Uruguay: Parte Dos

For Semana Santa (the long four day weekend over Easter) I went to Uruguay with a few of my friends. We waited until the last minute to plan anything, so we decided on the relatively easy and 're lindo' trip to Uruguay. Sara and I took a ferry called the Buquebus over to Colonia on Thursday morning, crossing el Río de la Plata, the widest river in the world. If hadn’t known it was a river it never would even have occurred to me that it wasn’t the ocean. The highlight of the ferry ride may have been the café con leche I had from the ferry cafeteria. It was really amazing, and I might need to go back to Uruguay just so I can have another.

Me and Sara on the Buquebus, pumped to arrive in Colonia:



Once we arrived in Colonia, we walked over to our hostel. We thought that we were lost, because we were supposed to be on the main road, and it appeared that we were walking down a semi-deserted side street. Sure enough, after asking around, we discovered that we were in fact on the main street. Colonia, the oldest town in Uruguay, is very small and very quaint. The walk to our hostel took approximately two minutes. Once we got to our hostel, we discovered that they had lost our reservation. I remained surprisingly calm in a potentially bad situation, and after showing the woman our confirmation thirty times, she finally showed us into our room.



Colonia is famous for its historic district, and once we had settled in at our hostel, Sara and I headed out to explore. We met up with three other friends and wandered around the town for the next few hours. First we looked for somewhere to have lunch, and I found myself once again surrounded by chovizno, the monstrosity of a dish which I destroyed on my previous trip to Uruguay. (You can reference the photo of this mountainous pile of meat, eggs and mayonaise in my Punta del Este entry.) It was one of those dishes you only need to eat once in your life, so I opted for pizza. After lunch we went to the top of a lighthouse where we had an incredible view of the town and of Río de la Plata.

This is us on the top of the lighthouse:







My friend Elsa had her fortune read the day before, and the woman told her that she would find the love of her life in Montevideo, and gave her the street name and time. Naturally we went excitedly searching for el amante de su vida that afternoon. Much to our disappointment, the man standing on the on the street was not a sexy Latin lover, but rather a hefty, fifty-something year-old man who looked like he hadn’t showered in quite a while. We decided that we must have gotten the time wrong.

That night, the other girls set off for Montevideo, and Sara and I headed back to our hostel. It was my first experience staying in a communal hostel room, and a very good one. We met two really nice girls from Uruguay and decided to cook dinner together. We bought food and the supermarket and cooked a delicious meal of pasta with vegetables and salad. One funny interaction was at the supermarket, when Sara told the girls that she is a vegetarian. They proceeded to ask, "So do you eat ham?", and then, "then you eat chicken, right?". Argentines have the highest consumption of red meat in the world, and I'm pretty sure than Uruguay is in close second. I guess it really isn't a surprise then, that for many Argentines and Uruguyans, vegetarianism in nearly incomprehensible. In addition to worshiping red meat, Uruguayans, like their Argentine neighbors, appear not to be big vegetable fans, and Sara and I ate pretty much the entire salad. We spent the rest of the night chatting with other travelers, mainly from Argentina and Uruguay.

Colonia is lovely, but it is regarded as a one day destination, so we forged ahead to Montevideo the next morning. Montevideo, the capital, is often described as a smaller version of Buenos Aires. When we arrived however, we encountered far from a bustling city. Arriving in Montevideo sort of felt like stepping into one of those end of the world movies. Because it was a holiday, everyone from Montevideo had left: the streets were eerily empty and many of the shops and restaurants were closed.

Semi-deserted street in Montevideo:



Later that day Elsa, Sara and I went to Teatro Solís, a very old, beautiful theatre located on the waterfront of the city. We did a tour of the theatre, which included a clown performance. It was very strange, but we enjoyed ourselves nevertheless. And I learned the word for clown: payaso.

Me jumping on Elsa in front of el Teatro Solís:



Inside the theatre:



We finished our tour and stepped outside to see one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. The three of us ran down the street to the water (it was so incredible we just felt like running), and soaked up the explosion of colors filling the sky and bleeding out across the horizon.



Okay, so this is where the trip takes a crazy turn. We were walking back up to our hostel, giddy after witnessing such an incredible sunset, when a hooligan runs by and grabs Elsa’s purse, including her phone, credit card, keys, and….her passport. We call the police, and when they show up a few minutes later, ask us to all get into the back of the car. We then proceed to drive around Montevideo for the next 45 minutes searching for the thief. To no one’s surprise, we did not find him. We got back to our hostel later that night, and had accepted that Elsa would have to extend her trip an extra day to go to the embassy and get her passport. THEN, my friend Claire received a text from Elsa’s (stolen) phone. The ladrón said “hola.” We begged via text for him to return the passport, to which he responded: “we should call the police because he had left her things at la escuela de chile. Hope you are having a nice stay in Uruguay.” We got a hold of the police shortly after, and sure enough, about a half an hour later the police shows up with the passport in one hand, and maté in the other. (I thought that Argentines were obsessed with mate until I went to Uruguay. The love it so much that they where backpacks designed to transport thermoses of water for their maté, and they drink it while walking along the street.) Anyways, it was an extremely bizarre experience, and I’m still not quite sure what exactly occurred. We had no interest in leaving the hostel that night, and luckily they were having a concert and empanada party right in our hostel.

The next day was very chill: we took the bus to the beach and walked around there most of the day, and spent the evening cooking dinner and playing cards with a group of rowdy Australians. We came home on Easter Sunday and shared an enormous chocolate egg on the Buquebus. Not exactly the trip I had expected, but definitely one I will never forget.

Día de la Memoria

March 24 is a national holiday in Argentina, el Día de la Memoria por la Verdad y la Justicia, or the Day of Remembrance for Truth and Justice. El Día de la Memoria is the anniversary of the coup d’etat in 1976 that brought the military dictatorship into power, and recognizes the victims of el Proceso, or the National Reorganization Process. El Proceso was a political project which sought to eradicate subversives: the military junta essentially waged a massive extermination campaign, murdering those who expressed, or who were suspected of having, leftist political views. 50 % of the victims were union leaders, and 25 % were university students. The victims are called ‘los desaparecidos,’ the 30,000 Argentines who ‘disappeared’ between 76’ and 79’. The majority of los desaparecidos were abducted from their homes during the night, tortured, and murdered. Many were tranquilized and thrown out of planes into the ocean.

It is hard for me to believe that horrific chapter of Argentine history occurred little more than 30 years ago. Going to the parade really emphasized that el Proceso is not just something of history, but rather continues to be very much alive and present in the Argentine consciousness. The fear and the chaos and the loss which defined the years of the military junta persist through the memories of those who loved and remember los desaparecidos. Epitomizing this effort to remember are las Madres de Plaza de Mayo, a group of woman whose children 'disapeered' during the dictatoriship. Every single Thursday las Madres gather in Plaza de Mayo and walk for a half an hour to commemerate their missing children. This is a picture of las Madres' emblem in Plaza de Mayo. Each madre wears a white head scarf embroidered with the name of her child.



On the 24th, I headed to Plaza de Mayo. Plaza de Mayo is the main plaza in front of la Casa Rosada (Argentine equivalent of the White House), and the center of all political action in Buenos Aires. I got off the subway to the booming sound of cannons, and when I walked up onto the street I was blown away by thousands of people marching in the street. It was unlike anything I have ever seen. Argentines of all ages, men and women, families, students, businessmen: it seemed like all of Buenos Aires had come out to recognize los desaparecidos. I found out later that day that there were 90,000 people in attendance. It was so loud I could hardly hear my friend standing right next to me.



First there was a parade, with every kind of performance you could think of (dancing, drums, singing) and then the people just flooded the street and began marching and chanting. The streets were packed, and I could hardly move up the sidewalk. One group in the parade carried a seemingly endless banner (four blocks long!) with the photos and names of los desaparecidos. It was a powerful image, and gave me chills to look at the stream of missing faces fading into the distance. Both a serious event and a celebration, el Día de la Memoria is a day of reflection and mourning, as well as a holiday to rejoice in Argentina’s new, brighter future. I am beginning to understand how fundamental the memory of el Proceso is to the Argentine identity: the passion with which they express their views and opinions (in politics, sports, and everything for that matter), as well as the value they place on living well and cherishing time with friends and family are a cultural reaction, or negation of a time when free speech and self-expression were impossible.

Yo Soy la Asesina

A few nights ago, Ariel, Natalia, Anna and Natalia’s friend and I were sharing pet stories during dinner. I felt like it was my turn to share, and not really thinking about it, decided to disclose a dark moment from my past: I told them the duck story. I had repressed the memory for a long time, but it all came back so clearly, and I told them about being at my friend’s house, and accidentally stepping on, and killing one of the family’s pet ducklings. It was one of the most traumatic moments of my life. Everyone else however, found the story extremely entertaining, and once the shock of the story passed, they all started hysterically laughing. Ariel found it especially amusing, and proceeded to dub me “la asesina.” Great. They are really big on apodos (nicknames) in Argentina, and mine is ‘the assassin.’ Now, whenever Luz, the cat, comes near me, Ariel shouts, “Luz, watch out, la asesina is coming hahahaha!”. Or sometimes, he will arbitrarily insert into our conversations, “pero pisaste un patito hahaha” (but you stepped on a baby duck). All I can really do is shake my head and laugh. After all, 'la asesina' is kind of a cool nick name :)

La Vida Porteña

20 de marzo

Last weekend I attended my first Argentine social gathering. My two young housemates, Anna, from France, and Veronica from Austria, both had their Argentine friends over on Saturday night, and graciously invited me to attend. I had read and heard that socializing is what Argentines do best, and I could hardly wait to see for myself. Anna told me that the party started at 10, so naturally, I was waiting eagerly in the living room at 10 sharp. It didn’t take me very long to realize however, that I had committed my first social no-no. In Argentina, ten o’clock does not actually mean ten o’clock. In fact, Argentines take being ‘fashionably late’ to a whole new level. For example, Argentines say I will be there “a las diez y pico,” which means at ten and a bit. “Pico” however, can mean anything from 10 minutes to an hour. The first guest didn’t arrive until at least 10:30, and the other ten continued strolling in periodically over the next two hours. This dilatory culture (that’s for you Sara) pervades all aspects of Argentine society, and everything from social events, to appointments, to even classes at the university are usually delayed by at least 15 minutes. Perception of time, or lack thereof, has struck me as one of the greatest cultural differences with the US, where punctuality is so important. So, lesson number 1: unless you want to hang out by yourself, never show up on time.

Lesson number 2: when you arrive to a party, it is necessary to greet every single guest in the room. For Argentines, this salutation entails a friendly beso, in which each person kisses the other on the left cheek. This custom applies to everyone, including men. For so much machismo here, I was surprised that it is so natural for men to kiss each other. Later on in the night I explained to an Argentine guy that in the US the beso greeting does not exist, especially between men, and he looked at me with an expression of complete incomprehension. You even greet a guest with a kiss if you have never met them before. This got a little awkward once another night at a bar when a girl, thinking my friends and I were sitting with her friends, gave each of us a kiss. Even so, this situation was not a big deal, as Argentines perceive personal boundaries very differently. Basically, if there is such thing as a personal bubble, be prepared for it to pop the moment you set foot in Argentina.

Another thing the party made very clear: Argentines love to talk. In groups of friends especially, they are all fighting for center stage. Natalia, who was sitting next to me, informed me that when Argentines come together to drink and talk, everything gets louder and faster. It also didn’t help that portenos have a whole separate set of vocabulary, called lunfardo. There were definitely moments when I wasn't sure if they were even speaking Spanish. All the guests at the party were either history or anthropology students, and were engaging in heated debates about politics, history, linguistics, etc. But then suddenly, the conversation would turn to fútbol, and how the new forward for Boca is terrible, and then back to the relativity of historical truth. Something else I found interesting was that for being so liberal, these young Argentines could also be extremely politically incorrect. There is nothing offensive about calling someone (to their face) el negro (the black), el gordo (the fat one), el enano (the dwarf), or un maricón (gay). In other words, if this conversation were overhead at Occidental College, some very serious dialoguing would go down.

Everyone left around 5:30. I am still trying to adjust to the nightlife here, which often starts around 2 or 3 and lasts until 6. So, a very enjoyable night, and a great initiation into the craziness that is Argentine social life.

Tigre

20 de marzo

Last weekend was a great way to end my ridiculously long break before starting up classes again. On Thursday the entire FLACSO program went to Tigre, a small town several hours outside of Buenos Aires. Tigre lies on the Paraná de Delta, and we took a lancha (motorboat) to arrive at our destination. The boat ride was beautiful, and I felt a little bit like I was on the African Queen, except in South America, and without Humphrey Bogart. Tigre is one of the places Argentines go to vacation, and there were some incredible houses along the water. After the boat tour, the lancha dropped us off at a small resort called Marco Polo on a tiny, secluded island which we had all to ourselves. Despite being relatively limited in space, we had a great time. I spent most of the trip relaxing on the sandy riverbank with friends during the day, and chatting inside at night, when the swarms of mosquitos (and the dreaded Dengue Fever!) came out.

Here is a picture of la lancha:



I sort of forgot that I was Argentina because everyone was speaking English, but some of the trip’s events were extremely porteño, and reminded me I was still right outside Buenos Aires. For example, for lunch we were each served a plate with two huge empanadas (a pastry stuffed with meat and vegetables). Side note- Argentines LOVE empanadas, and in Buenos Aires, you will see in the windows of nearly every other restaurant, and they are often delivered. Another side note- portenos LOVE delivery. Even a lot of the heladerías (ice cream parlors) have delivery service. Alright, back to lunch. Thinking lunch was over, I was making my way up from the table when the waiters brought us each an enormous piece of milanesa, a very thin piece of breaded and fried meat. If portenos love empanadas, then they are completely obsessed with milanesa. I have a friend whose host mom serves him milanesa every night, except when she decides to really spice things up and puts cheese and ham on top to make milanesa pizza. Luckily, my family is a little more diverse in their cooking. They also brought out a bunch of bowls heaping with salad ingredients, which we were all very excited about, considering Argentines tend to substitute salad for more meat to go with their meat. The one down side: there were no serving utensils. Though I was initially confused, this really should not have come as any surprise. Argentines share everything. The best example I can give is mate, an herbal drink served in a gourd with a bombilla (a metal straw), and which is most commonly passed around and shared. Now it is really clear to me why the H1N1 virus was such a problem here. I also had my first traditional Argentine asado, a huge spread of different cuts of meats which are cooked on an open grill. It includes nearly every imaginable part of the cow, and though some of the offerings were a little scary, I gave everything a try. So a very Argentine dining experience, and very enjoyable and relaxing trip.

Momentos Memorables

5 de marzo

Several days ago I was rudely awakened at seven A.M. by a booming din outside my window, a cacophony of drums, sirens and whistles. Thinking we were being attacked, I rushed out of my room and asked Nati, “qué está occuriendo?”. She smiled at my somewhat panicked expression and responded, “es una manifestación, algo común en Buenos Aires.” Apparently, a group of about a hundred hospital workers were leading a demonstration, or a protest, before work, and had conveniently selected the location underneath my balcony as a the ideal location. It seems that the modus operandi of the manifestación is to get on the news by creating as much noise as is humanly possible. Unfortunately, the manifestación was not a one day event: the workers have continued to beat their drums at seven A.M. for about two hours every day since. Though this is not ideal for my sleep schedule, it is exciting to watch the workers march and pound their drums and yell with so much passion. After all, my taxi driver did tell me last night that “los argentinos son muy apasionados.” Plus, I don’t ever have to worry about sleeping through my alarm.

Another interesting event occurred yesterday when I went to check out el gimnasio near my house. After explaining to me the different offerings provided by the gym, the woman at the front desk told me she would take me inside to meet my professor. I really had no idea what this meant, and just guessed that she meant someone who ran the gym. I never could have guessed that a basic memembership to the gym would include a person trainer (mi professor) named Hernán, a very buff man wearing swooshy pants who would kick my butt for an hour and a half. It was the longest and most hard core strength training workout I have ever done. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but it was quite an experience. Hernán explained to me afterwards that in Argentina having a personal trainer isn’t a luxury like it is in the US, and most gyms provide them to its members. When I was leaving he told me that next time we would do the same routine but incorporate new exercises and increase the intensity. If I follow through with this, I think I might finally be able to beat my mom in arm wrestling.

One last story. My attempt to be helpful around the house backfired last night, in the form of a massive flood in the kitchen. I was doing the dishes, when all of a sudden water came gushing out onto the floor from some unknown place underneath the sink. I started screaming, “Anna! Anna! Ayúdame, ayúdame!!!”. I watched helplessly as the water spread across the kitchen and into the hallway. Ariel came rushing in, shouting at the top of his lungs “lo rompiste! Lo rompiste” (You broke it! You broke it!). Once again, I had taken Ariel way to literally, and only when I heard him hysterically laughing inside the kitchen did I realize he was messing with me. The old pipes had overflowed, but nothing was broken. Nati had warned me on my first night that “la casa tiene muchos secretos” (the house has many secrets), and I had just discovered one, albeit the hard way.

Impresiones Primeras

2 de marzo

Today is only my fifth day living with my host family, but it already feels like home. I live with Natalia (Nati for short), her boyfriend Ariel, a 22 year-old from France named Anna, and a 21 year-old from Austria named Veronica. Oh, and of course Luz, a beautiful Siamese cat.

I am so glad that I was matched with Nati. She is funny, interesting and kind. She loves Tim Burton, lots of sugar, and surprisingly, could live without la carne. She is very artistic, and while she is getting her art degree, she is also working as a makeup artist for performers in plays and concerts, and doing drawings of sets for movies. Right now she is creating a huge elephant mask for a play. Nati made a huge color-coded map of the city for me, showed me how to take the subway and escorted me to the CIEE building on my first day. Ariel is also very interesting. He studied philosophy in school, and spent probably an hour talking to me about Platón y el mundo ideal. He also is really into horoscopes, and insisted that I tell him the birthdays of everyone in my family so he could interpret our family dynamics. Ariel is also very sarcastic. When I asked what kind of juice we were drinking, he responded with a straight face “de caballo” (from a horse), and last night he told me that dinner would be at 2 AM. Unfortunately it is harder for me to pick up on sarcasm in Spanish, so even if I do pick up on his jokes, it is usually too late. I didn’t really get to know Anna at all until yesterday because her mom is visiting, but I know that we will get along very well. She is studying history here, works at a nearby bakery and loves salsa dancing. She has already offered to take me dancing with her and to take me to her favorite museum. I have yet to meet Veronica, who is travelling and is coming back in two weeks.

My first night at the house went out (literally) with a bang. After only an hour or so of arriving, I decided to charge my computer. To my utter horror, the moment I stuck my adaptor in the wall, the house went black: the entire apartment building lost power. Great first impression, Ali. When I told them it was my fault and apologized profusely, they insisted that it wasn’t me, and that they had lost power several times that week because of the storm. I’m almost positive that it was my fault, but it was nice of them to say otherwise. Anyways, we had a lovely candlelit dinner, and a very memorable first day.