Back to Black
A flat car battery hints at the hassles poor migrants must confront living in unfamiliar lands.
Last week, I let the car battery run flat, inadvertently adding to my list of “what happens in America when …” experiences. I’d been waiting for my daughter for 40 minutes, and it wasn’t until we went to drive away that I realised I’d left the headlights on. That was when I also realised I had no idea who you call when you have a flat battery. There was no point ringing friends, because I was parked in a way that normal jumper leads would not have reached my car unless they were attached to the cars either side of mine, and who knew when those owners would show up.
I recalled my husband once handing me a document to put in the glovebox, because insurance is a legal requirement, as is having your policy number in the event of an accident. (It probably determines whether, if injured, you are taken to hospital or left for the crows.)
I rang the insurance company, whose first question was, “Are you safe?” “From what,” I wanted to ask. Marauding Central American street gangs? Wolves? Pregnancy? But it was nice of them to ask, I thought, and I said I was, although the temperature was -1ºC.
The dispatcher confirmed that I had roadside-assistance cover. There was then a prolonged toing and froing about where I was. The confusion made more sense when I asked the dispatcher where she was. “Indiana,” she said. Eventually, we got it sorted sufficiently and she contacted a local mechanic, who said he would be about 90 minutes and would call when he was close. It was then that I noticed my mobile phone battery, which minutes earlier had been on 23%, was now on 2%.
During our first winter here, we were surprised to find that phones liked the cold even less than we did. When the temperature is freezing, you can watch the life drain out of your phone battery in minutes. It is not great entertainment at any time, but especially not when you need it most. I put my phone in my pocket to help it feel the love, and after an hour it rang. Wrong number. And again. But somehow it retained the last 1% and eventually the mechanic rang to say he was close.
He had the car started in a minute and I drove around town feeling guilty about the senseless carbon emissions, but imagining – not for the first time since moving here – how hard life must be for refugees and low-income migrants who have language barriers and few resources in new countries where nothing is familiar.
Like others, I’m trying to follow political events in Venezuela, and I have a gnawing fear about what may unfold. News that US President Donald Trump had recognised Venezuelan Opposition leader Juan Guaidó as that country’s interim president – after the 35-year-old swore himself in (could someone not try that here?) – was warmly greeted by Guaidó’s supporters, naturally.
But one country with two presidents is one president too many, and if you follow the trail of those strife-torn countries that have been supported by
“the gringo empire”, there is rarely a happy outcome.
And you wouldn’t look at Washington DC just now and conclude that Trump and his advisers are your go-to guys for diplomacy. Undeniably, Venezuela needs change. Trump is on Guaidó’s side. History is not.
We were surprised to find that phones liked the cold even less than we did.