Making the Best of Bad Spanish

The poverty of my Spanish is matched by my boldness in using it here in the state of Michoacan, Mexico.

But it works, kind of.

In fact, it works like the game Jeopardy. Remember, Jeopardy is the game where the contestants try to guess a phrase from a few letters on a board.

So, here in Michoacan, I ask a question, in Spanish, like "Where can I find the bus to Santa Clara del Cobre?" Then my courteous would-be explainer answers in Spanish. But he answers too fast and with too many strange words for me to understand. But usually, I can spear a few words. So, just like a contestant on Jeopardy, I try to assemble those parts into a coherent answer.

So I asked a man in a minibus who was ferrying passengers that very question: where was there a bus to Santa Clara del Cobre? From his soup of words, I heard "take" and "Santa Clara del Cobre". He gestured me into the van. "Ah," I thought, "what luck. It must be on his way." I asked how much it cost, and he answered six pesos. That was more luck: the guidebook said it cost seven pesos to travel from Patzcuaro to Santa Clara del Cobre. Which seems cheap for a half-hour journey. (One peso is nine cents.)

We traveled for about five minutes. Then he pulled over and gestured behind the minibus. There, there was another minibus with the words on the windshield, "Santa Clara del Cobre." So he charged me, to get to the right bus, almost as much as I expected to pay to make the whole journey. The fink.

A young man stood outside the Santa Clara del Cobre bus. I told him where I was going, and he handed me a perforated ticket and gestured me onto the minibus. I climbed in and waited to depart, sitting on a bench along one side of the minibus, examining the other passengers.

Eventually, I looked toward the front of the minibus. The driver was looking at me. It seemed as if he had been doing that for a while. He pointed at the young man who had handed me the perforated ticket, who was in the minibus and also looking at me. I handed the young man the minibus fare. He thanked me and stepped out of the minibus, and we were on our way.

I thought it was odd that the minibus driver should just look at me to get my attention, instead of saying something. I do not speak Spanish well, but I am not deaf.

After a time, I asked the driver if Santa Clara del Cobre was near. From his facial expression, he looked like he was mentally wrestling with how to answer, and then he gestured forward ahead of the bus. I took this to mean that we were close.

He might have simply said "Si", and I would have understood. But apparently he believed that Americans speak no Spanish. And he was unwilling or unable to alter his understanding of the linguistic universe based on the demonstration of my poor Spanish.

We arrived at Santa Clara del Cobre. The driver stopped the minibus next to the copper bust of the founding patron of the copper industry of this locale: Bishop Quiroga. Then, the driver pronounce his only word to me: "Ticket!" I handed him the perforated ticket, which he tore and returned my half.

So here I am in Santa Clara del Cobre, practicing my Spanish, depending upon the patience and good will of the local populace to tolerate its simplicity.

And loving it.