Jure ma far

You know how you can get sucked into the link vortex, where you hop from one blog link to the next in hopes of finding a long-lost friend? Though you usually just end up finding someone you kinda knew at college around the 12th link. You’re more likely to connect yourself to Kevin Bacon before you actually rekindle a friendship, though it does happen on occasion.

Well, I discovered this blog the other day whilst blinking. And while I have never met the author, I couldn’t help but read EVERY SINGLE post in lieu of lesser things like being productive. Mostly because it’s hilarious, but also because I can relate to living the vida loca in Central America, having done a stint in El Salvador myself. Her posts reminded me of the different traditions, customs and general hilarity of life down there.

Which made me think of how young kids would always come up to me asking for translations of English words they’d heard. Most are unprintable but involve four letters including an F. So of course I said those words meant things like, “I’m an idiot,” or, “I’m ugly,” in hopes that they would stop chanting them at me in the streets. Though all obscenities or random English words were followed by “baby,” as in, “Microwave, baby!” Or, “Bye-bye, baby.” So I guess that made it all better, even though I hate being called baby almost as much as I loathe being called “honey” by store clerks, hairdressers and anyone under 60.

However, sometimes it took some serious listening to even understand the English words they wanted me to translate. A common one was, “Jure ma far.” For weeks I didn’t know what the heck they were talking about … until I woke up to someone blasting the Backstreet Boys chanting, “You are my fire.” But somehow “Tu eres mi fuego,” just conjured up images of pyromaniac boyfriends.

Speaking of pyros, another common translation request was, “Butaf Peej Pell.” Which after some time in El Salvador, and better understanding of the Salvadoran love for both WWF and Marilyn Manson, I realized the phrase was from the latter’s “Beautiful People” tune.

But those random memories don’t compare to the time I saw a guy with a machete through his arm, or the 1,003 sketchy remedies people insisted I try for their scientifically-proven properties. Or taking my life into my hands driving a 23-passenger minivan missing a third gear.

Because I don’t have time right now to regale you with all my humorous anecdotes. I’m too busy doing really important stuff like clicking on any and all links. Oh, and simultaneously admiring and cursing Miss Dub’s new crawling ways.

Bye-bye, baby!