Pilates For Latin

On the pampas the horizons seem to flee. The llamas are golden, the clouds impossibly white. We let the bikes run. Suddenly, the view changes. The lead bike rises above the line of the horizon, a rider flails through the air 10 feet above the ground. This is not good. Jeff has gone off the road at 70 mph. Katie goes into paramedic mode, calming Jeff, running her hands up his spine, probing, checking ribs, legs, arms. The fall has ripped his touring jacket from shoulder to waist, peeling the back protector to reveal the We-Build-Bridges T-shirt. He is scuffed, but within moments is giggling, flashing the “I Can’t Believe I’m Still Alive” grin that is his default expression.Ryan pulls the bike up and starts collecting the bits scattered across the desert. The luggage is destroyed. The right handlebar is bent almost to the tank. Mirrors, turn signals, front fender snapped off in a microsecond. Both wheel rims have dents. Incredibly, it still runs. He puts the parts that still work back on the bike, takes it for a test ride. It will last another 7,000 miles. Our motto: We Will Make This Work.Jeff tells what happened. A small bird had hopped into his path. The next thing he knew he was off the road, launched into a culvert. “I thought, wow. I’m Superman. Oh look, there’s the bike. Oh look, there’s the bird…” In a field strewn with jagged boulders, he had landed on sand.THE BEGINNINGThe trip came up long before I was ready. A phone call, an invitation to tag along with a group of BMW riders embarking on a five-week, 8,000-mile journey from Peru to Virginia. I would document the ride, a fundraising effort for a group that builds footbridges in remote areas of the world. I’d been thinking about a long ride, something open-ended, without support vehicles, the experience of being totally “out there.” This seemed to fit the bill. A third of the distance around the world with complete strangers. I had a brand-new BMW F 800 GS and it was thirsty. If there was a point of no return, I crossed it before I hung up the phone.First, the riders. Ken Hodge is an insurance benefits specialist and member in good standing of the Newport News Rotary Club. He discovered motorcycles late in life, when he bought a bike, rode it across country in 48 hours, then began to dream of a bigger adventure, something for a good cause.He recruited his daughter Katie (a fire department paramedic), his stepson Ryan (a mechanic and dirt-bike rider) and Ryan’s best friend Jeff. I’m impressed by their preparations. They ride old BMW R 1150s and F 650 singles. Ryan had spent a year renewing the bikes, poking about the inner recesses, memorizing the shop manuals for each machine. They would bring enough tools and parts to handle almost every emergency.INTO THE ANDESWe stop at Nazca to view the ancient figures scratched in the rocky desert. From the top of a tower we can see a figure with raised hands. Just to the north, the Pan-American Highway bisects the figure of a lizard, decapitating the creature. Bound by the tight focus of brass transit levels, the surveyors who laid out the road were not even aware of the sacred relics, discovered when aerial flight became common.I realize that we are as blinded by focus, by concentration as the surveyors were by their instrument. The trip will be a series of images, sidelong glances, captured at speed.Descendants of the people who built the Inca trail, Peruvian builders know their stuff. But it’s the tracery, the managed flow of momentum, that has our respect. The road ascends ancient seabeds, hills covered with talus, fractured dry ridges with cornices sculpted by landslides. Midday, we find ourselves on a high pampas inhabited by thousands of vicuña and alpaca. In the distance, our first sight of snowcapped peaks. There are stone corrals on nearby slopes, one-room huts. In the middle of this giant nowhere, a lone shepherd walking on the side of the hill.We discover that the distances on maps are those of the condor. We travel incredibly twisted roads that sometimes take a hundred turns (and several miles) to get from one ridge to the next. The map indicates towns, but to our dis-may not all have gas stations. We buy gas in a small outpost from a woman who ladles it out of a bucket with a coffee pot, then pours it through a plastic, woven kitchen funnel into our tanks. The whole town watches. We push on into the descending night. We make it to the next set of lights, 20 or so buildings on two streets, find a hotel, and park our bikes in an enclosed backyard with dogs, chickens, dead birds, plastic bottles and an animal hide tanning on the wall. Instead of the usual exit signs, the restaurant in our hotel has green arrows that say “ESCAPE.” It is not a criticism of the food. The forces that drive the Andes skyward have been known to demolish whole towns.The next morning we fire up the bikes, and ascend into the Andes on a perfect road. We are fluid, going through hairpins, double hairpins, squared-off turns—climbing the flank of a single 4,700-meter peak. I can think of only one word: delicious. We move through mist and low-hanging clouds, with shafts of sunlight slanting into rainbows. The valleys below are green and fertile, a mix of old Inca terracing and more modern farms. Slender eucalyptus trees line the road, providing shade for huts with red tile roofs. A girl tends a flock of goats (identified with colorful ribbons) on a green meadow, book in hand. At one point I think the clouds above have parted to reveal patches of blue, but when I look up I see that it is snow-covered rock, another 3,000 or 4,000 feet of mountain. On a turnoff near the top of the peak we find a dozen or so tiny shrines, little churches decorated with flowers and ribbons and photographs of loved ones. The site of a bus plunge. On a hillside across the valley paragliders work the thermals, the canopies looking like bright-colored eyebrows, or ostentatious angels.We share the road with vicuña, alpaca, llama, sheep, goats, dogs, roosters, pigs, horses and cows. On a narrow lane near Abancay, a bull tries to gore me as I pass, charging and making a hooking motion with its horns. One night after the sunset, I round a corner and a beautiful roan stallion wheels in the light from our bikes, filling the lane with wide eyes and flashing hoofs, inches from my head. I realize that riding sweep poses a risk. The novelty of our passing bikes wears off, and the local wildlife has time to react.Entering Cusco, Ryan asks directions, a girl directs us onto a narrow cobblestone street, slick with rain, as steep as a bobsled run. The rocks are turned on their side, like teeth. The knobbies have no traction whatsoever. The people on the sidewalks frantically wave their hands, indicating that the road gets steeper. I touch my brake and the bike goes down, pinning my leg against the curb, a quarter of an inch shy of a fracture. The bike behind me goes down. It is harrowing. The locals help us lift the bikes, get them turned uphill.A police escort leads us to a hotel that lets us store the motorcycles in the lobby. Without bothering to shower, we make our way to the Norton Rats Bar on the northeast corner of the central plaza. The owner, an American expatriate, once piloted a Norton to the tip of the continent. The walls are lined with photos from the trip. Above the bar are mounted heads, the four past American presidents, with their best known soundbites: I am not a crook. I did not inhale. I do not recall. We will find WMD in Iraq. We sip beers, trade stories, trying to reassemble the past few days. The dead battery. The punctured radiator. The roadside repairs. The incredible rush of unrelenting beauty.Three days of desert north of Lima generate a few details. The total absence of life, the three colors of sand. Young boys pedaling tricycle ice cream carts in the middle of nowhere. We enter a zona de nimbleras, but instead of fog we find a 60-mph crosswind that sends a layer of grit skittering across the road like a special effect in a Steven Spielberg movie. Two lanes narrow to one covered by blowing sand, thick enough to swallow the front tire, deep enough that a road grader prepares to clear the drifting sands.We decide to try a secondary route through the hills. We turn onto a dirt road and everything changes. We pass through villages alive with people, dogs, tiny three-wheel taxis fashioned from old motorcycles. Kids on motorscooters ride past, snapping pictures with their cell phones. The road throws split-finger fastballs at the bash plate that clang as loud and adamant as the sound of an aluminum bat. We slosh our way through gravel, gray dust on everything, parts falling off, teeth rattling. Oh yes, this is what we wanted.ECUADORIn Macara, we sit on the sidewalk near a minor town square, eating pork cooked by a rotund woman in a yellow dress. Her daughter brings us three beers (giant) at a time, and keeps the empties in a milk crate for accounting later. Boys on motorbikes cruise the quiet streets, the lucky ones with girls on the back. Across the square, girls sit on benches. Jeff experiences a cultural revelation, that South American girls have breasts, and wear tight pants…and “Hey, I think she likes me.”Our dinner companion is David McCollum, an American expatriate that Ryan had met on ADVrider.com. He tells us stories about riding the Ecuadoran Andes, and gives us tips on handling roadblocks. “Act Stupid. Do not try to communicate in Spanish. Say ‘No fumar Espanol’ (I don’t smoke Spanish). If all else fails, have Katie cry.” Er, Katie does not do “cry.” The next day he leads us into the Ecuadoran Andes.Impressions: Razor-sharp ridges. Lumpy, conical outcroppings. Monasteries on top of hills. Slopes so steep they will never be worked by machine. A couple standing above dark earth, the man holding a wooden hoe, the woman a bag of seeds. A woman on horseback, black and red cape, a whip coiled in one hand. Trees. Cloud. Mist. The feel of a Japanese block print, the ones that suggest the road goes to infinity.I had introduced the group to a family tradition. When we travel, we end each day by recounting high point, low point and funny bone. After this day, I will add “Pucker moments.” Trucks hurtle out of the fog, running without lights, signaled only by the ghostly wave pushed before. They appear in our lane without warning or reason. We go through construction sites where the road narrows to one lane that offers no escape route. One side seems hideously close to the new concrete, studded with rebar fangs. The other side is precipice. Pucker moments? Take your pick. Sometimes it’s the surface, a half mile of muddy bobsled run, of loose gravel, of gushing water, the bike handling like a loose bowel. Twice, we round a corner and find no road, the surface having caved in, sucked away by underground torrents. Katie’s moment comes when a cow, with no footing, scrambles into the path of her bike. For Jeff, it is passing a truck that suddenly swerves to avoid a pothole, the trailer swinging toward him like a baseball bat.We spend two days in Cuenca, a 500-year-old city surrounded by mountains. Ken phones ahead and discovers that the ship that was to have taken us and the bikes from Ecuador to Panama doesn’t exist (had we had drugs or been illegal aliens, no problem, but there are no accommodations for turistas with motorcycles). We ask David for help. While we ride to Quito, he will work the phones. He finds a contact, a guy known for getting things done when no one else can. We meet up with this air freight magician at The Turtle’s Head, a biker bar in Quito. At midnight.The next morning we ride our bikes to the military section of the airport, then into a refrigerated warehouse. The steel floor is covered with embedded ball bearings, across which slide steel palettes. For the next three hours we wrestle with tiedowns. A skinny man dressed entirely in black oversees the operation, taking pictures of the bikes with a digital camera, making sure batteries are disconnected, tires are deflated. Drug-sniffing dogs poke their noses into every recess.Then, just like that, our bikes are gone, on their way to Panama in the belly of an airplane.CENTRAL AMERICACentral American countries are the size of postage stamps. You can cross them in a day and a half, only to spend a half day at customs and immigration. Ken had prepared Xerox copies of all our documents (passports, licenses, titles, registration, VIN numbers) and had them notarized. As he works with the official in the air-conditioned office, we sit in 100-degree heat and watch ants carry grains of dirt from beneath the ground. We will become used to the demands for more copies, the freelance currency traders waving bills in front of our faces, the young hustlers willing to facilitate the process, the food vendors waiting for starvation to overcome caution about local cuisine.Before embarking on this trip, I’d read State Department travel advisories. The section on Peru warned that five Americans had died from liposuction in Lima. OK, was that consensual liposuction, or were there gangs of thugs wielding vacuum cleaners with sharp pointy attachments? Virtually every entry on Central American countries warned about fake checkpoints, bandits in uniform, soldiers in the middle of nowhere.Along the roadside are signs with a blood-red eye and the warning vigilantes. We round a corner to find two soldiers walking patrol, miles from the nearest town. They ask for paperwork. A surge of adrenaline turns my mouth to cotton. David, our friend in Ecuador had given us good advice: Act stupid. Smile. We seem to have a natural talent for that. No fumar Espanol. After inspecting our paperwork, they wave us on. In the next few weeks we will be stopped repeatedly, sniffed by dogs, x-rayed, wanded with devices that look like carving knives with car antennas where the blade should be. At border crossings, guys in jumpsuits and facemasks spray our bikes with liquids designed to kill stowaway bugs too lazy to cross borders under their own power. There are soldiers at every gas station, armed attendants at convenience stores and restaurants, guys with shotguns on Pepsi trucks. We are aware of poverty, a culture of criminal opportunity. The night air can strip your bike naked, if you don’t find a hotel with secure parking.These countries are linked by soil to the United States, and our culture has rattled its way through. Central America is a motorbike culture. Whole families whiz by, perched on narrow seats, wearing helmets with missing visors. In Panama City we run into a group of Harley riders. The bikes have exhausts the size of howitzers, the horns blare a soundtrack of special effects. They surround us, and ask if we want to join their regular weekend burger run. We follow them to an exclusive country club just beyond the Mira Flores locks on the Panama Canal. They send us off with directions to a bed-and-breakfast up the coast. I fall asleep that night in a hammock, a bottle of beer still clutched in my hand, the blades of a fan whirring softly overhead.Central America has a different feel than Peru and Ecuador, a different gravity. We move through verdant countryside at a speed that would be natural in Virginia or Colorado or California. The vegetation looks like fireworks, only green. Here clusters of one plant have taken over a hillside. There a different species explodes. A slow war.We have been in the saddle for three weeks. Nothing can break our pace. We abandon the Pan-American Highway and find roads that make it seem like you have two flat tires, ones that seem like you’re riding on an oil spill. There are narrow, one-vehicle-at-a-time bridges of mismatched narrow-gauge rails, or on lesser roads, steel plates tossed across rotting timbers. The terrain is a geological mash-up, without the power of the Andes, but enough unexpected elevation change and tight corners to make for an interesting ride. Towns announce themselves with speed bumps and potholes that can swallow bikes whole. I see road signs unique to the country, silhouettes of odd animals. A snake crossing. A jaguar crossing. In Costa Rica we hit a 30-mile stretch of gravel road, and the world becomes dust. The bikes come alive. We romp, skitter, wander, trusting the gyroscope. I try to read the strange shadows that appear in the dust—bicyclists, ATVs, huge trucks with no lights—not always accurately. There are breaks in the dust cloud when I see fields filled with white cattle and at their feet white egrets. The sky tinges pink with light from a setting sun. A feeling almost like peace.We spend a night in Arsenal, a destination resort for adrenaline junkies with discretionary income. Posters advertise canopy walks, zipline rides through the rain forest, the chance to rappel down waterfalls, night hikes to lava flows, kayaking, canoeing. We ignore the offers, saddle up and ride into the rain forest. A group of meercats swarms down an embankment onto the road. Monkeys cavort in the trees overhead. A tourist zips by on a steel cable casting a shadow on the road, a blur of color in the sky. It looks like someone was hanging laundry and forgot to take his or her clothes off.Nicaragua has its own feel. We ride past volcanoes so large they make their own weather, the crowns hidden beneath wide-brimmed clouds. Don Quixote in his barber bowl hat. The streets are clogged with horsedrawn buggies. We find a hotel near the town square. Across the street from the hotel is a shop offering galactic Internet. The traditional culture is slowly losing ground to bandwidth. Relay towers compete with church steeples, billboards for cell service block oversized statues of saints on nearby hilltops.We visit a bridge, built by Ken’s organization, in a remote area of Honduras. At the turnoff from the main road I think we are entering a drainage ditch. Indeed, during the rainy season the road is impassable, the clay surface too slick for traction. Now, the bikes tackle a road gouged by erosion, working their way around rocks exposed by the force of water. This is by far the most technical riding of the trip.The 40-mile road will take five hours to cross. The clawmark gullies pull Ken’s bike out from under him; Katie rides into a ditch and smashes her bike’s windscreen. Even Ryan has trouble. The river, when we reach it, is intimidating. I take pictures of the bikes as they come through, pushing a bow wave over front wheels, jouncing up the rocks on the other side. If a trip can be reduced to 1?250th of a second, a single moment seared in memory, these pictures would be it.We cross into Guatemala, and spend the night with Hemingway impersonators and Jimmy Buffet wannabes in Rio Dulce. The hotel has a wonderful tacky feeling. The overhead fan showers sparks. The power goes off at regular intervals, as does the water. If you want a shower, step outside. We spend a long day riding through rain. The water destroys one of my cameras, turning the LCD into an aquarium. Hey, I have enough pictures.ALMOST THEREAt the first town over the Mexican border, we stop for directions on a crowded street. A truck sideswipes my bike, snags a sidecase, and drags me down. I’m unhurt, but the windscreen and instrument panel lie in fragments. The police, when they arrive, are the opposite of helpful. We collect the broken bits, duct tape everything in sight, and fire it up. We are unstoppable. We ride on, but the mood of the ride changes and the calendar beckons. Katie, Ryan and Jeff have to be back by a certain date, or they lose their jobs. The ride becomes time vs. distance, a push that blurs most of Mexico, and a final border crossing into the United States.We hurtle across long roads, nursing bikes that are showing signs of wear. Ken’s bike is missing a sidestand. Ryan’s helmet a visor. Katie treats her BMW’s busted windscreen like a badge of honor, but still, a 75-mph headwind is exhausting. Jeff’s bike has chewed the rear sprocket to nubbins, the chain is beginning to slip. It will wind up in a U-Haul 100 miles from home.Five weeks after departing, we see the lights of Newport News. As they enter the city, Ken, Ryan and Katie spread across the road, side by side, arms raised. The long ride is over.

Latin Americans are famously laid-back – so much so that people often say you should reset your watch to a different pace of life when landing in the region. However, don’t be seduced into thinking that just because people seem relaxed, they won’t get offended by anything! As with travelling anywhere, there are always a few sensitive areas you need to be aware of – and Latin America is no different!

Religion

While Latin America seems to ooze sexuality when it’s depicted in the Western media, many parts of the region are deeply religious. As a result modest dress and behaviour are highly recommended: there are plenty of beaches where you can strip off, so there’s no need to do it elsewhere! To avoid feeling the need to bare all, make sure you invest in some loose fitting, cotton clothes. As most Latin Americans are Catholic, Sundays are of real religious significance. On this day, double your efforts to seem modest (and don’t expect too many shops to be open)! Plus, while churches are great places to visit, remember that they are places of worship too.

Drugs

The ‘war on drugs’ in Central and South America is not called a ‘war’ for nothing: while drugs here are more readily available than at home, possession and other drug-related offences are dealt with pretty harshly. As such, getting involved with drugs in South America does not come highly recommended, especially as police searches are very common. Also, while chewing coca leaves is a popular past-time in Bolivia, Peru, Chile and Argentina, make sure you don’t travel with them. Outside of Latin America, most countries make no distinction between the coca leaves and any other substance containing cocaine.

(Don’t) watch your space

Communication in South America is far from a timid affair: conversations are bigger, brasher and feature a lot more hand gestures. A by-product of all this means your personal space is not as sacred as it might be back at home! Stepping back from someone who’s talking to you may be considered rude, so try and leave your inhibitions behind and get involved yourself!

Don’t get snap-happy

It’s a common reaction to whip out a camera and start merrily snapping away whenever you see something interesting. Usually this isn’t too much of an issue in Latin America, but may cause problems if you start photographing kids, people in traditional dress or government officials. Your best bet is to ask first – imagine how you’d feel if someone thought your jeans and t-shirt were weird and starting taking pictures of them!

Re-set your watch!

Although it differs in each country, Latin Americans tend to have a more relaxed attitude to timekeeping than in the West. Perhaps it’s the laid-back attitude to life or the extra few hours of daylight you get, but punctuality is not a big concern here! If you’ve arranged a meeting with someone try and clarify if they mean a time exactly or approximately, as it may prevent you from standing around waiting for everyone to arrive!

Useful links

http://www.i-to-i.com/campfire/travel-guides/3-Cultural-considerations-in-Africa

From the Spanish conquest, the wars of independence, the aftermath of independence, the search for political stability, the acute disparities of wealth, the periodic armed revolts by dissidents, the coup d’etat, military dictatorships, all have been a regular feature in Central and South America. Also the relationships with the United States and Europe, have contributed to shaping the “psyche” and culture of the “national” personality in each country.

Clearly it would difficult to suggest that there is a standard “Latin American Business Cultural Model”. Latin American business executives tend to be extrovert, impatient, talkative, and inquisitive. But of course, in Central America, Venezuela, Colombia, Brazil and Argentina, they are more extrovert than in Chile, Bolivia or Peru.

When preparing your trip, remember that many countries require a business visa to conduct business transactions. Avoid Christmas and the holiday season as everything slows down. Check the climate conditions particularly in countries such as Peru and Bolivia; altitude, rain, heat, etc. may affect your health. Documents such as letters, promotional literature, and presentation materials should be translated into Spanish. If you receive a reply from a Latin company in English, however, you may begin using English in correspondence.

Prior appointments are always preferred, preferably at least one week in advance, making sure you always check the appointment on the day of the meeting. Punctuality is expected and you must take into account the traffic congestion-especially in most of the Capital cities, such as Mexico City, Sao Paulo, Santiago de Chile, Buenos Aires, Lima, Caracas etc- this can be difficult, and you must plan ahead to ensure you have plenty of time to get to your destination.

Latin Americans, tend to be people oriented, they argue emotionally, and instead of giving strict orders, they prefer to do things by seeking favours. In contrast with the “individualist” Anglo-Saxon culture, the “collective” is above everything, as a result interpersonal skills such as the ability to “fit in” and maintain cordial relations with the group, are often considered more important than professional competence and experience.

It is in this context that the “Family” has a broader “collective” connotation as it embraces blood relations, distant family, friends, or even work colleagues. In fact do not be surprised to see Latin business executives intermixing their work environment with their “social-family life”. In this culture, nepotism is easily accepted as common practice; family members and relatives are preferred when recruiting staff. To that extent the individual member must take full responsibility for his or her decisions and how they affect the group or family structure.

In recent times there have been an interesting dual development in the business culture, on the one hand, the older generation continues doing business by often placing a greater emphasis on “trust” and “loyalty” by getting to know you personally, as for them, completing a human transaction is the best way they can invest their time. On the opposite side, the younger generation, especially those educated in the USA and Europe, are chiefly preoccupied with business concerns.

In family-owned businesses, senior family members usually make the final decision. In most other organizations, however, senior management makes decisions. Moreover, individuals with professional experience, who have a special understanding of the implications of the proposal, will often have input into the decision-making process

Times, like truth are relative concepts. Latins are not very interested in schedules or punctuality – they pretend to observe them if being asked or insisted. This creates conflict and irritation with Anglo-Saxon cultures Why they don’t arrive in time? Why they don’t work to deadline? Why they don’t follow a plan? In response, Latin people think they get more done their way!

The pace of negotiations is slower in Latin America than in Europe, as is customary, some preliminary conversation is considered necessary before each meeting, since it allows the participants to become personally acquainted. The best policy is to wait for your Latin counterparts to initiate any “small talk” and follow their lead in establishing rapport.

Meeting formalities must be followed; the two senior executives should sit facing each other. In general, Latin business executives prefer to be the ones “in control”, you should try to avoid monopolising conversations or putting pressure of any kind on your colleagues. Be sensitive to the fact that Latins tend to stand and sit extremely close to others. The best policy is to respect this practice and accept that it is the cultural norm. Moreover, attempting to move away will be perceived only as a cold rejection.

A manager’s status is attributed on grounds of family, age, educational and professional qualifications. They tend to have less specialisation than European or USA managers. Latins follow a top-down decision making process, where employees follow a trusting subservience to their superior as task orientation is dictated from above.

Opinions of experienced middle-mangers and technical staff do not always carry the weight that they would do in the UK, but as meritocracy slowly grows, their influence grows too. Latin managers are paternalistic and emotionally involved. Managers or heads of departments tend to concern themselves with the personal and private problems of their staff.

Business and corporate social life follow “old world” formalities; etiquette, manners and physical presence are measure of breeding and status symbols. It’s considered very important to maintain good posture at all times, even in more informal situations. A firm, assured, handshake is the customary greeting on all occasions. During the handshake, state your full name; your Latin counterpart will then reciprocate by doing the same. You will have to speak not only at a closer distance, but also maintain eye contact as an assurance of your genuine interest.

Local business people tend to be very status-conscious and will often be impressed by these displays. First impression is everlasting in the mind of a Latin. In general the Latin executives are highly conservative and traditional in their dress code. Men wear dark, conservative suits for all formal occasions.

For the Latin, pleasure is before business, and they use entertainment as a way of building a personal relationship with his/her potential business partner. Much leisure time is spent socialising with family, friends and colleagues, mostly at weekends. Business dinners, in particular, are usually purely social occasions, and as such you should refrain from discussing work-related matters unless your Latin contact brings up the subject. Ensure that you write a thank-you note following any social gathering where you were a guest. Thank-you letters can be very helpful in solidifying rapport.

Women, legally enjoy all the same rights as men in most of Central and South American countries. Depending on the degree of economic growth, urbanization, industrialization, education, and expanded opportunities in their respective country, women have better or worse positions in society. Practically the representation of women in the private sector’s upper and middle management is growing slowly, but remains fairly small. One can rarely mention a name, which can be easily identified with a women business leader.

Latin women tend to be meticulous dressers who closely follow European fashion. Female visitors are advised to bring conservative, stylish business clothes of the highest quality, including a cocktail dress. Often, women greet each other by quickly touching cheek to cheek and kissing the air.

For middle-class woman who want to combine job and family careers support provided by the extended family and the availability of maids is a pre-requisite. Latin businesswomen are going through the same dilemmas as business women in more other countries – in being mother, lover, wife, professional, and entrepreneur!

When doing business in Latin America, your always must make all the necessary preparations to leave a lasting impression about; your company, your products, yourself, your value systems and your attitude to business. In the final instance Latin American business people are asking themselves; Can I trust this person to do business with? Is our relationship sufficiently solid?

If the answer is YES , and trust has been acknowledge by both parties, then the business flows accordingly, and the chances of securing contracts and agreements are much greater.

Original article at www.intercultural-training.co.uk