I did a bad thing last night... I think I even broke the law. My turmoil over it kept me from falling asleep, as I played and replayed the scene in my head. The only thing that allayed my anxiety was Rich's glee over what I did.
Last month I was away in the United States visiting family for over 2 weeks. Each night when I talked with Rich on Skype, he sounded lonely and unhappy. The worst part for him was not my absence, though, but the unceasing NOISE in our neighborhood. Rich is a quiet, contemplative man and after a long day of teaching economics to Latin American teenagers (which he describes as "like trying to stab someone with a rope") he needs quiet. I think he could bear it f it were only the planes flying out from the nearby airport, the birds and geckos that screech morning and evening, or the thunder that makes one's chest tremble. But add to these the incessant car alarms (that never mean burglary), the honking of taxis and school buses, and the late night parties that spill out into the street, and it pushes him over the edge. My kind, considerate, funny husband becomes an angry lunatic.
Worst of all are the barking dogs. When we were looking for a house to buy we had a running joke with our realtor. We wanted a block with NO DOGS. And of course what happened was that we bought a house in a block with no dogs, and now, a year later, there are at least half a dozen. Panamanians who buy a house in this neighborhood first build a wall around it, and then get a dog. They are quite worried about robbers and the dogs are procured more for protection of property than for pets.
Our next door neighbor got a little mutt recently that is mostly cute and friendly, but goes nuts when the neighborhood stray cats come around. Our neighbor directly across the street got a large dog which we seldom see or hear. A neighbor down the block has a dog that barks only when the other dogs start barking, but when this happens, he is the loudest of all. And then there's the neighbor diagonally across from us whose dog has put us over the top. He has a tiny little chihuahua, which barks like crazy, but only when it is outside, and a large pit bull whose deep, hostile bark can penetrate any closed window and interrupt even the loudest TV program. The pit bull lives outdoors when the family is not at home, which is much of the time. Whenever the dog is home alone, it barks incessantly.
We wondered if our neighbor realized that his dog barks so much when he is not home, since, by definition, he isn't there to hear it. On many evenings Rich or I have walked across the street to see what was causing the dog to bark so constantly, only to have it turn toward us, snarling behind its gate, and bark even louder. The noise is unnerving because it sounds so angry. Rich did an Internet search and found an article explaining why barking dogs are so annoying, from the physical and neurological effects to the emotional and hormonal impacts.
Last night I was really tired after a week of company and a busy day of chores following our guests' departure. I was looking forward to reading myself quietly to sleep, but at 9 pm the pit bull was in full chorus and I could neither concentrate on my book nor go to bed. I got a bottle of cold drinking water and walked to the nearby park to look at the mountains and the stars. I strolled up and down the nearby streets, hoping that by the time I got back our neighbor would have come home and taken his dog inside. Twenty minutes later, I walked back toward our house and the dog was still holding forth. Rich was out in the middle of the street, staring at the dog and shaking his head. There was a car in the driveway, but the house was dark, so we assumed that no one was home. As I reached the house, all of a sudden I stepped up to the gate behind which the pit bull was lunging, and squirted him with some cool water from my bottle. He was momentarily silent, and retreated from the gate. Rich and I went into our house and I got ready for bed as the dog resumed barking.
About fifteen minutes later, our doorbell rang. Rich opened the door and I heard a man's angry voice begin berating Rich and me for trespassing on his property and for squirting his dog. He went on and on, as Rich listened quietly, interjecting only a question now and then, such as: "Do you know that your dog barks for hours and hours when you are not home?" And: "Are you aware that there are children and workers who live on this block who have to go to bed early and get up early?" The man said that if we didn't like the noise we should move to Cerro Azul! I was in my nightgown, so I stood inside the front door, listening, ready to try to defend Rich if if got ugly. After the man's wrath was spent, he stalked down our steps, aross the street, and into his house. Rich came inside and I took his hand.
"I'm so sorry!" I said.
"What? NO! Don't be sorry! I'm not sorry at all!"
"But what I did was wrong. I should have gone over to talk with them about the problem instead of acting out. The only thing is, we've had every indication from how that guy treats his family that he wouldn't have been receptive, and I would have struggled more than ever with my Spanish in front of such a hostile audience."
"OK, but I am going to look up whether or not there is a law in Panama against dogs barking at all hours!"
Rich spent the next hour happily surfing the Net looking up barking dogs, dog whistles, Panamanian law, and related topics. I went to bed.
The dog was silent.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Too Noisy!
The noise here is driving Rich nuts. It bothers me from time to time, but not nearly as much as it bothers him. Car alarms, barking dogs, fireworks, drunken singing, loud parties, honking horns, unmufflered engines, weed whackers, children shouting, children crying, couples arguing, radios and TVs blaring... And every sound ricochets off the tiled and cemented surfaces of our neighborhood.
Rich has such a restless kind of intelligence that I have always had a hunch there is too much "noise" already in his own head to tolerate much from outside. He entertains his students by finding cube roots of large numbers in seconds without a calculator. He does "evil" Sudokus for fun. He dismisses my theory, preferring to subscribe to a "social decency" norm that Panama simply does not share. We argue about cultural relativism, social norms, and the line between customs and bad manners. It is clear to me that we shouldn't ever live in this urban a setting again... unless Rich goes deaf.
At home in Baltimore this summer we were amazed by the QUIET. Our old, suburban neighborhood has giant trees and so much more greenery than pavement that sounds are muffled. I remember feeling a sense of peace and relief at this lack of noise, even while missing the awareness of everyday life going on around us.
So the question is, is Latin American, or Panamanian, culture generally noisier than American culture? We have some friends who live in Barcelona, Spain who are driven half mad by the noisiness of their neighborhood. So that's one tiny piece of evidence that hispanic life enjoys or tolerates more ambient noise. But then again, New York City is a hotbed of sound, which argues more for the geographic density theory. Panamanians tend to live in larger family units and in smaller houses than comparably incomed Americans. Most of the houses in this neighborhood have three bedrooms, which house a couple, their several children, and a grandparent or maid. The more people in the smaller a space, the more noise. Plus, the houses are so close together, separated by a mere few feet of sidewalk, and sometimes a wall. We had thought that the wall our next door neighbors built would keep some of their hubub on their side and out of our ears, but not really. The wall provides another echo-producing surface for the loud TV, alarm clock, shower singing, and dish clinking.
One particularly noisy evening Rich was exasperated by a loud party across the street. He went out onto the front porch to send a psychic glare of disapproval to the happy, oblivious revelers. Our next door neighbor also stepped outside to smoke his late evening cigarette. Rich greeted him and said, "Such noise!" The neighbor looked at him in surprise. "What noise?" He said.
Rich has such a restless kind of intelligence that I have always had a hunch there is too much "noise" already in his own head to tolerate much from outside. He entertains his students by finding cube roots of large numbers in seconds without a calculator. He does "evil" Sudokus for fun. He dismisses my theory, preferring to subscribe to a "social decency" norm that Panama simply does not share. We argue about cultural relativism, social norms, and the line between customs and bad manners. It is clear to me that we shouldn't ever live in this urban a setting again... unless Rich goes deaf.
At home in Baltimore this summer we were amazed by the QUIET. Our old, suburban neighborhood has giant trees and so much more greenery than pavement that sounds are muffled. I remember feeling a sense of peace and relief at this lack of noise, even while missing the awareness of everyday life going on around us.
So the question is, is Latin American, or Panamanian, culture generally noisier than American culture? We have some friends who live in Barcelona, Spain who are driven half mad by the noisiness of their neighborhood. So that's one tiny piece of evidence that hispanic life enjoys or tolerates more ambient noise. But then again, New York City is a hotbed of sound, which argues more for the geographic density theory. Panamanians tend to live in larger family units and in smaller houses than comparably incomed Americans. Most of the houses in this neighborhood have three bedrooms, which house a couple, their several children, and a grandparent or maid. The more people in the smaller a space, the more noise. Plus, the houses are so close together, separated by a mere few feet of sidewalk, and sometimes a wall. We had thought that the wall our next door neighbors built would keep some of their hubub on their side and out of our ears, but not really. The wall provides another echo-producing surface for the loud TV, alarm clock, shower singing, and dish clinking.
One particularly noisy evening Rich was exasperated by a loud party across the street. He went out onto the front porch to send a psychic glare of disapproval to the happy, oblivious revelers. Our next door neighbor also stepped outside to smoke his late evening cigarette. Rich greeted him and said, "Such noise!" The neighbor looked at him in surprise. "What noise?" He said.
Panama's Public Nursing Home
I saw her as soon as I passed through the large front gates of the Asilo Bolivar. Slender and agile, she toted three bags, as if ready to leave on a trip at any moment. She peered out from behind a large tree, shot me a gap-toothed smile, and motioned to me to follow her. I sought a nod of permission from the security guard, with whom I had been chatting while awaiting my friend, Iriela, for this Saturday visit. He waved me in.
The largest public nursing home in Panama City, this institution dates back 125 years. Church and state are seamlessly intertwined here, with the facility government-owned, but staffed by nuns. There is a large two-story women's pavilion and a neighboring men's pavilion, separated by a fence, each housing nearly 100 souls. I have only been inside the women's pavilion, as it is where Iriela feels most comfortable, and I am her guest for these visits.
I followed the old woman, who glanced back to make sure I was coming. I wondered how she had escaped the walled garden surrounding the women's pavilion, as we were still on an outer driveway. Presumably someone knew her whereabouts? She lugged her belongings to a low wall beside a loading dock behind the administration building, where some workers were piling bulk-buy packages of paper towels, toilet paper, and diapers onto a pallet. She perched on the wall and nodded at me. I sat next to her, said good morning, and asked her name. She kissed me hello in the traditional Panamanian manner, and mumbled something, so I said my name in turn. I asked her if she knew about the festival that was about to begin, celebrating the Week of the Older Adult. She mumbled a few phrases companionably and then paused. My turn. I decided to switch from questions to narrative, since I wasn't able to understand her. I told her about my family, our stay in Panama, and my interest in the stories of older Panamanians. She gazed at me and seemed to take it all in. When I stood up once to look up the drive to see if Iriela had arrived, she laid a hand on my forearm gently, as if to urge me to stay. I smiled and sat back down. She smiled and visibly relaxed.
A second resident came up to us, dressed in a brightly flowered dress, sipping a can of soda. She greeted me in a friendly way and joined the conversation. Her speech was only a little easier to understand than my first companion, but I did get that she was excited about the festival, and tired from the heat. When I spoke, I turned back and forth between the two women, to include them both, but Ms. Flowery Dress waved her hand at Ms. Tote Bags and said, "You can't talk to her! She doesn't talk." I said we each “talk” in our own way, to which she laughed merrily. I continued to address them both, wondering who was getting what from this exchange. Ms. Tote Bags eyed her bags nervously, as if worried that Ms. Flowery Dress was about to make off with them.
Iriela arrived into this scene, together with her 14 year old daughter, Camilla, whom I had not met before. I took one look at the lovely girl and knew she was terrified. Together we walked into the gate to the women’s pavilion, trailing Ms. Flowery Dress and Ms. Tote Bags behind us, who came along at our suggestion. I still wasn’t sure whether someone knew they were out here.
Iriela carries a large grocery bag full of little juice boxes and packages of crackers to give to the residents. They chatter excitedly when they see her. Some want to talk, others just reach for the snacks. The women range in age from their late 60s to 90 or so. Some are ambulatory and agile, while others are wheelchair-bound and a few are resting prone on a stretcher.
The building is large and open to the outdoors, and surprisingly cool compared to the sunny garden. Our house traps the midday heat like a little oven, but these grounds have huge, ancient trees that shade the buildings. The entrance to the women’s pavilion opens into a terrace with two rows of chairs facing each other. Half a dozen women are sitting there, talking or just watching a group of young people who are putting up decorations for the festival. The worn linoleum floor is a black and green checkerboard, still clean from one of its several daily moppings. After talking with a resident who is sitting off by herself, I go over and sit beside Camilla, in hopes of setting her at ease. We talk about my learning Spanish and her studying English, and commiserate about the challenges. I ask her if the place seems a little strange and scary to her and she nods, and then smiles. Her mother is such a warm person, and so clearly enjoys chatting with the residents, that before long Camilla relaxes and offers to rub lotion onto a resident’s arthritic hands. Later we walk together toward the dining area and when I stop to talk with a woman I remember from my last visit, she walks on to seek out another resident.
The tiny woman is sitting on a folding chair with her two bandaged ankles propped up on a second chair. She exclaims excitedly “You came back!” and we discuss her ankles and the challenges of immobility. She is very animated, and has the crinkly laugh lines that suggest a good sense of humor. Sure enough. When Iriela approaches, the old woman says, “what are you peddling today?” Iriela says, “Mata-rata for you!” They both laugh delightedly, and then, seeing that I didn’t get the joke, Iriela translates for me. “Mata-rata is rat poison.”
The largest public nursing home in Panama City, this institution dates back 125 years. Church and state are seamlessly intertwined here, with the facility government-owned, but staffed by nuns. There is a large two-story women's pavilion and a neighboring men's pavilion, separated by a fence, each housing nearly 100 souls. I have only been inside the women's pavilion, as it is where Iriela feels most comfortable, and I am her guest for these visits.
I followed the old woman, who glanced back to make sure I was coming. I wondered how she had escaped the walled garden surrounding the women's pavilion, as we were still on an outer driveway. Presumably someone knew her whereabouts? She lugged her belongings to a low wall beside a loading dock behind the administration building, where some workers were piling bulk-buy packages of paper towels, toilet paper, and diapers onto a pallet. She perched on the wall and nodded at me. I sat next to her, said good morning, and asked her name. She kissed me hello in the traditional Panamanian manner, and mumbled something, so I said my name in turn. I asked her if she knew about the festival that was about to begin, celebrating the Week of the Older Adult. She mumbled a few phrases companionably and then paused. My turn. I decided to switch from questions to narrative, since I wasn't able to understand her. I told her about my family, our stay in Panama, and my interest in the stories of older Panamanians. She gazed at me and seemed to take it all in. When I stood up once to look up the drive to see if Iriela had arrived, she laid a hand on my forearm gently, as if to urge me to stay. I smiled and sat back down. She smiled and visibly relaxed.
A second resident came up to us, dressed in a brightly flowered dress, sipping a can of soda. She greeted me in a friendly way and joined the conversation. Her speech was only a little easier to understand than my first companion, but I did get that she was excited about the festival, and tired from the heat. When I spoke, I turned back and forth between the two women, to include them both, but Ms. Flowery Dress waved her hand at Ms. Tote Bags and said, "You can't talk to her! She doesn't talk." I said we each “talk” in our own way, to which she laughed merrily. I continued to address them both, wondering who was getting what from this exchange. Ms. Tote Bags eyed her bags nervously, as if worried that Ms. Flowery Dress was about to make off with them.
Iriela arrived into this scene, together with her 14 year old daughter, Camilla, whom I had not met before. I took one look at the lovely girl and knew she was terrified. Together we walked into the gate to the women’s pavilion, trailing Ms. Flowery Dress and Ms. Tote Bags behind us, who came along at our suggestion. I still wasn’t sure whether someone knew they were out here.
Iriela carries a large grocery bag full of little juice boxes and packages of crackers to give to the residents. They chatter excitedly when they see her. Some want to talk, others just reach for the snacks. The women range in age from their late 60s to 90 or so. Some are ambulatory and agile, while others are wheelchair-bound and a few are resting prone on a stretcher.
The building is large and open to the outdoors, and surprisingly cool compared to the sunny garden. Our house traps the midday heat like a little oven, but these grounds have huge, ancient trees that shade the buildings. The entrance to the women’s pavilion opens into a terrace with two rows of chairs facing each other. Half a dozen women are sitting there, talking or just watching a group of young people who are putting up decorations for the festival. The worn linoleum floor is a black and green checkerboard, still clean from one of its several daily moppings. After talking with a resident who is sitting off by herself, I go over and sit beside Camilla, in hopes of setting her at ease. We talk about my learning Spanish and her studying English, and commiserate about the challenges. I ask her if the place seems a little strange and scary to her and she nods, and then smiles. Her mother is such a warm person, and so clearly enjoys chatting with the residents, that before long Camilla relaxes and offers to rub lotion onto a resident’s arthritic hands. Later we walk together toward the dining area and when I stop to talk with a woman I remember from my last visit, she walks on to seek out another resident.
The tiny woman is sitting on a folding chair with her two bandaged ankles propped up on a second chair. She exclaims excitedly “You came back!” and we discuss her ankles and the challenges of immobility. She is very animated, and has the crinkly laugh lines that suggest a good sense of humor. Sure enough. When Iriela approaches, the old woman says, “what are you peddling today?” Iriela says, “Mata-rata for you!” They both laugh delightedly, and then, seeing that I didn’t get the joke, Iriela translates for me. “Mata-rata is rat poison.”
On Health Care in Panama
10/9/09
Here's my latest idea for a Fulbright fellowship! Travel around to different countries and get sick. Seek health care. Wait in a variety of settings for a variety of services. Get your vital signs taken by an attendant with gizmos you've never seen before. Wait some more. See the kind doctor and mime your symptoms since you can't remember the vocabulary you looked up 10 minutes ago. Listen to his/her carefully enunciated instructions, which seem clear at the time. Leave the clinic and sit outside, searching in your dictionary for something that sounds like what the doctor said to you. Take his/her scrawled prescriptions to the nearest pharmacy and search in your dictionary for something that sounds like what the pharmacist is saying to you. Go home and try to remember the dosage and schedule for the at-least-three medications-per-illness. Begin taking the medicines as you are supposing they were prescribed even if you can't find out anything about them on-line. See if you get better. Record your experiences....
We've been living in Panama for 14 months and so far the health care here has been wonderful. I wish I hadn't needed quite so much of it, but that's not their fault. So far I have had acute heat exhaustion, annoying peri-menopausal symptoms, two bouts of shingles (or something like it), and now, a persistent cough. For all but the menopausal symptoms I went to the little 24-hour clinic located in our neighborhood shopping center. As far as I can tell, they don't take appointments, but I have always been seen, in my turn, in a very reasonable amount of time. The clinic is absolutely bare bones - a simple waiting room with about 12 chairs, an alcove where vital signs are taken, a restroom, and several small exam rooms. The only art in the waiting room is a painting of Jesus on the cross, although the clinic has no explicit religious affiliation. The same efficient, cheerful receptionist has always been there when I arrived, no matter what time of day or evening. (I asked her once if she lives there. She smiled and said sort of.) All but once I have seen the same doctor, a large, handsome Panamanian man who is unfailingly polite and attentive. I don't know for SURE that he is a good doctor, but every time he has treated me I have gotten better, and he makes me feel welcome and cared about (complementing my Spanish as it improves, remembering my last visit, etc.) The clinic probably has a special place in my heart because the first time I went there I was so sick that it felt like they literally saved my life, but even when I am not feeling so awful, I have always felt better mentally when I walk out than I did walking in. I can definitely NOT say that for American health care! Most doctor visits at home leave me feeling foolish, rushed, dissed, or unaddressed. To the extent that mental well-being is an important component of physical health, I would take Panamanian health care any day.
Here's my latest idea for a Fulbright fellowship! Travel around to different countries and get sick. Seek health care. Wait in a variety of settings for a variety of services. Get your vital signs taken by an attendant with gizmos you've never seen before. Wait some more. See the kind doctor and mime your symptoms since you can't remember the vocabulary you looked up 10 minutes ago. Listen to his/her carefully enunciated instructions, which seem clear at the time. Leave the clinic and sit outside, searching in your dictionary for something that sounds like what the doctor said to you. Take his/her scrawled prescriptions to the nearest pharmacy and search in your dictionary for something that sounds like what the pharmacist is saying to you. Go home and try to remember the dosage and schedule for the at-least-three medications-per-illness. Begin taking the medicines as you are supposing they were prescribed even if you can't find out anything about them on-line. See if you get better. Record your experiences....
We've been living in Panama for 14 months and so far the health care here has been wonderful. I wish I hadn't needed quite so much of it, but that's not their fault. So far I have had acute heat exhaustion, annoying peri-menopausal symptoms, two bouts of shingles (or something like it), and now, a persistent cough. For all but the menopausal symptoms I went to the little 24-hour clinic located in our neighborhood shopping center. As far as I can tell, they don't take appointments, but I have always been seen, in my turn, in a very reasonable amount of time. The clinic is absolutely bare bones - a simple waiting room with about 12 chairs, an alcove where vital signs are taken, a restroom, and several small exam rooms. The only art in the waiting room is a painting of Jesus on the cross, although the clinic has no explicit religious affiliation. The same efficient, cheerful receptionist has always been there when I arrived, no matter what time of day or evening. (I asked her once if she lives there. She smiled and said sort of.) All but once I have seen the same doctor, a large, handsome Panamanian man who is unfailingly polite and attentive. I don't know for SURE that he is a good doctor, but every time he has treated me I have gotten better, and he makes me feel welcome and cared about (complementing my Spanish as it improves, remembering my last visit, etc.) The clinic probably has a special place in my heart because the first time I went there I was so sick that it felt like they literally saved my life, but even when I am not feeling so awful, I have always felt better mentally when I walk out than I did walking in. I can definitely NOT say that for American health care! Most doctor visits at home leave me feeling foolish, rushed, dissed, or unaddressed. To the extent that mental well-being is an important component of physical health, I would take Panamanian health care any day.
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