Male Bonding
The vast majority of rides during his trip have been gotten by Xin Hui holding up the sign and flashing her sweet and vulnerable smile. The male truckers are suckers for it; the one female trucker responded with sympathy.
I, for the most part, just try not to screw up. Twice during this trip, however, I've managed to get us rides. The first was Eduardo, and the second was Sayid. Both encounters are excellent examples of the unspoken language common to all men.
With Eduardo, I just held up the sign and he beckoned us in. However, I later bonded with him over male behaviour. Behind the passenger seat, (where Xin Hui couldn't see) stuck to the wall by the bed in his cab were two large cardboard cut-outs of voluptuous naked blonde women. I was examining them and he glanced at me and grinned. I wiggled my eyebrows in a Groucho-esque leering way and we laughed. Not a word was spoken. None was needed.
Later he noticed the eczema on my palms and, pointing, asked me what happened (in Portugese).
"Nataciones," I explained. Swimming.
He grinned, shook his head and said something while make a subtle gesture familiar to all men. We burst out laughing and Xin Hui looked puzzled. Eduardo said something else and made a conspiritorial, "keep it quiet" gesture, and while a puzzled Xin Hui was trying to figure out what we were on about, we both were again busy laughing.
With Sayid, he was busy talking in French to his Spanish friend about the engine of his cab this afternoon and they didn't notice (or ignored) Xin Hui both times she went up to him to ask if he'd drive us again tomorrow. This is despite her have a semi-working knowledge of French.
But when I went up to him, I used a language that was much deeper and more significant than French, one which is common to all men in all countries, barring perhaps the United States: the language of football.
Noticing that Sayid's Spanish friend was wearing a Real Madrid jacket, I started asking him about I. He proudly told me that a previous goalkeeper of Real had given it to his brother. Before long, the three of us were debating Beckham's merits. We agreed he was too publicity-obsessed and image-conscious. Next thing we knew we were drinking beers and laughing like we'd been buddies forever.
Just before this trip, my friend Mairin commented that she was amazed how easily men could get along. What she didn't realise was just how much men have in common which gives us our own secret language. Every man understands the meaning of a wiggle of the eyebrows at a hot woman walking by, a query of the score of a football game, or an offer of beer on a hot day. Our universal brotherhood transcends language, and I've certainly come to appreciate it on this trip.