Category: Letter

There are no bus stops in San Salvador. Well, there are places where buses stop and people get on and off, but there are no signs with pictures of buses, no benches, no helpful words to reassure you that you won’t just be waiting on the street all day like an idiot.

There are also no bus schedules. The buses cough back and forth from one end of the route to the other at their own pace, determined by traffic, the number of regular passengers, and how many people flag them down at random places on the side of the road. As I wait for Ruta Uno, I watch two 9s go by, one after the other, followed by a 44, a 30, a 9, two 44s, and another 9. Then a bus pulls up with psychedelic letters that look like they belong on a surfboard or guitar case. I study the fluorescent glyphs, trying to make them out. It could be a 4, or maybe a 7, or maybe it’s not a number at all. Only after the bus leaves do I realize the sign said “R-1.” That was, in fact, my bus.

A 9 goes by, followed by a 30, a 30, and another 9. I study each carefully, making sure the numbers are not optical illusions that will again transform themselves into R-1’s in passing. But it’s not always easy to find the route number. Sometimes it appears on a little card taped to the front window instead of professionally painted in illegible Day-Glo script above the windshield. In the latter cases I wind up spending six or seven seconds staring at the swirling colors before realizing that they are not route numbers, but rather messages like “Dios es Amor” (God is love), “El Salvador,” or, on one occasion, a cryptic, “Jeniffer.”

The bus drivers don’t own the buses, but they do drive the same ones every day. The vehicles themselves are old discarded American school buses, complete with English-only evacuation procedures printed over all emergency exits, though all traces of National School Bus Yellow, the official color, have been painted over as required by law. To the drivers, these are their offices, their cubicles, their mobile homes away from home, and they do their best to personalize them. A few weeks ago, they all brought out their political flags in honor of the upcoming presidential elections. The majority of drivers are left-wing, and had FMLN flags taped to windows or hung from rearview mirrors; I saw only one flag from ARENA, the ruling party, on a starkly clean blue bus with no other signs of personalization. I have also seen Salvadoran flags, Canadian flags, and American flags, plus one flag with the randomly English slogan, “In God We Trust.”

A bus goes by with glowing green shark fins attached to its top edges. I am so distracted by the spectacle that I miss another R-1. I curse under my breath, then wait impatiently as a 30 goes by, then two 44s, and then a 9.

I play with the coins in my hand: a dime, a nickel, and three pennies—seventeen cents, exact bus fare. They’ve switched to the U.S. dollar in El Salvador but it’s always dangerous not to have exact change. You give them a one-dollar bill and they ask if you have anything smaller. You give them a five and they wince. With a ten, you’re lucky if they don’t swear at you. One bus driver didn’t have change for a quarter. I let him keep it, my noble eight-cent contribution to the bus-driver cause.

Finally an R-1 comes and I manage to identify it before it pulls away. I climb aboard but freeze on the stairs, too astonished to continue. A two-foot stuffed ape hangs from the ceiling, accompanied by half a dozen smaller stuffed animals, including a rabbit, a monster, and a grimacing dog. A flashing red police light has been stuck to the ceiling and a fluorescent green strip blinks on and off, just above the rear-view mirror. All of this is reflected multiple times in the surfaces of three dozen CDs that have been glued to the ceiling. I have just climbed aboard a mobile fun house.

The other passengers appear inured to the spectacle, and the driver glares at me for loitering on the steps. I quickly hand him my seventeen cents and take a seat, but not before the bus lurches forward and I almost fall. I sit next to a man calmly reading a newspaper. The lynched toys swing back and forth all the way home.—Katherine Glover

How a country that forces you to pay ten dollars per whopper, has a combined total of seventy-five percent for taxes, and has incomes that range only to $57,000 can boast the highest standard of living is beyond me [“They Paid Me Cash for this Baby!,” April]. It sounds to me a bit like liberal propaganda. What Eric failed to point out was that it is the U.S. that supports Norway and provides the Norwegians with many of their social benefits. It is the U.S. that is buying more than its share of world oil, and therefore it is the U.S.—our consumption and social system—that support the relaxed life styles found in oil rich countries. The article implies the Norwegians somehow have discovered a social structure that includes all. Wouldn’t it be nice if we all had a goldmine in our backyard and we could point at those that aren’t so lucky and ask why they work so hard?

James W. Nelson
Eagan

Many thanks to The Rake and Eric Dregni for the informative essay on the alternative social policies offered by the Motherland. Although Minnesota was settled largely by Scandinavians steeped in the principles of Social Democracy, recent political shifts in both our state and our country reflect a narrow-minded philosophy based on the credo “It’s my money, mine! Mine! Mine!” Too often we forget that a healthy civil society benefits all its members, that supporting young families and children helps ensure that they contribute positively to the world in which they grow, that our governments exist to provide for all citizens rather than to transfer wealth to the privileged. There is no such thing as a “tax cut,” only tax shifts. We can transfer the responsibility for generating revenue from the rich to the poor, from the national government to states and cities, from “now” to “later.” The long-term effect, however, encompasses the destruction of social safety nets that effect us all.

Craig Barton Upright
Saint Paul

Eric Dregni leaves out a few very important matters regarding society in Norway, Italy, and the U.S. I also lived and worked in Norway and Italy in the 1980s and early 1990s. Hugh oil revenue to the state underpins the wealth of Norway. I was part of the effort to find and produce this oil and the Norwegians enjoy world leadership in oil production technology. But, more importantly, Eric fails to note the low population and homogenous nature of society in Norway. It is easy to create a welfare state with both high revenue and few social and ethnic divisions. In the U.S. and Italy, the complex historic divisions create different needs. Some regions and ethnic groups seek to maximize opportunity, and others seek minimal contributions and accept corruption as part of life. This is sad for the U.S. and Italy, as Norway is a better society. But it is better because, even before the oil wealth and welfare state, the ethnic divisions and social strife were eliminated in Norwegian ethnic development. There are dark chapters in Viking conquest and Eric glossed over them. He failed to note that the Netherlands and Norway have been occupied countries and, as a result, favor a strong, aggressive NATO. Peaceniks were not welcome in the 1980s when the U.S. upped the stakes. Libya is like Norway. Few tribes, lots of oil money, a strong welfare state, and low crime. Why not write about Libya? Ask Eric why environmentalists are so low-key in the high-impact oil and gas industry. The state of Norway needs the money more than it desires a pristine environment. That is the benefit of top-down-driven social welfare. Money first, then the environment.
Larry Sullivan
Roseville

I’m a Rake fan and this is my first letter. I thoroughly enjoyed Eric Dregni’s article. Enlightening (being paid to have a baby), informative (wages, health and welfare system), funny (the meat bus to Sweden!), and heartwarming (the birth of Eilif). Oh, to live and work in Norway would be a dream come true for any of us!

Jennifer M. Jones
Minneapolis

Regarding “Animal House” [The Rakish Angle, April]: All animals in the entertainment industry suffer; it does not matter if they live at the Como Zoo or are shuttled around the country performing for the circus. No zoo anywhere can mimic the habitat in the wild for captured creatures and I do not agree with the statement: “A lot of animals in the zoo have chosen this as their life mission.” Life mission being what? Away from their families, imprisoned in cages, unbearable boredom, and being stared at day in and day out? I don’t think so.
Ursula Pelka
Edina

I was really looking forward to the article on the MacPhail Rock Band that I am indeed a part of [“Go Loudly Into the Night,” The Rakish Angle, April]. Overall, the article was well written. There were, however, some things that puzzled me. The primary thing was that you say there were only three students, “beer-bellied men in their forties.” There were indeed three middle-aged men, but there was also myself, an eighteen-year-old high school senior, playing bass. I imagine that it would add something to the story if you were to say that there was a high school senior playing in the band and playing at the same level as these middle-aged men. I would like to thank you, however, for writing an article on our band.
Matt Day
Plymouth

We also note that MacPhail offers another section of “Rock and Blues Ensemble” for younger students.—Eds.

The PRT system you mention in Cardiff [“My Pod,” The Rakish Angle, April] has never been built (and won’t be). It is one example of the many half-truths and outright lies that Ed Anderson and PRT proponents tell elected officials and the public. The PRT advocates would have you believe that their system is more energy-, time-, maintenance- and cost-effective than light rail or buses. Plenty of reputable studies show they’d use more energy, cost far more money, be more susceptible to breakdowns, and would pose serious safety hazards. This is why, in thirty years, no other city has been willing to build a PRT system. The city of Minneapolis and state of Minnesota are about to give six million dollars to a private company—Taxi 2000—to build a test track for a completely unproven business venture. Giving Ed Anderson millions of taxpayer dollars to play with their high-tech toys would be pure corporate welfare, just like building new sports stadiums, the I-35 Access project, or any other city-financed boondoggle. Worst of all, the city and state are spending this money at a time when they are cutting after-school programs, proposing to close schools, and cutting benefits to transit workers and other civil servants. I can’t believe Dean Zimmermann or any other elected official would support PRT. It’s a big, unamusing joke!
Andrew Singer
St. Paul

The Cardiff “Ultra” PRT project was denied funding. Like a lot of PRT projects, it’s a flop in a long series of flops. Six million dollars in city funding and eighteen million in state funds for City Council member Dean Zimmermann and Rep. Mark Olson’s PRT test facility is just plain ridiculous. Other Cities have studied PRT and decided it wasn’t worth it. Cincinnati spent $625,000 on a study of PRT (the OKI Central Loop study in 2001) and passed on it. Why don’t we just borrow their study and save ourselves the money? I liked the bus system we had. I find that the people who most complain about buses and trains aren’t the people who ride them. My daughter goes to Ramsey Middle School. They’re looking at thirty percent reductions in their budget. That will probably bring the curtain down on the wonderful musical program at Ramsey. My daughter plays in two orchestras and the chamber quartet. You want to take that away from her so Dean and Mark can play with their little monorail fantasy? To learn what PRT is really about, see: www.roadkillbill.com/PRTisaJoke.html
Ken Avidor
Minneapolis

Several agitated readers wrote not only to voice their opposition to PRT, but to say the Cardiff PRT “was never built.” To clarify: A test track was, in fact, built and operated there in January 2003. Full funding for the city-wide proposal was denied later that same month by Welsh officials. We were wrong, though, when we said, “Everyone is happy about PRT except Betsy Barnum.”—Eds.

Shanghai’s Taikang Lu is a crowded market street, its length disordered by listless bicycle rickshaws, old ladies with shopping bags, and angry taxis. Narrow Lane 201 opens into the middle of it, defined on one side by an old factory and, on the other, a modest rose-red building that houses Hands in Clay pottery shop. Inside, a modest, light-filled gallery displays a group of meter-high figurative clay sculptures. In the adjoining room the light goes yellow and a little dusty. Glaze samples are arranged on racks; tables and benches are covered with clay residue. The air is earthy. The music is Liz Phair. Standing at his work table, dressed in worn Carhartt pants and a maroon University of Minnesota sweatshirt, is Jeremy Clayton. He is thirty and originally from White Bear Lake. The former garbage-truck mechanic and waiter became, in 2001, the first foreigner to open a pottery shop in the history of modern China. “It’s been kind of a weird path,” he admits, with his long Minnesota vowels and modesty. “I didn’t plan it, that’s for sure.”

In the early 1990s, Clayton took pottery classes at the University of Minnesota, but he was uninspired and transferred to Dakota County Technical College. It was a decision that would require him to “grease trucks with garbage dripping on my face in the middle of winter.” Clayton returned to the University determined to become a potter. He graduated with a fine arts degree in 1998 and followed his girlfriend, a Chinese major, to Oregon, then to Shanghai. At first he worked odd jobs, including a stint teaching English. But he became restless, and so, with a $16,000 loan (secured in Minnesota), he set up Hands in Clay. Not long after that, his girlfriend, “a Wayzata girl, a Breck girl,” left. “That was rough timing,” he admits.

Clayton’s challenges were not limited to a broken heart. For millennia, China has produced the world’s finest ceramics; over the last century it has manufactured billions of pieces of cheap “fine china.” It is not an ideal environment for a foreigner to set up a pottery shop. But Clayton had a plan. “I thought it’d be interesting if a foreigner opened a studio,” he recalls as he lays new cords of clay across one of his sculptures. “And if he taught classes to bored expatriate housewives.” He nods at four pottery wheels on his studio floor. “The classes are what floated my first year.”

Today, nearly three years into the venture, Hands in Clay is a small-scale success. The sculpture sells, and the classes are popular, with enrollment driven by good word-of-mouth in Shanghai’s expatriate community. “But you wouldn’t believe the number of people who walk in here asking me where to buy pot,” Clayton says with exasperation. “They think I’m some pottery-throwing hippie. I’ve got a business to run.” He also has competition from an aggressive Hong Kong heiress who recently set up a pottery shop and school one floor above his. “She said, ‘At first, I thought I’d buy you out. But then I decided I’d shut you down.’” Though she sets her prices to undercut Clayton’s, the Minnesotan’s superior work continues to outsell hers.

It is a dilemma that Clayton would not likely face if he had remained in Minnesota, where demand for clay sculpture is somewhat less than brisk. “I’m lucky to be doing this,” he says, taking a pinch of snuff. “That’s something I try to remember when it’s a struggle here. I mean, I could be living at home and waiting tables in Forest Lake. Doing pottery as a hobby.” He reaches for his clay extruder. “But instead I’m living this life in Shanghai.”—Adam Minter

I just read Clinton Collins on gay marriage [Free the Jackson Five, March]. Thank you for writing such a thought- provoking and insightful article. I could not have said it better myself. If two people want to spend their lives together, it is nobody’s business but theirs.
Lisa Carlson-Douma
Minneapolis