El Norte (pictures soon to come)

I returned from my trip north just yesterday. This trip was ten days of non-stop excursions and classes and I find it daunting to say the least to try to sum it up in one post. Therefore, I am going to summarize some of the most impactful experiences. Not to label myself as an incredibly thoughtful person, but I feel that this post does have a more novel, pensive feature, and want to point that out before anyone reads this any further.

My study abroad group went to two northern provinces: Salta and Jujuy. We spent the first few days in Salta, which is horseshoe shaped and borders Paraguay, Bolivia, and Chile. Actually, it's quite weirdly shaped, kind of jagged as well--much like your typical House of Representatives member's district. Nested inside the awkward horseshoe is Jujuy, bordering Bolivia and Chile, where we spent the next 5 days. After those 5 days we once more came back to Salta to finish the experience.

During this trip, I tried a number of new things; probably the most exciting ones were llama meat (it's not bad) and coca leaves (not legal in the United States, to my knowledge). I first had llama meat in a stew while visiting a collective of salt miners without even knowing it. I had llama meat once more a few days later when eating and enjoying some folklore music at a restaurant in Jujuy. The band played traditional songs, but also surprised us with some Beatles songs as well ("Let It Be" was a hit). As for the coca leaves, Jujuy is situated very high--the highest point we saw was during the trip from Salta, 4,170 meters. That's over 12,000 feet! The coca leaves helped with the altitude very well, and, being the source of cocaine, also gave me a bit of a kick that I have to say I rather enjoyed.

Our first day in Jujuy, we went to visit the Salinas Grandes, and the aforementioned collective. The shift to a cooperative model has greatly improved the lives of the workers there. Although they only receive 90 pesos per ton of salt (somewhere along the lines of 10 dollars using my personal exchange rate), the benefits they receive from working in an equal environment sin patron (without a boss) heavily outweigh the burdens. This appears to be the case in salt mining as well as many other types of industries, ranging from the occupied factories throughout Argentina, to printing presses like Chilavert--which I visited a few weeks ago--to the occupied and cooperatively run Hotel Bauen, which is a block away from my apartment and which I will probably examine throughout my independent research.

A few days later was one of the most impactful moments of the trip and an experience I won't soon forget. It happened on the Bolivian border, where the first thing we saw were people running raw materials across the border to Argentina. And i mean literally running--because for these people (as the saying goes), "time is money."
And not very much of it, either.¹
I didn't feel comfortable taking pictures of what I saw, and instead took the time to write about it in my journal. I figured that though it is said that a picture is usually worth a thousand words, a few respectful words would be worth more than a thousand pictures. It dawned on me as I was watching and writing how little I knew of the person i saw a few hundred feet in front of me, running across the border. For some reason, I fell into the deep end of the pool, thinking about what it would be like to be God. The classical conception of Him is omniscient, meaning he knows every single detail about every single event in the life of every single person, including the person I was staring at. I didn't even know this man's name, but I though about how incredibly marvelous it would be if I could know literally everything about every person who had ever lived. I sat and entertained myself for a few minutes, completely lost in thought.
When it came time to cross, I remembered I had not brought my passport. We talked to the border officials and to my surprise, crossing the border was extremely easy. I was waved through, walking past a long line of people waiting to pass through the system--some of which were other members of my program, in sheer disbelief that the one who lost their passport would be the first to set foot on Bolivian soil (or fourth or something. There were a few pretty far ahead of me).
Yet, after crossing back over a few hours later and learning more about the border in class, I learned that it should not have been so easy. Over 3,000 people cross at the border of Villazon a day, and I only saw a fraction of that number as I bypassed the line on my return to Argentina. Many come to Argentina as immigrants, and if my skin was not so pale and my hair not so blond, I would not have been so lucky.

A few days later, I we went to San Salvador de Jujuy, the capital of the province. We visited an organization called Tupac Amaru (the leader of a historically famous indigenous uprising from which both this organization and west coast rapper Tupac Shakur were named), which was also incredible. We visited an entire community within the city that had been constructed by Tupac Shakur Amaru, and was completely self-sufficient. Education, health, housing, cooperative factories providing employment, and even a center for people with disabilities were provided. Claimed by some as a utopia, others as a "mini-Cuba," and some as both those things, it's hard to argue how impressive it is to see it.

Overall, what I encountered during this trip were the malaffects of the neoliberal economic model, which has been imposed on entire communities. I found myself stumbling around as a tourist, a role I've never felt comfortable filling. In Bolivia I crossed the border with more pesos than the man running across it probably makes in a week. I felt uncomfortable and helpless trying to convince myself that buying a few pairs of socks was helpful to their cause. I mean, what kind of twisted thinking is that? Did they even really need my help? Perhaps my discomfort with being a tourist is that I found myself working within the system rather than changing the system. Tourism seems to me to make everyday life look more like you're walking through the service-sector, and for this we often don't see the people we are interacting with as equals; merely the person giving us the thing they owe us for our money. The reality was that the old man in Bolivia who was selling socks that were made in Peru probably didn't always live this way. Before neoliberalism, these street vendors and their ancestors were mostly campesinos, living off the land. I've benefited greatly from neoliberalism so far (and have 4 pairs of socks, some stripey pants, and a sweater as evidence of that), yet my experiences in the north made it ever so obvious that many, if not most people, have not.

My experience at the border forced me to reflect on my white privilege. This was the first time I had actively realized that I was receiving different--arguably better--treatment because of my different appearance. And it is obvious that this hasn't been the first time; I've never been stopped-and-frisked, my race has probably contributed to my overall positive interactions with police officers, and as I can't even imagine what it must be like to be the mystery man on the border, I cannot imagine what it would be like to walk any other shoes besides my own.

Sometimes privilege can be a burden on the mind.

Yet the ultimate take-away amongst thousands of take-aways for me is that the miners' cooperative, Tupac Amaru, and the other organizations we visited all show that people are resilient, and have been able to find ways within this powerful system to continue to live, treat and be treated as humans, and care for another. And for this I have been greatly inspired

---

1 $1 peso for every trip across means roughly (according to my exchange rate) 12 cents

A brief post

At this moment, I am beginning to feel a slight bit less foreign. Today, for the first time, I felt like more of an Argentinian and less of an American (or should I say, Estadounidense). I woke up late (around 12) and spent my afternoon studying for a quiz (for which I am not actually finished preparing for) whilst drinking mate. This weekend I had went to a feria (basically a place full of stands to buy things) and purchased a mate (also called a calabaza, it is the receptacle that you drink the mate out of) and a bombilla (the metal straw you drink through that filters the water out from the herb mixture). It's kind of hard to make because if the water is too hot, then the mate tastes terrible. Yet for some wonderful reason, today my buddy Pepe and I made it right. I'm very glad I have officially acquired the taste for it because it is such an important part of the culture here and drinking mate and actually enjoying it makes me forget how much of a gringo I am.

The mate that I purchased displays the logo of the football team I (somewhat randomly) chose to root for here, called River Plate. This brings me to the other reason I have felt like an Argentinian--for probably the first time, I have begun to actually enjoy watching soccer--(ahem) "fútbol"--and last night's game was between River Plate and the Boca Juniors, two teams with a very intense rivalry, arguably one of the biggest in sports. Teams here tend to represent barrios, and with Boca it is no exception. La Boca is a historically working-class neighborhood, with a history of immigrant workers living in close quarters, and overall further demonstrating an income gap that is geographically represented in the city (typically the northern part of Buenos Aires is more affluent than the southern part). Therefore, this match is often not just be seen between two teams, but also between different socioeconomic levels (I don't think it really should be, but this is how it has been constructed by many). Perhaps I don't want to admit to cheering on behalf of the affluent against the struggling (who does?), yet most of my friends/people I've met here are River fans, and by association I have now become one.

I watched the game with a few friends and despite my usual apathy for sports, I found myself very much in the game. I wasn't shouting like the old man sitting behind us, but part of me died inside when Boca scored the only goal of the game. I wasn't close to starting a riot or anything, but for the first time I was faithfully watching a futbol game on the edge of my seat, and ended up slightly tasting a new variety of that bitter taste of defeat which I had distanced myself from over the years.

A week in the Patagonia, part II

I sadly left Chiquilihuin with the feeling that the best part of the trip was over. I was leaving a place so quaint, undeveloped, yet so beautiful. I bought a pair of wool socks that were almost as warm as the faces that had greeted me two days before, and which now smiled and wished us luck with the rest of our trip. I awkwardly said good-bye two and a half times to my host mom and hopped in a bus for what I knew would be an entirely different experience.

The first shock came as someone broke into our bus and stole two peoples' bags. Knowing what was in them, I would have much preferred that my things had been stolen--the only thing in my bag was clothes. I'd still be pretty bummed about the socks though.

I knew that although Bariloche was beautiful, I was headed for a very touristy place. Bariloche is a ski town, and its wooden, log-cabin style houses and shops are very reminiscent of those in South Lake Tahoe or Truckee in the Sierras. Bariloche was no doubt a beautiful city, but as soon as I had visited a brewery and spent the first night in the hostel, I was missing the silence, serenity, and sheep of Chiquilihuin.

The next day, however, was the best of this part of the trip. A group of us climbed up Cerro López, a peak in the Andes overlooking the lake (Nahuel Huapi, which I believe is the largest lake in Patagonia?). Despite not making it to the very top (it started to snow pretty hard), the views were spectacular. I simply could not believe where I was, what I was seeing. We drank the water straight out of the streams, and watched the condors fly below us.

Cerro López

El Lago Nahuel Huapi

That night, before we got a bit too wild, we played probably the most intense game of hot seat I've ever played. Just about everyone opened up on their feelings about love, mysticism, and life in general. I feel so close to everyone in this program and although I'll be happy to be home again, I know I'm really going to miss the hell out of all of these wonderful people I've gotten to know so well in just over a month.

The rest of the program seems like an educational blur. We visited a nonprofit EPADHES (I don't know what it stands for off the top of my head but it's essentially a group of environmental lawyers that work to protect environmental and indigenous rights in the wake of megamineros, fracking, and other destructive practices prevalent in the Patagonia). We visited a recycling center which was established after the financial crisis of 2001 in large by women who originally scoured the landfill to survive. It was difficult to hear one of the founders who was speaking over the humming of trash compactors, but I was very impressed by their ability to continue to operate without the management of a private company (and thus, probably lower wages). Finally, we visited another community and learned about the issues of land ownership that have historically presented themselves in and around Bariloche. In some cases, land has been outright stolen, in others, people have taken advantage of illiteracy by forcing the people living on the land to sign it over in contracts. I learned two very important things from this: first, unjust things can happen when one group that defines private property encounters one that doesn't; secondly (and probably most importantly), you can't trust the white man.

Thus, I found myself both loving and despising San Carlos de Bariloche. I loved it for its craft brews and stunning views (Cerro Campario is one of the most beautiful vistas in the world). Nahuel Huapi is clean, and the alpine skyline is unbeatable.However, I simultaneously judged Bariloche for its origin story. Developers have pushed out indigenous peoples to build ski resorts and expensive hotels. Historically, Nazis sought refuge here after the end of World War II. Traversing beyond the busy streets by the lake one can see the huge income gap in the city. The inland barrios lacking paved roads and the landfill show a less desirable part of the city. It seemed to me that the city wasn't genuine - that there was a lot hidden underneath the North Face shops, the chocolate, and the five star hotels.

I'm back in Buenos Aires for the next two weeks, then we travel to the north of the country. Salta and Jujuy will be the next destination, provinces sharing borders with Chile, Perú, and Bolivia. The elevation will be higher, the water will probably be less potable, and the temperature will be warmer. Most of all, I will probably be ready to escape the city again by that point!

A week in the Patagonia, Part I

This was the part of my study abroad experience that I was most excited about, and I was definitely not disappointed. I finally left Buenos Aires' crowded and lively streets to find myself surrounded by glimmering lakes and whitecapped mountains. The Andes, I have realized, were one of those countless wonders I had always wanted to see, yet never really thought I would. Yet here I was, oftentimes completely surrounded by just a fraction of the longest mountain range in the world.
Immediately after the most comfortable 22 hour bus ride imaginable, we spent 2 nights in an indigenous village called Chiquilihuin, living with the Mapuche in their homes. I was surrounded by animals, rocks, and the constant smell of wood smoke (which I already miss having arrived back in Buenos Aires). In the distance were the Andes, and the natural skyline was dominated by the Volcán Lanín, a volcano bordering Argentina and Chile. I was constantly telling people here that this was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.
In this community, and many like it, I found a lot of differences. For example, there is no private property within the community. Nobody can sell their land, nor do individuals claim ownership to it. To some extent there are boundaries to keep one family's animals from eating the vegetation that another family's animals already inhabit, but private property as we know it ceases to exist here. Yet, there were a number of surprises, too. For example, the presence of cable television--something I don't even have at my house--was common in many homes. I found myself sitting at the dinner table or warming myself by the wood stove while watching the Mexican Telanovela Mentir para Vivir ("Lie to Live").
The food here was the best I've had yet in this whole country. My favorite meal was lunch the second day. I don't exactly remember the name of the dish, but it was a soup with ñoquis (phonetically the same) which we added a spicy powder to. The soup was accompanied by tortas fritas (essentially fry bread) which I had never tried before. I've moved past dulce de leche and Ugi's and now I can't get those off my mind. In the second community we visited, we found the courage to ask how to make it. I'm excited to try eventually.

Pictures from Chiquilihuin!

Ugi's, Helado, and Avenida 9 de Julio

Not many new developments here in Buenos Aires, but I wanted to write something. I do have quite a few things on my mind, so I'll leave them here:

One thing I want everyone to know about is this place called Ugi's. They're everywhere in Buenos Aires and they give you a whole pizza for 28 pesos. Which is, essentially, a steal. Speaking of essentials, that is pretty much all their pizza is: dough, sauce (unless you order the focaccia variety), and mozzarella. They'll also sprinkle some oregano blend on top too which pretty much makes the whole thing. The inside of the place, as some friends have noted, features the decor of an insane asylum: a pizza oven behind a counter, surrounded by blank white walls that clash with the floor, featuring tiles of the same color. All that's missing is padding on the walls. Yet I go here at least 2 times a week, eating a whole pizza all by myself. I even realized it goes really good with an avocado, which I can buy right down the street for 6 pesos. 

Before I came here, I had asked people I knew who were familiar with Argentina what the country was like. Some of them used this as a chance to mess with me (I'm not mad, I would probably do the same thing), saying things like "they don't have chocolate there" (which is a bold faced lie) or "there's no ice cream in Argentina." The second rings truer, there isn't ice cream here. What they do have is helado, or as you probably know it, gelato--the Italian version of ice cream. Now, you may be thinking (if you haven't yet given up on this blog entry as I have), "is there really any difference between ice cream and helado?" to which I say, plebeian, of course there is a difference. The first difference is the cost--in the states, gelato (and ice cream too) can get really expensive. Here they charge (usually very low prices depending on where you go) by the kilogram. Dulce de leche is the most popular flavor here, and I find that it goes quite well with white chocolate.

This brings me to my recent helado-related mix-up. Across the street from CEDES (where I take my classes) is a heladaria that has prices that frankly cannot be beat. As I walked inside, I saw that 1/4 of a kilogram cost only 15 pesos. However I realized right after that I had no idea how to order that in Spanish. This abrupt realization, combined with my lack of basic knowledge of the metric system, led me to ask for a mediokilo (1/2 kilogram) instead. I walked out of the shop with half of a kilogram of helado in a styrofoam
vessel and a strong sense of foolishness. Later, my foolishness turned to shame.

As much as I love life here, I really miss home. It seems that every day I look at people on the street and find doppelgangers of people from Wooster and Santa Cruz. I'll see someone vaguely similar and automatically think, "hey look! It's an Argentinian Jesse Tiffen!"* It hasn't even been friends necessarily, because sometimes I see Argentine versions of acquaintances and even people I've never even talked to at Wooster. The one thing that holds these sightings together is that they all remind me of home.

Finally, I took the metrobus home from an evening in San Telmo and walked home from the obelisk in the center of the city (a gift from France, I'm told) that sits on one of the busiest streets in the world, Avenida 9 de Julio. I was surrounded by advertisements, bright screens shining from the tops of buildings. I was reminded of how stark the contrast is between above and below. The tops of buildings broadcast the projections of capitalism, a representation of the quite recent development of privatized industries and increased aperture of the economy to foreign investors. Pepsi, Mercedes-Benz, and McDonald's all seem to light up the night sky. However, at the street level, banks, restaurants, and other businesses exhibit graffiti and cage themselves within steel bars.

Funny note about the obelisk--my host family doesn't really like it. It's simple, they say--a nice gesture from France, perhaps--but did it really have to be so boring? In contrast with the Statue of Liberty (a gift to the United States from France, as you may know), a symbol of freedom and toting the famous words: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free," I suppose it could be the lack of context behind their dissatisfaction. It is kind of just a relatively tall obelisk that really just sits in the middle of a busy avenue, not representing anything. Regardless, it isn't that bad to look at:

(Picture taken courtesy of Wikipedia)

It's been a while since I've written and for the next week I'm going to Bariloche, a famous city in the Patagonia. I will be hanging out with an indigenous community for a few days and being a tourist for the rest. I will take pictures and write about it when I return!


*I've seen 3 of you by the way if you are reading this, Jesse.

More about the Subte, and other observations

I think one of the experiences I'll never forget about Buenos Aires is riding the Subte, an experience that I'll surely reflect upon having forgotten my usual frustration. My (occasional) fondness of the Subte does not exist because I've never taken the subway before--I've ridden BART countless times throughout the Bay Area. It is such because the Subte in Buenos Aires has much more character. BART has a massive fleet of trains that are long, sleek, and modern looking, usually reaching up to 10 cars on the busier routes. Trains arrive exactly on schedule, every 15 minutes. When they do arrive, you may not be able to find a seat, but there is almost always standing room. The Subte, in contrast, is colorful--all the different lines are represented by a different color of train, and these trains can range from looking brand new (Line A, for example) to trains that are 30 years old. Old trains are covered with so much graffiti that it appears the government has given up on trying to repaint them, only amplifying the voices of the restless, courageous, and at times actually creative Argentinian youth, brandishing cans of spraypaint. Trains are always 6 cars long, even though some routes average over 400,000 passengers per day. Until this year, the Subte had been running its "rolling stock"--a collection of old cars that were built between 1910-1919 in the Line A rotation. Call me a nerd, but I think that is one of the coolest things ever.

Some pictures (I did not take these, they're from the internet):

Line A used to continue to use these cars occasionally until earlier this year. It's probably almost 100 years old!

This train has a pretty standard amount of graffiti. This line is also the most traveled with over 412,000 people per day.

Something else that is cool about the Subte is the presence of artists who perform for tips. I know this is common in other cities, but here it seems different. Yesterday a blind woman came from car to car and sang a traditional song. She sang so loudly and I wrote in my journal how I wish I had the same courage to sing at the top of my lungs for a crowd of seemingly indifferent strangers. When I reached my stop, I got off the train, but I felt happy to hear the applause from my car as the doors began to close.

Other interesting observations

The cops don't seem to mind if you're brown-bagging in a busy place like Plaza Miserere, nor do they seem to exist without bulletproof vests. It's kind of strange having heavily armed, somewhat stereotypically Latin American-looking cops (usually minus the assault rifles, thank God) who don't really care what you're doing. I do hear they can be pretty corrupt here though (ojito!).

I eat dinner at 7:00pm. That is way later than anyone else in my program, or probably in the whole country. It is characteristic of Argentinians to eat a small snack in the late afternoon and eat dinner after 9pm. Then what do they do? Well, they stay out and party until the sun rises before spending half of Saturday in bed. Many people think this would be the best way to live; yet I, never having stayed up past 4:30 am-- and having recently been reminded via photo evidence that I fell asleep on the boat during my high school graduation party--in the words of my friend Omar, am "not about that life."

Finally, this city is definitely political. It is an election year and despite not knowing anything about it, I have seen a number of marches. I could hear one at a stop on the Subte on my way home and another when I finally got off. A crowd of protesters seemed to follow me home and rallied outside my window. I took a couple of pictures once I got home.

Usually the protests here are bigger than this, but what can I say... it was right outside of my window and I felt like showing it. Besides, now you all can see what it looks like outside my building!

It's been almost two weeks

since I left for Argentina. I'm starting to find a routine in this very active, busy city.

First, I wake up.. usually around 9 am. My room has no windows so it is pitch black--even that late in the morning--so I could potentially sleep all day. Some mornings I really wish I could.

After I stumble out of bed, I go to the breakfast table. My host mom is in the kitchen cleaning or preparing the food for the evening. She has already heard me shuffling around and is heating up water for my tea. I pour myself a very small portion of cornflakes (ever since I got here I'm not hungry in the morning) and we have a brief discussion. Usually she says something like "estas cansado (are you tired)?" and I reply with either an affirming mumble or, when I'm more awake, simply "siempre estoy cansado (I am always tired)." This is something that I will continue to say throughout the day.

After saying good bye to my host mom, I unlock and lock the door (successfully now, thank you very much) and leave the apartment. I walk about two blocks to the Subte. I take Line A, which I'm certain has to be the most crowded of any subway train in the universe. If I am lucky, I'm not headed downtown (towards the Plaza de Mayo), and I can find standing room. Otherwise, I wait anywhere from 1 to 4 trains until I can gather the courage to thrust myself into a sea of commuters packed like sardines in a tin can.

     Anecdote: On the subte a few days ago, I saw an incredible advertisement for the PlayStation video
     game console, which read:
     Cuando su hijo juega, no te pregunta cómo llegó al mundo
     "When your son plays, he does not ask you how he came into the world"
      I will be paying more attention to the ads on the subte from now on.

After I get off of the subte, I walk to class. My Spanish class is 3 hours long and sometimes I can't handle it. Other times it goes by faster. No matter what, though, I certainly do not understand everything that my teacher is saying. This was made obvious when I found out that I had skipped out of the second part of class because I thought it was over.

After class, I get to go out for lunch. Usually I look for something cheap. I found a pizza place that gives you a whole pizza for 28 pesos. It's just cheese, sauce, and some spices on top and I can eat an entire pizza without feeling gross throwing up.

I take the subte home, which usually is before reverse rush hour. Either way, finding a seat on the subte is never something that is guaranteed. You literally never know when a bunch of people are going to be crammed in the car as this could happen at any point of the day. Yet as much as I like complaining about it, I'll probably stick with the subte. There's some kind of rush you get when you finally say "to hell with this" and throw yourself between those automatic doors, hoping that you'll have enough space in the car so they don't close on you.

My host mom and I eat early compared with everyone else. I eat at 7, and we usually sit there for an hour and talk about all sorts of things. My host mother has had a very interesting life, full of incredible, heart-wrenching, and even metaphysical experiences. She's a very interesting woman to talk with, and I'm very happy to be her host-son.

Finally, I'm starting to go out at night on the weekends. I've stayed out till 2 am going to various bars and restaurants with friends from the program. 2 am is ridiculously early for the average Argentinian, coming from a people that are accustomed to staying out until the sun rises and then passing out for the rest of the day, only to do the same thing the next night. I don't think I can live like this, but who knows.