Does Criticizing People In Positions Of Authority Excite You Sexually?

I have suddenly realised why people looked at me aghast and reached for the straightjacket when I told them that after nine years I was going to have another child.

It’s not the midnight feeds or the diaper changing or the fact that I can no longer wear dangly jewellery; it’s the children’s TV programmes. I now have to re-live Playhouse Disney and the Teletubbies.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure, the Teletubbies are all the rage among the infant and pre-school set: a group of plush, amorphous creatures of assorted bright colours; asexual yet thoroughly camp. The big purple one, Tinky Winky, is fond of carrying around a red handbag. They speak in incredibly annoying baby language and are much given to group hugs. Like a recurring nightmare I am now having to watch the Teletubbies not only AGAIN but in Spanish, which I assure you does not improve their adult appeal. And don’t get me started on that purple paedophile Barney...

And speaking of paedophiles, I am officially not one. Or so I assume having just been through a most rigorous psychological testing process while applying to teach at a school here in Lima.

In my other life, I have been through and sat on interview panels, observed a variety of group exercises and participated in assessment centres for jobs involving postings to Iraq, Afghanistan and Somalia. I’ve had interviewees reveal the most amazing personality traits (particularly when asked to illustrate their understanding and appreciation of cultural diversity). I’ve been asked to draw a tree and a picture of a man in the rain by a forensic psychologist. I’ve even been required to play a complicated version of Cluedo with a bunch of Foreign Office types – If we could conclude that it was Miss Scarlet in the study with the candlestick we would presumably be good at figuring out where the roadside bombs were if we happened to be posted to Basra.

But I’ve never experienced such a thorough mental grilling as this one.

It started off innocuously enough. Could I please, asked the pleasant lady school psychologist, draw a picture of a house? Piece of piss. I drew a box with curtained windows, a triangular roof, a door and a welcome mat. I then gratuitously added such peripherals as a swimming pool, a bike lying on the grass, a barbeque grill and some frolicking children. Lady Psych then quizzed me gently about the house. Is it inhabited? Whose is it? Is it in the country or the city? What does it have inside? (A large kitchen and lots of space for books.) I signed my name on the back and we moved on.

Could I please draw a picture of a person in the rain? Now I have come across this before. My theory is that if you leave the poor person in the rain without either raincoat or umbrella you are revealing an unpleasant tendency to be unfeeling or cruel. I therefore gave my person an umbrella and one hand extended to check if the rain was about to let up – meant to demonstrate an optimistic outlook – driving the point home by plastering a large grin on the face. I was also very careful to include ears. I had read somewhere that psychiatrists leap upon the absence of ears as evidence of some subconscious statement or the other.

My efforts got a noncommittal smile from the Psych and a request that I arrange six or seven coloured cards into the order which I found most appealing. Having started with orange and ended with a kind of boring beige (with black and white somewhere spaced out in the middle), I moved on to a computer test which required me to rate myself on a scale of one (rarely/never) to five (frequently/always) in reply to statements like: “I often see and hear things that other people do not” or “I sometimes feel that I am outside of my own body”.

Bear in mind that all these test are administered in Spanish so one has to beware of subtle linguistic pitfalls. For example, were they asking if I had had experiences of being out of my own body or in someone else's? Or maybe experiences with someone else´s body – which would be an entirely different kettle of fish. One can´t be too careful.

These difficulties were compounded when we moved on to the final part of the test.

I was presented with 250 A or B statements. I had to choose whichever statement I agreed with most. If I agreed with neither I had to choose the one I disagreed with least. But I HAD to choose one. No question could be skipped.

At first they were pretty straightforward:

A. I like to have my desk and workspace neat and tidy or B. I enjoy laughing publicly at the mistakes of others. Duh.

A. I like to plan a trip well in advance or B. I enjoy asking questions that I know no one can answer.

But questions kept recurring in less palatable combinations:

A. I like to criticize people in authority or B. I enjoy laughing publicly at the mistakes of others.

I spent a particularly long time on: A. I enjoy reading books with a large sexual content or B. I like to tell other people how to do their jobs.

Well, I thought, obviously you don’t inform your would-be employers in advance that you plan to be a pain in the ass to your colleagues. But do I want to give the impression that I have a bedside collection of naughty novels? On balance I figured that many great works of literature could be considered to have a large sexual content and I’d rather argue the toss than come across as a coy, hypocritical, busybody.

But forget the risqué books, the sexual content of the test started to increase alarmingly.

Did I, it inquired, A. Prefer to plan a trip well in advance or B. Enjoy listening to or telling jokes with high sexual content?

Do I A. Enjoy laughing publicly at the mistakes of others or B. Like watching movies with high sexual content?

The test was obviously designed to weed out paedophiles, other sexual deviants and anyone with an irreverent sense of humour. Eventually being faced with the choice of: A. I enjoy criticizing people in positions of authority. Or: B. I enjoy exciting myself sexually, I had to exert all my self control not to reply “Criticizing people in positions of authority excites me sexually”.

I figure that the computer rating test I had done before was a general intelligence test since you´d have to be pretty dumb to admit in a job interview that you have out-of-body experiences or regularly hear voices and see ghosts. The final test was obviously personality based, possibly of the popular Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI) variety which, Wikipedia tells us,

“...is a highly validated psychopathology test generally used in a clinical psychology setting that may reveal potential mental health disorders...Notable situations in which the MMPI may be used, and is sometimes mandated, are in final selection for police officers, fire fighters, and other security and emergency personnel, especially when required to carry weapons. In that context, an assessment of mental stability and fitness can be argued as "reasonably related" and necessary in the performance of the job.”

I don’t know whether a marking book and a memory stick can be considered weapons but I suppose teachers are reasonable candidates for “assessment of mental stability and fitness”. But what kind of personality were they looking for? I have no doubt they have some fancy grid that they lay over your answer sheet and hey presto, your true colours emerge. I had in fact heard that several promising candidates had failed the test so it wasn’t just a box-ticking exercise on the part of management. But, staggering out exhausted after two hours, it seemed to me that one could only emerge as either A. a dangerous sex maniac or B. an anal retentive bully.

I got the job so I’ll leave it to my readers to decide which category I should be filed under.

Well, my regression is complete. Not only am I re-living The Baby Years but I am also awash with adolescents on a daily basis. I am teaching English to grade eights; being addresses as Meeees; singing along to the Wiggles; and my knowledge of current affairs is once again limited to the latest episode of SpongeBob SquarePants.

To mitigate the shock of this transformation and to escape the Peruvian ‘winter’ I’ve decided to take the family to Trinidad in July for a sun and sea vacation. I have therefore embarked on a strict diet and exercise regime to get in shape for the necessary swimwear. I call it Road to Bikini Bottom.

And I plan to take along a lot of naughty books to read by the pool.

Y ¿Qué Tal la Comida?

Far be it for me to be judgemental about other people’s self-delusion. I have enough of my own. I defend fiercely anyone’s right to their beliefs, no matter how absurd. And I would go to great lengths to avoid embarrassing people by revealing their harmless mistakes, particularly when I am a guest in their country.

For example, one day I told my helper – who speaks no English – that I had bought but misplaced some furniture polish. I described what it was for and said it was in a spray bottle. A few days later she informed me that she had found it, no worries. It was only several weeks later that I discovered that she has been assiduously anointing my furniture with SPF 4 Banana Boat Dark Tanning Oil. I have not had the heart to point out the misunderstanding so my bookshelves are benefitting from being moisturised with aloe vera and carrot extract.

While this may indeed be skin off my nose, to me it wasn’t worth making her feel silly. But there are limits.

As any regular reader of this blog can testify, I have endured with great stoicism the national obsession with food. If I had a sol for every time a taxi driver has asked me “Y ¿qué tal la comida?” I would have a chauffeur and several personal slaves and not have to take taxis at all. I have answered politely millions of questions about the relative merits of Caribbean over Peruvian food. I have endured uncomplaining endless rants about the charms of raw fish, lime and onions; bravely sampled and enjoyed alpaca and guinea pig; and even ingested purple corn in various liquid and gelatinous forms despite rumours that the key ingredient is spit.

But there is such a thing as mass delusion which, as history has shown, is often best nipped in the bud. So if no one else will speak up, I will. At the risk of causing permanent trauma to the Peruvian national psyche I am compelled to call a spade a spade. Or rather, a roast chicken a roast chicken.

Sorry for my grumpiness but you don’t have to smile and exclaim hypocritically every time someone in Lima promises you with an arch expression the equivalent of an edible orgasm and then presents you triumphantly with yet another pollo a la brasa.

“Pollo a la Brasa,...is a common dish of Peruvian cuisine and one of the most consumed in Peru, along with ceviche, and Chifa. The dish originated in the city of Lima in the 1950s...The origins of the recipe are attributed to Roger Schuler, who devised the specific method of cooking the chicken, observing his cook's technique in preparation, and gradually, along with his business partners, perfected the recipe, creating the Granja Azul restaurant in Santa Clara, district of Ate, in Lima....Originally its consumption was specific to the high socioeconomic classes (during the 1950's until the 1970's); however its consumption later became(sic) to include the medium and low socioeconomic classes as well. The original version consisted of a chicken (cooked in charcoal and marinated only with salt) served with large french fries and traditionally eaten with the fingers, without cutlery. Its popularity became massive in the 1970's.”  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pollo_a_la_Brasa)

With all due respect to Mr Schuler, pollo a la brasa (at least in its modern form) that reverentially named staple of Peruvian cuisine is...chicken and chips. It is not, as all Peruvians believe, uniquely Peruvian and – though I have utterly failed to convince my in-laws or any other Limeño of this – can be found worldwide.

Rotisserie chicken: the healthier alternative to KFC.

Yes, yes, I say (raising my voice to be heard over the clamour of Peruvian protest) no doubt there are differences in seasoning, but nothing so startling as to base an entire expatriate culture on, I assure you. And yet, check out this You Tube clip. When we lived in London my husband would play it over and over again late at night, salivating and sighing with frustrated desire. Watching New Yorkers sing the praises of this ethnic culinary phenomenon you would be forgiven for thinking this is a new cult founded on the Upper West Side by the Peruvian diaspora. The gringos lick their fingers and exclaim at the flavour, the juiciness. “Mah gaaad, it’s awesome!” they gush.”It’s better than sex!”

For god’s sake, it’s fucking rotisserie chicken and chips, not the long lost recipe for manna from heaven!

Now if you tell me about parihuela, the seafood soup to end all seafood soups, you have my full respect, and anyone who says that French bouillabaisse is better will have me to deal with. Revel in the fact that Peru has more varieties of potato, corn and peppers than anywhere else in the world. Boast about the artistic layering of potatoes and various other ingredients to produce the delicious causa; continue – if you must – to bore me to death about ceviche in all its manifestations; stuff me with choclo con queso and drown me in chicha but trust me, pollo a la brasa is not the best example of a national dish. Hang your sense of national identity on that and you’re in for a nasty shock if you ever visit Hi Lo Supermarket in Port of Spain or Tesco’s in London.

I’m just saying.

Oh, and while we’re setting the record straight, Chinese food is NOT indigenous to Peru even if you’ve changed the name so stop giving me that blank look of disbelief when I say we have lots of it in Trinidad too.

Here endeth the rant. Time for a pisco sour...now there’s a well-deserved Peruvian bragging right.