There is a reason why God decided that women will be the sex to bear children. It is so simple. We women have a pain threshold that no man could ever match. I think I read somewhere that if it were up to men to bring children into the world; the human race would die out within a few generations. Today was a case in point.
Both of our children have to have their wisdom teeth removed. Charles at 18 is about the right age and Emma at 15, is totally ahead of the game – but then she always has been.
Now that we are here in Brazil, I wanted to be the “nursing” mum, so rather than them have it done in the United States, I thought it would be best all round if it were done here and I could look after them post operatively and do the “mummy” thing.
A new friend here had raved about her dentist and so a few phone calls later, we had a recommendation for an oral surgeon. Not sure that our dentist in the United States was totally comfortable with the idea of us doing this but as long as the teeth were removed…. “Whatever”.
So a couple of weeks ago we went for our pre op consultation. This in itself was an experience. Given that my Portuguese is still pretty basic and her English ran to about 10 words we actually communicated pretty well. Thank goodness that words like “anesthetic,” “allergies” and “analgesic” translate so easily.
So the appointments were set for this morning. I checked with Marcelo, “how long to get from the house to the dentist?” He advised about an hour allowing for traffic. I then added on 15 minutes but forgot that he had already added on 15 minutes so we were 30 minutes early.
The dentist was quite clearly relived to see that in all the communication, we had arrived on the right day at the right time. I also showed her the medications she had prescribed and she was also relieved to see that the medications to be taken “one hour before surgery” had been ingested.
But back to the original point.
When asked “who is going first?” Emma put up her hand. No doubt she was game. She went in and when gestured by the surgeon to sit behind her in the operating surgery, I gracefully declined. My own blood I can cope with, someone else’s I am not too good.
Fifty minutes later, she emerged. Actually the nurse emerged first with a thumbs up –all was fine. Emma came out with her newly extracted teeth in a tiny plastic yellow handbag, clutching an ice pack to her face. She proclaimed that it "wasn’t as bad as she thought," and sat down to read the book she had brought with her
Phew – I thought.
So in went Charles. I heard the howls of pain and after a few minutes couldn’t bear it and so went into the surgery to see the surgeon with only the anesthetic in hand. Seems that the pre anesthetic wasn’t doing its stuff and Charles was in pain from the needle. I took a deep breath and went back outside. Every ten minutes that passed without a howl from Charles was a bonus. It got to a point where I would gladly have traded places with him to relieve him of the pain and discomfort.
So we made it home. Painkillers every four hours. Charles is counting the minutes until the next one. He is lying on the sofa, milking the pain for all it is worth. Emma’s recall is that it wasn’t too bad. Charles wants us to know every gory detail. Both have swollen mouths, discomfort and the thought that in a few month’s time they will be doing this all over again.
Charles is terrified at the thought.
Emma’s mantra is “suck it up”.
I rest my case. Women really are from Venus. Men really are from Mars
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Go Karts Sunday July 11, 2010
I slept very fitfully last night and when I did sleep, I had nightmares. Shivers go down my spine when I think about the events of yesterday, which I hasten to add were all of my own making and nothing to do with the security of living here.
On Friday it was Charles’s 18th birthday and for a treat, we suggested that we take him Go–Karting. We had done this in the States and Steve recalled doing something similar in the UK. In the States, Charles did it when he was about 14 or 15 years of age, so I didn’t give it a second thought about allowing Emma to participate in her brother’s fun day out.
So it was booked and we headed off. It has always been our intention that I would back out at the last minute and Marcelo would be able to take my place. He was I think quite genuinely surprised and pleased to be included.
I started having misgivings about Emma when I saw just how fast these Karts were going and how easy it was to lose control and spin off the track. The track was very long and had several quite long straights and even more hairpin bends than Silverstone. When we arrived, we watched a race that had only 6 participants so I thought at the very least, Emma could bimble around the track keep out of everyone’s way.
They went off and got kitted out in overalls, helmets, balaclavas and gloves. Emma was in a very fetching pink with the word “Dolly” written on the back. It wasn’t a joke, but rather the name of a local juice being advertised, but I guess they didn’t realize the significance of the translation because all the men’s suits had the same logo on them.
There were the usual waivers to be signed but as they were in Portuguese we had no idea what they were saying, although I could hazard a guess. They went off for briefing , again in Portuguese and it suddenly dawned on me that I was about to let my 15 year old hurtle round a track with a machine that it is claimed could reach 85 kilometers (53 miles) per hour, wearing nothing but a canvas suit and helmet for protection.
I should have called a halt there and then, especially when I saw that instead of 6 drivers there were 21 for their race. I also saw that
a. Emma was the only girl present
b. She was clearly one of the youngest
c. At least 12 of the other drivers were kitted out in professional looking leather overalls with their own helmets, gloves and special shoes. This was something they did regularly and with serious intent.
I quickly came to the conclusion that this wasn’t going to be a nice gentle trip in a go-kart. This race was going to be Formula 1 with testosterone.
The idea was that there would be two or three warm up laps, during which time each driver would post a lap time to determine who got pole position on the grid.
Emma, bless her, managed to hit a pole in the pit lane, stall her engine and made it out of the pits by going over several concrete ramps rather than driving on the tarmac.
I was horrified when I saw the speed at which these men raced their karts. In front of me there was the end of the longest straight, followed by a very wide sweeping bend. I wasn’t at all concerned about Steve, Charles or Marcelo, I could only think about Emma and how absolutely stupid I was to even think that she could do it. She made it round this first bend, and the second but on the third, she flew straight up a bank and ended up hitting a tree. The boys and Marcelo came and went round twice more before I next saw Emma. She rounded the bend in front of me, but didn’t make it and hurtled off the track into (actually through) the tyre wall.
I screamed, and then I screamed again…….and then some more for good measure.
Fortunately, the marshals were stopping everyone to line them up for the start of the race proper. These remember were just the warm up laps. I couldn’t get onto the track because of the barriers but I leant over and I screamed at Steve to get her out, I screamed at Marcelo to tell the marshals to get her out and I screamed at every marshal I could see to get her out. My next plan was to jump the barrier and drag her out myself. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary.
Emma was fine, pride a bit dented but none the worse for wear. It turned out that her brakes were pretty suspect and in the two laps that she did manage, as well as the post, the tree and the tyre wall, she was also hit by another driver and, at a different bend, ended up spinning. Steve also saw her sitting majestically in her kart in a location which no one has ever been before.
She was glad that she had tried, but her biggest disappointment of the day was that there was no photographic evidence of the crash to post on Face Book. Teenagers have weird priorities these days. I was terrified for her, but she thought it was cool.
On Friday it was Charles’s 18th birthday and for a treat, we suggested that we take him Go–Karting. We had done this in the States and Steve recalled doing something similar in the UK. In the States, Charles did it when he was about 14 or 15 years of age, so I didn’t give it a second thought about allowing Emma to participate in her brother’s fun day out.
So it was booked and we headed off. It has always been our intention that I would back out at the last minute and Marcelo would be able to take my place. He was I think quite genuinely surprised and pleased to be included.
I started having misgivings about Emma when I saw just how fast these Karts were going and how easy it was to lose control and spin off the track. The track was very long and had several quite long straights and even more hairpin bends than Silverstone. When we arrived, we watched a race that had only 6 participants so I thought at the very least, Emma could bimble around the track keep out of everyone’s way.
They went off and got kitted out in overalls, helmets, balaclavas and gloves. Emma was in a very fetching pink with the word “Dolly” written on the back. It wasn’t a joke, but rather the name of a local juice being advertised, but I guess they didn’t realize the significance of the translation because all the men’s suits had the same logo on them.
There were the usual waivers to be signed but as they were in Portuguese we had no idea what they were saying, although I could hazard a guess. They went off for briefing , again in Portuguese and it suddenly dawned on me that I was about to let my 15 year old hurtle round a track with a machine that it is claimed could reach 85 kilometers (53 miles) per hour, wearing nothing but a canvas suit and helmet for protection.
I should have called a halt there and then, especially when I saw that instead of 6 drivers there were 21 for their race. I also saw that
a. Emma was the only girl present
b. She was clearly one of the youngest
c. At least 12 of the other drivers were kitted out in professional looking leather overalls with their own helmets, gloves and special shoes. This was something they did regularly and with serious intent.
I quickly came to the conclusion that this wasn’t going to be a nice gentle trip in a go-kart. This race was going to be Formula 1 with testosterone.
The idea was that there would be two or three warm up laps, during which time each driver would post a lap time to determine who got pole position on the grid.
Emma, bless her, managed to hit a pole in the pit lane, stall her engine and made it out of the pits by going over several concrete ramps rather than driving on the tarmac.
I was horrified when I saw the speed at which these men raced their karts. In front of me there was the end of the longest straight, followed by a very wide sweeping bend. I wasn’t at all concerned about Steve, Charles or Marcelo, I could only think about Emma and how absolutely stupid I was to even think that she could do it. She made it round this first bend, and the second but on the third, she flew straight up a bank and ended up hitting a tree. The boys and Marcelo came and went round twice more before I next saw Emma. She rounded the bend in front of me, but didn’t make it and hurtled off the track into (actually through) the tyre wall.
I screamed, and then I screamed again…….and then some more for good measure.
Fortunately, the marshals were stopping everyone to line them up for the start of the race proper. These remember were just the warm up laps. I couldn’t get onto the track because of the barriers but I leant over and I screamed at Steve to get her out, I screamed at Marcelo to tell the marshals to get her out and I screamed at every marshal I could see to get her out. My next plan was to jump the barrier and drag her out myself. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary.
Emma was fine, pride a bit dented but none the worse for wear. It turned out that her brakes were pretty suspect and in the two laps that she did manage, as well as the post, the tree and the tyre wall, she was also hit by another driver and, at a different bend, ended up spinning. Steve also saw her sitting majestically in her kart in a location which no one has ever been before.
She was glad that she had tried, but her biggest disappointment of the day was that there was no photographic evidence of the crash to post on Face Book. Teenagers have weird priorities these days. I was terrified for her, but she thought it was cool.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Driving Thursday July 8, 2010
Life in Sao Paulo is gaining some semblance of normality. We have routines, favourite shops, restaurants and entertainment and I have even started getting involved with local charities and organizations. Days have some sort of structure that leads one to believe that life is “normal” albeit in a foreign land.
But, there are some things that will always mean that we are “foreigners” here. Not least, because the minute anyone sees me let alone hears me mangling the Portuguese language, it is obvious that I am not Brazilian.
A lot of ex-pats here drive themselves. I take my hat off to them because I have absolutely no intention of getting a local driving license and attempting to do the same. This is said by someone who drove in the Philippines, in Istanbul and could give a Parisian a run for their money around the Arc De Triomphe. No, there is something about Sao Paulo traffic , road works and pot holes that leads me to believe it is best left to the professionals and those courageous or is it mad enough to drive themselves.
So, what I am about to tell you here is anecdotal, stories from people that I have met that have gone through the process themselves.
It seems that there are three ways to obtain a drivers license. The first is to actually go through the process, take the test and do it the hard way. The second is to pay someone to take the test for you and the third is just to pay for it.
It is, or so I am told, a common insult to shout out the window of a car to another driver “I see you paid someone to get your license”. The inference being that their driving is so bad that they couldn’t possibly have passed a test on their own account.
I also heard from a friend who’s eldest son is about to go through the process here, that for an “extra” fee, the written part of the test could be taken by someone else. My friend, who actually wants his son to learn to drive, was pretty appalled. It turns out that the government has introduced a system whereby before taking any part of the written test, you have to have your fingerprints taken and scanned into the machine. It seems that the cheats have devised a way of making gelatin fingerprints so that the machine can be duped into thinking that the legitimate person is taking the test.
But the best story I have heard so far involves getting points on one’s license. As in most countries, various offences carry a points system and too many points can disqualify a license. An admirable system you might think to get the bad drivers off the road. Well, someone I was talking to told me that when she arrived in Sao Paulo, she decided to take a defensive driving course to give her more confidence about driving here. She started talking to the other participants, one of whom was an elderly gentleman, who it turned out, had over 1000 points on his license and was attending the course as part of the system to rehabilitate bad drivers. It turns out that the son of this elderly man had a trucking business and every time any one of the drivers received anything in the way of points, they designated this elderly man as the recipient and so the points were added to the old man’s license. It turns out that this guy doesn’t even drive any more; he just keeps his license to collect points and keep them off the licenses of the truck drivers.
This, it seems, is absolutely legal! Another friend who has 4 children living in the UK has made them all take the Brazilian driving test and get local licenses for the same reason. Her children don’t live here, and chances are that they never will. But their licenses are very handy when either of the parents gets caught speeding and issued with a ticket.
But even some professional drivers have their limits. Next week, I am taking the children to Rio de Janeiro for the weekend and rather than fly up, I thought it would be good to take the coast road, which by all accounts is a beautiful, albeit long drive. We have been thinking about what to do when we get there, whether to send Marcelo back with the car and hire a local driver, or whether to keep Marcelo with us for the weekend.
The decision was rather made for us when Marcelo announced that he really didn’t want to drive in Rio. Sao Paulo, it seems is one thing, Rio is something completely different and even Marcelo has his limits.
But, there are some things that will always mean that we are “foreigners” here. Not least, because the minute anyone sees me let alone hears me mangling the Portuguese language, it is obvious that I am not Brazilian.
A lot of ex-pats here drive themselves. I take my hat off to them because I have absolutely no intention of getting a local driving license and attempting to do the same. This is said by someone who drove in the Philippines, in Istanbul and could give a Parisian a run for their money around the Arc De Triomphe. No, there is something about Sao Paulo traffic , road works and pot holes that leads me to believe it is best left to the professionals and those courageous or is it mad enough to drive themselves.
So, what I am about to tell you here is anecdotal, stories from people that I have met that have gone through the process themselves.
It seems that there are three ways to obtain a drivers license. The first is to actually go through the process, take the test and do it the hard way. The second is to pay someone to take the test for you and the third is just to pay for it.
It is, or so I am told, a common insult to shout out the window of a car to another driver “I see you paid someone to get your license”. The inference being that their driving is so bad that they couldn’t possibly have passed a test on their own account.
I also heard from a friend who’s eldest son is about to go through the process here, that for an “extra” fee, the written part of the test could be taken by someone else. My friend, who actually wants his son to learn to drive, was pretty appalled. It turns out that the government has introduced a system whereby before taking any part of the written test, you have to have your fingerprints taken and scanned into the machine. It seems that the cheats have devised a way of making gelatin fingerprints so that the machine can be duped into thinking that the legitimate person is taking the test.
But the best story I have heard so far involves getting points on one’s license. As in most countries, various offences carry a points system and too many points can disqualify a license. An admirable system you might think to get the bad drivers off the road. Well, someone I was talking to told me that when she arrived in Sao Paulo, she decided to take a defensive driving course to give her more confidence about driving here. She started talking to the other participants, one of whom was an elderly gentleman, who it turned out, had over 1000 points on his license and was attending the course as part of the system to rehabilitate bad drivers. It turns out that the son of this elderly man had a trucking business and every time any one of the drivers received anything in the way of points, they designated this elderly man as the recipient and so the points were added to the old man’s license. It turns out that this guy doesn’t even drive any more; he just keeps his license to collect points and keep them off the licenses of the truck drivers.
This, it seems, is absolutely legal! Another friend who has 4 children living in the UK has made them all take the Brazilian driving test and get local licenses for the same reason. Her children don’t live here, and chances are that they never will. But their licenses are very handy when either of the parents gets caught speeding and issued with a ticket.
But even some professional drivers have their limits. Next week, I am taking the children to Rio de Janeiro for the weekend and rather than fly up, I thought it would be good to take the coast road, which by all accounts is a beautiful, albeit long drive. We have been thinking about what to do when we get there, whether to send Marcelo back with the car and hire a local driver, or whether to keep Marcelo with us for the weekend.
The decision was rather made for us when Marcelo announced that he really didn’t want to drive in Rio. Sao Paulo, it seems is one thing, Rio is something completely different and even Marcelo has his limits.
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