Mother H

Last night I once again ventured into the infamous nightlife of Buenos Aires. Jorge, a Brazilian I met at school, invited me to go out with two of his girlfriends to get something to eat and then go to a dance club.
We met at 10, the girls were all dolled up (because this was their last weekend in BA) and wanted to eat at the hippest restaurant in my neighborhood. They were willing to wait the hour and a half to get in – I was not. After much lobbying in portuspeanglish I convinced the group to look elsewhere. While strolling the streets searching for a place to eat the girls’ attitudes became somewhat bothersome to me. They were continually grumbling (while lingering in front of clothing store windows). “Where are we headed?” “Where are we going?” “Why is it so cold?” Because in your effort to dress chic you neglected to consider the temperature.
After looking at several fine-and-dandy-by-me eating establishments the girls insisted we go BACK to the first restaurant. I couldn’t wait any longer so I committed an atrocity with the complicit help of Jorge - McDonald’s. Its’ convenience could not be denied in that moment. My eyes were filled with disgrace and my head hung in shame as I placed my order for the ensalada con pollo y papas medias.
Jorge was a fervent advocate of McDonald’s and he relished telling me about his favorite combos back in Brazil and the merits of Brazilian McDonald’s versus Argentinean. Later that evening the Brazilians debated whether Burger King or McDonald’s was better – I couldn’t believe it had come to this. The stigma surrounding fast food in the USA has not yet made the migration here.
I have found myself in these comprising situations more than once in BA because I have yet to venture too much out of my comfort zone. My focus now is to learn Spanish and finish an overdue music project. I’m waiting to explore until I feel confident in my ability to communicate.
The history of this country’s social repression has become of interest to me because of its’ parallel with my own country’s. In the late 70’s and 80’s Isabel Peron came to power as President and began a harsh system of “social reorganization” because of increasing dissent from the country’s left. Basically anyone offering any harsh words against the country became a target for kidnapping, torture, and eventual execution. This became known as the “dirty war” much later – although the name isn’t exactly fitting because “war” implies fighting between two sides somewhat equally matched. Most of the victims were students, labor party leaders, journalists and those thought to be communists. The whole system of repression included help and consent from the US, France, and the Argentinean Catholic Church. Antonio Caggiano, archbishop of Buenos Aires declared, "Marxism is the negation of Christ and his Church." The government also perpetuated its’ own effort by secretly planning attacks against itself and then publicly placing the blame on imaginary Marxist terrorist groups.
Like my own government the Argentinean’s government justified such extreme measures using the ethos that terrorism necessitates radical state-sponsored tactics.
Somewhere around 30,000 persons disappeared into secret holding camps between 1976 – 1983, most are believed to have been drugged and thrown from ships and planes into the Rio Plata or Atlantic Ocean. Some women gave birth in these camps and had their babies taken and given to persons in or associated with the government/military. The Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo is an organization dedicated to connecting stolen children with their hereditary families. They hold weekly rallies in the city-center.
Towards the end of the “dirty war” the government tried to bolster patriotism with a war. The Argentineans had long disputed Britain’s claim on the Falkland Islands and they believed Britain’s response to an invasion would be lackluster. This proved to be completely wrong. Britain swiftly annihilated the Argentinean forces.
The end of the “dirty war” came with the election of a new president in 1983.

http://www.iamtryingtobelieve.com

People here are extremely polite. This cultural detail is especially apparent on the public transportation system where men are expected to give up their seats for women when necessary. Not every woman qualifies – you need to be over the age of 60, pregnant, or obviously handicapped. Sometimes, if a woman steps onto a bus and no seat is immediately available you will see her scoping the cabin for her potential resting place. Young men like myself are the prime targets. Our able bodies are obviously better suited for upright commuting, although I did pour water all over myself while standing on the bus recently. Once we’re spotted a woman will give you “the evil eye” or simply stand so close to you that you cannot help but notice their distressed look.
Women will also target you at stores. I was standing in line at a grocery store and an old lady came up and stood behind me – she was in the no man’s land between lanes of cash registers. From my periphery I could see her staring at my small basket. She was trying to make it apparent that she thought she should be let ahead of me.
I’ve seen two people hit by cars in BA. It might have something to do with the borderline reckless driving that is the norm here. What is one lane in the US is two here. Traffic lights have four settings “Green” “Yellow preceding Red” “Red” “Yellow preceding Green”. If you’ve ever seen a drag race – it is quite similar.
School makes my brain feel like a turducken – a turkey stuffed with a chicken – stuffed with a duck – stuffed with a Spanish/English dictionary. It really has been a long time since I’ve mentally pushed myself this hard. The five hours of class pass in waves of semi-comprehension and absolute floundering.
My Brazilian classmate has a much better grasp on the language – so it’s moving at her speed. We tried to play a game the other day that was a mix between telephone and jeopardy. We never actually played the game because I could never understand the rules or purpose OF the game. I lost at Argentinean “Clue”. It was the fat actress, at the top of the tower, with the rope because she was caught in a game of fraud.
In school we are working on the past tense at the moment, which I find to be the least important of the tenses. I had to explain the history of my relationship with my ex-girlfriend the other day and play the infamous drinking game “I’ve never….” (minus the booze)
I got a new roommate this week - a 60+ year-old Scotch/Canadian, Mormon, Diabetic woman. She loves to talk about the most inane topics. The first evening we met she told me about lancing a blister on her foot. Her sons speak Laotian and Russian, languages they picked up doing Mormon missionary work overseas. She is convinced that around every corner there is someone about to rob her - so she carries a samba whistle.
Last weekend I hit the town with a fellow Texan. Ross has been down here awhile teaching English to business people, barely making enough money to get by.
He took me to a bar (oddly enough called “The Alamo”) where I was greeted with an incredibly high-frequency tone at the door. The high pitch acts as a deterrent to those whose hearing range is still good enough to hear it – young people. It is the sound of a thousand baby birds dying. This clued me into the nature of this bar. Basically, Argentinean women and/or girls (depending on the laws of your country) go to this bar to pick-up saucy, exciting men from other countries. And thus why Ross brought me here. I don’t think there was a woman over 21 in the entire place.
American guys in T-shirts and flip-fops grunted at the basketball game on TV while Guns and Roses played on the stereo. These women were in for a treat.
We had a few drinks and left.
Later, we made our way to barrio Palermo to meet up with some acquaintances from Uruguay a Dutch girl and her Swiss friend. We found the bar (minus the girls), befriended some local rockers, and danced to hits of the 70s/80s – it was a blast. The girls showed up at 2 AM but didn’t like the look/music of the club, so we finished the night in a chic discotheque across the street. My ears were still ringing the next morning.

Buenos Aires

The Argentinean government is burning thousands of acres of land for an reason that is unapparent to me. I can't make sense of the newspapers but it seems this is definitely a controlled effort. Unfortunately, the government failed to account for prevailing winds or just considers the health of its' citizens collateral damage.
I feel like I'm standing downwind of a tire fire. The smoke is like any other I have experienced. It pervades every aspect of my life here. For many hours I thought the smell of the smoke was actually myself - when showering and changing clothes didn't purge my olfactory glands - I came to my senses.
The smoke has made and increasingly difficult situation worse. I think I need to leave BA. It is just too much. There are too many people here - it is frustrating for me to always be in such close contact with so many strangers. Also, I find myself mentally awash here - it doesn't feel right.
I'm thinking about going to Cordoba - the "cultural and educational center of Argentina". It is about 1.3 million people - 10% of BA's size. I'll hold out until next week.
The senora of my household - Susana - finds humor in everything I do. She constantly advises me on cooking rice - something I do quite well. I still don't really know what she is trying to tell me about it - something about aluminum pots and using more water. Sometimes she wakes me up in the mornings to make sure I get to school on time. I don't need her to do this - I have an alarm and a sense of purpose, nevertheless her rusty voice echos in my dreams. She constantly reminds me to turn off lights, eat proper meals, and to always take a jacket. I don't remember paying for the "surrogate mother" option at the school. She is a loving old lady.
Susana wants me to tell her how long I'll be here, but I can't.
The Germans all leave this week, I think this will be good for me - I'll have to find new friendlies. I hope to use some of the recording equipment I brought with me. This Saturday I'll meet up with an American who plays guitar with some locals.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/motherh/

The German and I hopped a ferry to Colonia, Uruguay this weekend - a one hour trip. As we entered the port area of BA we were surprised to see the beginning of the Olympic torch ceremony. There were more police than you could shake a stick at.
We arrived in the Colonia and strolled up the cobblestone streets to a small hostel that had been around for ages. Very charming little place with old bouganvilla plants and avocado trees in the courtyard.
We rented bikes - the German's bike-chain broke immediately and some Brazilian cyclists on their way to Chile/New Zealand fixed it for us. Passing parilladas and heldaderias we picked up some wine and beer. Back at the hostel some New Zealand, Swiss, Dutch, and English travelers had arrived and we all chatted. I lost at games of pool.
The German, Swiss, and myself grabbed some delicious grilled meat at a restaurant and I befriended the area's stray dog population with trimmings from our meal. I tried to chat about oak wood cooking and hormone-free meat with the grillmaster, but was checked by my Spanish.
It seems after a week of Spanish school my command of the language has worsened - maybe I'm just intimidated because now I know how much there is to learn. This will not stop me from trying.
After the asado our hostel's large and multi-national crew met up again at a bar called "Colonial Rock". I imagined Queen Victoria singing Heart songs with Ben Franklin playing drums, but was greeted with locals singing Selena and The Cure through a Karaoke machine.
I tried to explain Mormonism to one of the Swiss travelers, but was again checked by my language-skills and lack of knowledge of the Mormon religion. The Swiss traveler bailed on the bill.
The German wanted to do shots of tequila,but I declined and struck up a conversation with the ghost of Allen Ginsberg.
The next day's activities were limited to hanging on the grassy beach of the rio plata, cooking some local produce, having my shoes shat on by the local bird population, and watching "Click" at the hostel. Yikes!
Back in BA everything is serene this Sunday.

P.S. Winter arrived.

P.P.S. Check out the photos here - http://www.travellerspoint.com/photos/gallery/users/Sabrosa684/