaced, but didn't have the offical warranty from Sony. It was a no go, until we pleaded our case with someone who knew someone. He said he would help us. It was a network, having nothing to do with an implied aggreement between me and Sony... interesting huh? Laura had talked with Lore about job opportunities. One of the first things she asked for was proof that I had worked at the Super Bowl. I mean, in the States people just don't ask for stuff like that. You can either do the job or you can't. If they have doubts about your credibility they can call your references. People here are less ready to do business, unless you have some kind of pedigree.
Laura and I speculate that it has something to do with the kind of people that came over as immigrants, those that were fed up with business as usual, the disenfranchised, the poor, the huddled masses, those without access to the old world network. The hated that system, so they left theirs open. It's just so apparent here. We have contacts here, but anything outside of those contacts ends up being a chore beyond belief.
Keyword for entry one of this jounal is Networks.
Today, Laura and I went to San Sebastian computer shopping with the dual purpose of looking for information concerning computer jobs in San Sebastian. We didn't meet with much success but the owner of one store told us to send him a resume and he'd take a look and maybe pass it along.
We walked and walked all over looking at the various colors of fall adorning the city streets. Red helmeted municipal guards garbed in riot gear started gathering in town plazas and corners. Camouflaged civil guards stood in bands of three with their hands in their pockets, gray hand held communicators abuzz with static. Basque civil police also patrolled sectors in their sky blue uniforms with flat black berets and sweaters.
Signs painted in vivid red and back adorned the rails that bounded the street corners as groups of young people conversed and milled about. Their multicolored backpacks were all stuffed full looking perhaps a bit too heavy for their thin shoulders.
It was a day of strike and the student organizations decided upon the issue and time. They chose Friday and the issue of classroom size as a dollop atop their weekend dessert.
Across the street people stood in a row holding a sign in Basque blocking the entryway to a local bank, Banco Bilbao Viscaya (BBV) . I thought to myself that such a gathering designed to disrupt business would not occur in the U.S. They would at least force them to gather elsewhere, then I thought of pro-life groups and thought, "well if it means that much to you."
These colorful days in the city, of blowing breeze, noisy energetic kids, and vivid reminders of government gave me much to think about, about my time in Korea, where I saw the same thing, a weekly clash with riot police in full regalia, where students spouted the same rhetoric of oppression and injustice.
In the U.S., student unions spent their time trying to figure out how to spend the beer money, cheap and plentiful Milwaukee's Best, or expensive and savory Heineken, and the closest thing to civil protest is the spring turnabout dance.
Both Korea and Spain have been oppressed from the inside, and from without. But then I thought that the youths were not old enough to really remember Franco, but then they are their parents children.
Maybe it's a constant reminder that the people are there. Maybe the issues aren't well timed or poignant, but "hey here we are." It's a holdover, a culture created by those that would ignore them believing that the individual didn't matter. Well it's not the individual, stupid, it's the group, the mob, the burning tires, ransacked buses and trains. The individual doesn't matter, but you've got to listen to us.
Something bothered me about the whole scene, sickened me. Can't quite put a finger on it. I guess the only thing I can come up with is that while the masses figure that the individual is ignored that the only way to be heard is to make noise, yelling with collective anger, they are validating the silence of the individual, blending the single voice into that angry chorus, oppressing, drowning, and corrupting.
It reminds me of child abuse. Just because a child is beaten doesn't mean that they are less likely to beat.
I am remembering some thoughts I had the other night before going to bed, talking to Laura, and thinking about conversations we had with Iker, Mari Fran, Unai, and Oroitz. We had a great time, working with their computer, fixing it, explaining, all the while speaking (and struggling) in Spanish.
One of the conversations that we got into was about packaging, specifically how stuff is packaged in the U.S. in no less than 13 layers, and how stores are open 24 hours a day. Wow, they said, half in shock at the convenience, but maybe a little incredulous as to why someone would want to shop at 3 in the morning and want to work that hard to get at a Twinkie (which they don't even know anything about anyway).
Mostly stuff here isn't any more expensive than in the States. It varies a bit with certain items, but overall, pretty much the same. Over here, though, they are only open for a short time, everything is closed by eight, and the world doesn't even exist on Sunday. You want to shop, forget it, not even the supercenter grocery stores are open on Sunday. So, if they have shorter hours, that means fewer employees, less overhead, etc, how do they get away with the same prices?
Maybe in America, we do pay more. Interesting thoughts I was having before going to bed, huh? Maybe we pay in ways that we don't even dream. There's a family where both the young wife and husband work. He works nights at the factory, she works in the day as a secretary. Between them they spend a total of an hour and a half together with their child. To make ends meet, they both have to work, live in a poorer area, and pay someone else to raise their kid (or give him to grandma).
We're so production happy, we forget what we're really producing, and why. Oh, no, stop the world, there's a shortage on convertibles. Man, we've got to run that production plant 24 hours a day to keep up with the demand.... I mean, geez, we produce more in the States, than most of the world combined.... but why? What is it we want.
More thoughts. The U.S. is made up of the disenfranchized, the poor, the outcast, the out of the loop. We left our respective countries (or were dragged) to come here with nothing, no friends, little money, only ourselves. Later we would try to prove ourselves to those around us who arrived before and those across the waters. Hey, we would say, we're doing better than you are. Look, you said we'd never make it, but look. And with a collective thumbing of the nose, we produced, and consumed, and produced some more of the biggest, most expensive, most inovative, and plentiful products the earth has ever given birth to.
Now the world is playing catch up. English is the most sought after language here, the most expensive. France only a few miles away, seems to not be as alluring as companies doing business in English. Stop signs say STOP... not halto, or pare, like in Latin America. Commercials mimick those seen the U.S., People are watching more and more T.V., owning more and more cars, and consuming more and more and more and more.
For example, a nationwide T.V. station here CANAL + spends most of it's day as a scrambled signal. It can only be seen if you pay around 12,000 pesetas/month (about $100) to get the descrambling equipment. Well geez, why the hell would they make it so expensive. They could earn tons more money if they lowered the price and put it in everyone's houses.
But here, only bars can afford to subscribe. People, to watch a big futbol game, go to the bar, hang out with their friends, drink a few drinks, and socialize. It's a market that is dictated by the culture. Perhaps the CANAL + people don't have any idea to put it in peoples houses, because that's just not the way it's done... it's not a market where people pay for programming. It's a market for the bars alone.
Now an American company would say, "Geez, that stupid. We could really make some money here." And they'd put cable (or satelite) in everyone's houses, make tons of money, put CANAL + out of business, and the people would eat it up, because now they wouldn't have to go the bar when they wanted to watch TV. People love convenience, and they don't often love things that are good for them.
Bars start drying up, because during normal peak hours, people are at home watching the big games from the comfort of their own living rooms. You would find that bars would go from being one every five or six feet, to being one per block, or one every two or three blocks, and they'd be places you go just to drink and watch Mike Tyson get his ass kicked/or kick some ass.
People would require more munchies and things at home, so more supermarkets would be build, they'd finally get Cheetos here (that's another story), refrigerators would be bigger to accomodate all those things you buy at 3 am. Then the houses would have to be bigger. Instead of going out to change your mind, you'd need more space in this new place that you spend the majority of your time when your not working. Wow, we're gonna have to build some new houses.
SO now there's a building boom. People are employed, (right now unemployment is at 33%), goods are cheaper (we're lead to believe they would be), munchies are plentiful, everybody had two chickens in every pot, two cars, wonderful things... and child care springs up. "What's that!" they would say.
Just you wait.