Hammer Time

If you were me you would've done the same. Wouldn't you?

I love Fridays. I have only one class to teach in the middle of the afternoon and that student comes to me. Friday is also feria day. Right now the prices are great. A kilo of fresh, ripe strawberries are only $500. Avocados and tomatoes are also dirt cheap. The feria is one of the highlights of my week. It stretches along three blocks and the atmosphere is great. Everyone calls you buddy, love and sir. Aside from my classroom, it's one of the few places in the whole of Santiago where I don't want to pound the bejaysus out of a native. And I love food.

It's also a place that reminds me how incomprehensible Chilean Spanish actually is. I can communicate with the stall holders easily enough, even obtaining discounts for buying in bulk. What I don't understand is the banter between the campesino stall holders which seems to form a great part of the atmosphere. Lately, however, our feria has been inundated with election campaigners.

So, my Friday was going pretty swimmingly.Got up early, did the laundry, planned my afternoon class, went to the feria, got back from feria, gorged on strawberries while watching the last two episodes of The Wire (Season three - WOW!!), did my class, played some poker online, watched the first episode of The Wire (Season four - what the hell is Snoop saying?), popped out for a six pack, came back and watched the sunset's light show on the Andes from my balcony. My lovely lady arrived home and I impressed her yet again with my culinary skills. She showed her appreciation by reminding me why Latinas rule.

At around midnight we were awoken from our peaceful slumber by a moron screaming something incomprehensible through a microphone. This was followed by high pitched screams. Kids? Bit late for kids, I thought, but it was the weekend. Then came the music. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. The graphics equaliser was firmly set to AsMuchBassAsYouCanHandleMuthaFucka. It seemed that music served to punctuate whatever the moron on the microphone had to say. Not that it mattered, but it was impossible to understand what he was saying. It was like he had a mouthful full of cotton balls and a sock over the mike. It was too much. A call to the conserjería was in order.

Now, I know dealing with the conserje in our building is about as frustrating as a trio of chubby-ankled Gringas in Starbucks cackling at the top of their voices. 'Al tiro' was the reply. I waited. I have to admit, there was a noticeable dip in volume but this slowly crept up again. Another call to reception. 'Well, I told them', came the feeble excuse. I could picture the shoulder shrug. I put the phone down and resigned myself to the fact that the sensible Gringo will have to sort this out.

The apartment complex I live in consists of two buildings. A conservative estimate would say about 500 tenants. Were there other complaints? Was anybody else bothered by this? The answers were undoubtedly 'yes'. The problem is that Chileans try to avoid face to face confrontation. Once you bear your teeth to a Chilean, they back down. Chileans are sheep. None too clever and only act as a group.

It turns out that the noise was coming from the top of the smaller building in the complex. I went to investigate. By the time I'd reached the roof, the noise was unbearable. Were these people deaf? A lady immediately came to see me. I think the fingers in my ears told her what I wanted to say. We parted with her telling me that there was only 13 minutes left. I'm a decent guy. OK, I thought.

Now this wasn't my first encounter with a neighbour over a noise issue. I have a policy about how I deal with these situations. My neighbour two floors up can confirm this. The first time I visit you, soy caballero. The second time I visit you, no soy caballero. There is no third visit.

Again, there was a significant dip in the volume but just as I was draining my cup of tea....BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, screeeeeeeaaam! Mother of God, those poor kids! For some reason, I still assumed this was a kids birthday party. A second visit was in order. Obviously, in non-caballero mode, I needed to tool up. Since the encounter with my neighbour two floors up I have replaced my weapon of choice, a kitchen knife, with a hammer. It's only a prop. I was never intending to hurt another human being or Chilean for that matter.

Down the elevator I went. Crossed the courtyard. Up the elevator. Now, I had no intention of threatening any kids. My mind was firmly set on that moronic DJ whose auditory system had obviously collapsed some time ago. I got to my destination. It was very dark but the glow of the laptop betrayed him. With the hammer poised I screamed in his face in my worst Spanish: Turn it down or I start breaking stuff . I was so angry that I couldn't think of any more Spanish so I said it again in English. He turned it down a little. MORE. He looked across to the dance floor. My eyes followed. Where were the kids? I could only see mothers. Then, I looked a little closer. Despite the lack of light, I was able to make out the shape of a rather well toned black man's arse glowing from the copious amounts of baby oil that had been massaged in to it. It was a hen night. A batchelorette party. Jesus.

Two ladies came to speak to me. A little inebriated of course. The short dumpy one accused me of not knowing the rules of the complex and the rather more attractive one tried to reason with me. One of the strippers sidled up to see what the problem was. He was clothed. I explained that if there wasn't a significant reduction in the music that I'd have to call the cops. Smashing stuff up didn't seem like an option anymore, nor was it to begin with really. The gordita was still twittering on about something and really annoying me. To prove my intention I pulled out my mobile and called my lady and instructed her to call los pacos. It seemed to be the only option. On the roof we seemed to be going around in circles; As is the way with tipsy folk.

By the time, I'd reached my apartment the noise had ceased. Completely, it seemed. 15 minutes later we saw speakers and equipment being carried out. I thought that it would seem a little silly if the police were to come now. That's if they ever were. Nevertheless, the pacos were called off.

The next day there was a pre-scheduled residents' meeting. While we waited for latecomers, the conversation turned to the racket that had gone on the night before. One couple, who lived a few floors below the party, complained that they couldn't sleep. I asked them what they did about it. Called the conserje. And did that work? Unfortunately, no. Then what did you do. What can you do? (cue: shoulder shrug) Well, you could've.........a hand placed gently on my arm told me that now wasn't the time. I looked at her. Yeah, you're right, baby. Are we going to the supermarket after this?