My third volunteer experience in Uruguay was with another non-profit called Servi tu Ciudad. This was a week-long service where, upon completing my classes every night, I traveled to la ciudad vieja to meet up with other volunteers to work in projects targeted at servicing the city in whatever ways we could.
Starting on a Sunday, I took a taxi and then a friend picked me up to get over to the far northern end of Montevideo where we stopped at a day care center. This project involved painting the day care center’s interior and exterior walls, enhancing the color and vibrancy of the otherwise grey space. We worked in teams throughout the biting cold to paint the entirety of one room blue. Then we switched to a low retaining wall outside and, after painting the entire thing white with whitewash, we added a swooping orange line to complete the design. These may sound like minor changes but effect on the space was instant. Feeling like kids again, we climbed a play structure and posed for some pictures.
The rest of the week’s plan for volunteer projects included delivering coats to those living on the streets who needed them, handing out free, hot coffee, starting a campaign to share free hugs and happiness with those who passed by, and a few others that I didn’t get the chance to participate in. There is a unique stillness that defines an evening shared with volunteers and the general public. While handing out coats, I discovered that, much more warmth the clothing would provide, we were communicating with the homeless about things they needed. The people we found on the streets that night explained their pasts: one even told his entire history, starting with his humble days as a firefighter up until the day he blew out his leg and he was left stranded and without benefits. Throw a few foreign exchange students into the group and you can receive a few lingering stares. During our free hug campaign, I around a high-traffic plaza with a sign, bellowing out “Abrazos Gratis,” (Free Hugs) with an exuberance that served to scare off any would-takers. Turning toward a Uruguayan friend, she repeated the phrase “Abrazos Gratis” in the same incorrect intonation I used … we paused before bursting into laughter. That was what those nights of volunteer work were all about: spreading a few smiles along with the coffee, hugs, and coats.
The final volunteer experience I had in Uruguay was a project funded by my university called “Trabajos del invierno,” or Winter work. As the name suggestions, the job, and it did indeed turn out to be something very close to a job, was to assist low-to mid income families with building an entirely new neighborhood of pristine, concrete houses. These houses were nothing like what I helped build with “Un techo para mi pais.” Instead of the thin wood serving as protection, these homes were built with brick, concrete, glass window panes, and other industrial resources. They included a fireplace, and closet, and around 3 to 4 rooms. Of course building around 70 – 80 houses of these quality is no easy task.
The other volunteers were all students from my university and, even better, they were all Uruguayans. As one of the last things I did before coming home to the states, this volunteer opportunity tested me more than my final examinations combined. Sitting down and talking to any one of these intelligent individuals made a world of difference on enhancing my vocabulary and broadening my understanding of the world. There were around 11 people total and two, including me, were men.
Sadly, I arrived in Casupa, a small, un-traveled bit of Uruguay that lies around 3 hours bus travel to the east of Montevideo, a day later than the project’s start-up. After having spent a week traveling, a friend and I had failed in arriving in time to take a boat from Buenos Aires, Argentina to Colonia, Uruguay. Despite my tardiness, the group of volunteers readily assisted my adventure to Casupa telephonically and later accepted me into their group as another life-and-soul-seaking individual.
The rest of the group appeared exhausted on the first day I say them. They were dressed in sweat pants, sweatshirts, and motley coats accentuating dark stains of paint. They were smiling but they were tired. Picking me up from the bus stop, they led me toward a plaza-facing church nearby and collapsed into a heap of fatigue the moment they could find the chairs. I was filled in: painting, a harmless exercise in low doses, can wrack one’s back with pain when one is forced to stretch his or her entire body to paint far-reaching corners for 4-5 hours at a time. Vowing not to mention my child care center painting experiences, I quickly unpacked my sleeping back and changed into some clothes I didn’t mind getting dirty.
When we got to the construction site a short while later, each of us was presented with a blue hard hat – blue being a marker for the lowest tier in the construction worker hierarchy. Next up were the captains, sporting yellow hard hats. And the head honcho of the project, the cachafaz himself, wore white. I should note: this my friends, is a story about how I, a foreign exchange student, elevated myself from lowly blue to yellow and yes, finally to white. The cachafaz stepped out from the headquarters (a broad white shack with a huge, opened door) and gazed over the lines of workers: women separated to one side and men on the other. Then, he chose his teams.
A minute groan sounded from the other side. The female volunteers from my university were all chosen to paint again. They passed me smiling but irked. I was selected to join two others; both with yellow hats. Obviously they had the authority. I carried the bag of cement.
We were making concrete steps leading up to the houses. However minor this may sound, working with concrete can be a finicky process and the task was not easy. Flitting between mixing the cement, lining up the molding squares, carefully splatting buckets of the grey goo into the molds, and smoothing out every completed step, I quickly began to enjoy the task at hand. And I told my fellow volunteers the same when we all returned to the church for some rest. They groaned and pitied my energy.
By the next day, my friends were done pitying my energy. I woke first and sang a short ditty in Spanish, imitating the alarm clock set to wake us all up. Between the rapid verbal abuse, I understood their chiding remarks to be cues for my exit. That next day, and even the next, I continued working on concrete while the majority of the others kept on painting duties. A few of them had branched out into other jobs and they relished them like sweet splashes of beach water. (I should note: the beach is the epitome of leisure to many Uruguayans).
Monday, December 12, 2011
Volunteering Abroad Part 1
Travel tip 013: Volunteer! Okay, so I understand the desire to travel around to every popular place and famous (or infamous) landmark available, but the next time you or someone you know either studies abroad or travels to a particular country, try out a volunteer activity. While studying abroad in Montevideo, Uruguay, I was tempted to put myself on a plane and set out for Chili, Bolivia, Brazil, Peru and others. How amazing would it have been to be able to tell people where I had gone? Don’t get me wrong; it would have been adventurous, life-changing, and heart-poundingly invigorating to have seen a little more of the world. But it never hurts to consider your other options.
The first volunteer activity I participated in was teaching a group of Uruguayan students, ages 9 -12, in the English language. The opportunity presented itself to me while I was attending the University Catolica of Uruguay. My fellow travelers and I were invited to participate in Proyectos or Projects that would serve the community. After short interviews in which coordinators determined our fields of interest and language capabilities, my classmates and I were separated into distinct groups with particular project goals. My group, made up of travelers from the U.S., was given the task of teaching a group of disinterested kids the English language with the use of recreation and fun activities. Without knowing what to expect, I found myself standing in a teacher’s shoes.
The first day of class set the standard for the rest of the semester. Expecting a group of unruly children bent upon our destruction, we found ourselves faced by something unexpected: a group of kids willing to learn. It may have been the atmosphere of fun we brought along with us in our bag of tricks, but working with the school teachers and school director, setting up recreational activities that would promote English learning, and bonding with the children came easy. It wasn’t until my fellow student-teachers headed state side and I found myself alone with 30 or more children, that I acknowledged some of the challenges: the walk through the red zone (a more impoverished part of the city charged with tension), ensuring that every child was participating in activities, keeping everyone safe, and watching the soccer ball fly over the concrete wall that enclosed the school area. Despite these minor setbacks, the experience was enlightening. I discovered abilities to entertain and communicate that I never thought I had. I shared my time in something that was bigger than me.
The next time I volunteered in Uruguay, I did so with a non-profit organization called “Un techo para mi pais” translated as ‘A roof for my country.’ The non-profit entity sets up either week or weekend-long building projects done entirely by college students and other volunteers. I participated in late fall, two to three weeks after Easter. A few other acquaintances did the same. We decided to travel to Paysandú, a smaller city nestled 4 hours of bus travel north of Montevideo. I, in stylistic and foreigner fashion, signed up to volunteer in Montevideo and mistakenly road 4 hours north anyway.
The first volunteer activity I participated in was teaching a group of Uruguayan students, ages 9 -12, in the English language. The opportunity presented itself to me while I was attending the University Catolica of Uruguay. My fellow travelers and I were invited to participate in Proyectos or Projects that would serve the community. After short interviews in which coordinators determined our fields of interest and language capabilities, my classmates and I were separated into distinct groups with particular project goals. My group, made up of travelers from the U.S., was given the task of teaching a group of disinterested kids the English language with the use of recreation and fun activities. Without knowing what to expect, I found myself standing in a teacher’s shoes.
The first day of class set the standard for the rest of the semester. Expecting a group of unruly children bent upon our destruction, we found ourselves faced by something unexpected: a group of kids willing to learn. It may have been the atmosphere of fun we brought along with us in our bag of tricks, but working with the school teachers and school director, setting up recreational activities that would promote English learning, and bonding with the children came easy. It wasn’t until my fellow student-teachers headed state side and I found myself alone with 30 or more children, that I acknowledged some of the challenges: the walk through the red zone (a more impoverished part of the city charged with tension), ensuring that every child was participating in activities, keeping everyone safe, and watching the soccer ball fly over the concrete wall that enclosed the school area. Despite these minor setbacks, the experience was enlightening. I discovered abilities to entertain and communicate that I never thought I had. I shared my time in something that was bigger than me.
The next time I volunteered in Uruguay, I did so with a non-profit organization called “Un techo para mi pais” translated as ‘A roof for my country.’ The non-profit entity sets up either week or weekend-long building projects done entirely by college students and other volunteers. I participated in late fall, two to three weeks after Easter. A few other acquaintances did the same. We decided to travel to Paysandú, a smaller city nestled 4 hours of bus travel north of Montevideo. I, in stylistic and foreigner fashion, signed up to volunteer in Montevideo and mistakenly road 4 hours north anyway.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Big Click
Travel Tip 013: Let it click. There comes a time in the study abroad experience when the language sinks in, the people stop talking in synchronized code words, the streets look familiar, maps are easier to decipher and you realize you’re bigger; you notice the width of your arm span and other people’s facial reaction as you walk by. You are a big deal.
This experience has been redefined through the ages. Another generation called it the “Dialed-in experience” relating to the moment when the numbers line up, the dial tone beeps once … twice …. thrice and you’re in. Runners have often referred to their “second wind” or breath of fresh air and energy coursing through the moving body. The messenger runner Pheidippides must have encountered a second wind; then a third; a fourth and so on when he ran for days to warn Greece of advancing armies. He exasperated his full potential; however, falling dead the moment his message had been delivered.
In a modernized era, I would redefine the experience yet again giving it the name “clicked-in.” The name derives from the need to fix, load, download, energize, and plug in the myriad of electronic appliances available in this time period. The click, beep, or other affirmative noise tells us “All systems are a go,” “Ay ay Capitain,” “Life is Good” and so on. In Montevideo, Uruguay, the word commonly used in these situations is “Ta” meaning “está bien” or “It’s good.” And I can finally say, with full confidence, Ta.
Only one month remains of my study abroad adventures but, Oh The Roads We Have Traveled. Branching out from the language barrier I have finally been able to experience some deeper, well thought conversations with the people around me. I have had debates about whether or not lions are superior to giraffes (not), whether girls can date guys shorter than them (possible), the social impacts of charity and the appropriate age for marriage (unsolved).
But one of the sweetest rewards for finally “clicking in” to my new culture is a newly enriched perspective. Not only can I rethink idiomatic variation but I can take on an external perspective of the United States. Being a U.S. citizen, (Travel Tip 013: Don’t lose your passport. Potentially, after a large amount of foreign culture immersion and late night parties, the only thing separating you from that guy on the bus audibly hissing at the bright light of the sun is the ID in your bag) I’m accustomed to a specific way of life: Fourth of July fireworks, vegetarian kabobs off the grill, sledding in the winter, the carrot nosed snow man, the orange capped oak in the fall, etc. By changing my customs, I have taken a momentary reprieve from my identity. I can plant a big, bulbous question mark on otherwise blank sheet of paper. I can fill in the missing spaces. I highly recommend that readers look for opportunities to do the same.
This experience has been redefined through the ages. Another generation called it the “Dialed-in experience” relating to the moment when the numbers line up, the dial tone beeps once … twice …. thrice and you’re in. Runners have often referred to their “second wind” or breath of fresh air and energy coursing through the moving body. The messenger runner Pheidippides must have encountered a second wind; then a third; a fourth and so on when he ran for days to warn Greece of advancing armies. He exasperated his full potential; however, falling dead the moment his message had been delivered.
In a modernized era, I would redefine the experience yet again giving it the name “clicked-in.” The name derives from the need to fix, load, download, energize, and plug in the myriad of electronic appliances available in this time period. The click, beep, or other affirmative noise tells us “All systems are a go,” “Ay ay Capitain,” “Life is Good” and so on. In Montevideo, Uruguay, the word commonly used in these situations is “Ta” meaning “está bien” or “It’s good.” And I can finally say, with full confidence, Ta.
Only one month remains of my study abroad adventures but, Oh The Roads We Have Traveled. Branching out from the language barrier I have finally been able to experience some deeper, well thought conversations with the people around me. I have had debates about whether or not lions are superior to giraffes (not), whether girls can date guys shorter than them (possible), the social impacts of charity and the appropriate age for marriage (unsolved).
But one of the sweetest rewards for finally “clicking in” to my new culture is a newly enriched perspective. Not only can I rethink idiomatic variation but I can take on an external perspective of the United States. Being a U.S. citizen, (Travel Tip 013: Don’t lose your passport. Potentially, after a large amount of foreign culture immersion and late night parties, the only thing separating you from that guy on the bus audibly hissing at the bright light of the sun is the ID in your bag) I’m accustomed to a specific way of life: Fourth of July fireworks, vegetarian kabobs off the grill, sledding in the winter, the carrot nosed snow man, the orange capped oak in the fall, etc. By changing my customs, I have taken a momentary reprieve from my identity. I can plant a big, bulbous question mark on otherwise blank sheet of paper. I can fill in the missing spaces. I highly recommend that readers look for opportunities to do the same.
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Lone Streets of Identity Far Far South of the Americas: Chapter 2
Forlorn statue within the Monumento a Perpetuidad cemetery of Paysandú
Since noticing the distinct morning rituals of my host mother and myself, I have since been forced to question the other differences that set me apart from others. The week of la semana santa, or Easter Holiday (Thursday, April 14th – Saturday, April 23rd), I spent the break traveling to Salto, Iguazu, and Paysandú with Fabiola from Mississippi, Megan from Wisconsin, Daniela from Germany, and for the Paysandú portion of our journey, Kelsey from North Carolina. Although we spent the first few days in Salto speaking Spanish, we used English to communicate throughout the majority of our adventures. I didn’t mind because it was an amazing opportunity to ask slightly deeper questions and learn more about myself. But once again I found out my own character traits were a long shot and then some from the ladies’ idealistic attributes in guys, from boyfriends, from new people we met in hostels, and from the assimilating expectations of a traveling extranjero o foreigner.
Looking out on el Rio Uruguay in Salto
My favorite activities in Salto: Relaxing and watching television in Spanish, meeting some architects who have traveled around the entire world, foosball, relaxing at las termas and running in a rain storm near el rio Paraguay and letting out cries of exultation when the rain grew more and more furious. Least favorite activities in Salto: Extreme discomfort at the boliche, the motocicletas or motorcycles without mufflers (they cannot be escaped), and some of the conversations exchanged at las termas.
Running in that rain storm would possibly be #53 to add to the list defining me. But even still, I’m forced to ask this complicated, confusing question: What characteristics do I change about myself and what do I keep the same? Or worded differently, when and where do I stay rooted and absolutely immovable in my opinions, qualities, and preferences, and when and where do I keep an open mind? While traveling abroad in another country, my goal is to stay open to a different way to living life. As ways of learning about this new environment, I have elected to stop being a vegetarian, to speak in Spanish instead of English, to keep maybe 5% of my clothes to live off of, to give up cereal for breakfast, to stop taking creative writing classes for the first time in just under three years, to be more social, to eat dinner at 9 pm, and to give up the freedom of a vehicle. Small changes. Big impacts.
In Salto, in the attempt to keep going with the Uruguayan flow, Fabiola, Megan, and I decided to go to a boliche or dance club to check out the night life. Raúl, the owner and/or director of our hostel ended up going with us as well. To cut to the unpleasant chase, or make the long story short or [enter preferred cliché] I ended up feeling incredibly … misplaced. In the past I’ve learned to take dancing outings one step at a time. During my first high school dance, I was so nervous that I destroyed my tie from tugging on it. I didn’t know what to do with my hands … let alone my solid brick feet or flopping sense of rhythm. Therefore, I have since learned to take a step back and study (yes, actually study) the roles that the different characters play: the girls happy to move to the beat, the guys lucky enough to accompany them, the freak-outs in the corner, the repetitive two steppers meandering through the crowds and so on. Taking a look around and about the boliche of Salto, I was unable to find a role. We had the classic girls that “just want to have fun,” and the prowlers. That was it. A line of people aged over 30 stood around the outskirts (including Raúl), a pack of girls danced near the middle, Fabiola and Meghan faced each other and joined in to the beat of the music, and the younger men moved in to attack (sliding behind a girl, taking an arm, twisting to the front, etc.). The girls are there to feel sexy, wanted, happy, and rhythmic. The guys are there because they want to be one of the lucky ones: meaning sex or first base at the very least. I didn’t belong, so I bailed.
The pool of Hostel-Inn Iguazu. Amazing!!!
The next travel destination was Iguazu, my favorite of the three places we traveled. Favorite activities: Liquid mist, watching what I’m remembering as a slow-motion attack of coatis (small panda/raccoon animals) upon Daniela’s bag of crackers – note: I must come back to write narrate this event at a later date -- , monkeys, sprawling breakfasts at the hostel, the pool at the hostel, the smile I received when I spoke (extranjero identified), making our own exquisite dinner, and helping others with random odds and ends (looking for some lost keys, lighting the kitchen stove, turning off running faucet water). Least favorite activities: The extreme tourism at the falls, a failed attempt at forming a soccer match (South America’s common unifier failed me), getting swindled by taxi drivers (we came out with a good deal but there was still this sense and smell of dank, wet money), and conversations in English about who we are as students, masculine, feminine, republicans, democrats, revolutionaries, academics, moral representatives, and personalities.
Once again the same theme came up: what defines us? The girls I was traveling with had some fierce arguments whilst lying around the pool. I kid you not; it was like their charisma stat was boosted by 5 times its regular level by sitting near the glowing blue aura of the pool. One minute politics, the next character traits, and then they were talking about their least favorite attributes in men: a weak personality, voiceless, too nice, physical qualities and so forth. “A strong personality,” they said, making the point that it’s expected that the person argues for his point of view or his outlook. Again I was a shocked; not by what they were saying but by taking another look at myself: a twenty-two year old boy acting cordial in a new country; timid with the history of an introvert, altogether incredibly open for new concepts, and coming to the debilitating realization that is a weak personality.
The portal into Beer Fest Paysandú
Next up, Paysandú. Favorite activities: The sights along the bus ride (my female friend pointing out a lady with the most astounding hind quarters she had ever seen), the high class breakfast at the hotel (quality Dulce de Leche, how I missed you), riding the Tree Swings and Ferris Wheel at the Beer Festival, going for a run on Saturday morning after 4 hours of sleep and later feeling my entire body floating in misaligned directions, and the first 20 minutes of dancing at the boliche or dance club. Least favorite activities: the final 3½ hours of dancing at the boliche, music at the Beer Fest, the scam artist taxi driver, momentarily losing my camera, and paying the price for staying at a hostel as opposed to a hostel (ouch).
Once again, I had to find out a method of approach for enjoying myself at the boliche. The last time in Salto, I had entered the dance club with little or no enthusiasm. This time, in Paysandú, and especially during the Beer Festival, I decided to go at it with a little more gusto. First, in studying the scene, I found a large crowd of people hanging closer to the bar then the exit and surrounding a large dancing square at the center of the room, waiting, waiting. Many of the guys were scouting the area for ladies while whispering jokes with each other. The word “boludo” was used more than once. The girls were moving slowly with the music, not dancing but nearly there.
Second, a group of guys was standing between me and the girls’ bathroom, waiting for the foreign exchange student ladies (some with blonde hair) to come out. These guys made passing jokes to me as if sizing me up for competitions to woo the foreign girls. It became obvious to me that none of them were interested in actually socializing but rather were debating and negotiation which guy was going to go for which girl.
Third, I had enough drinks in me to feel comfortable with the environment. For that time period, it didn’t matter that I didn’t have a role among the many players of the boliche. I could stand out. So I did. Closing in on 12:30 am, I started dancing at the center of the square: a quick-motioned Americanized way of dancing with arms sliding, feet moving laterally, and my shoulder bobbing and much more prominent than the restricted sway of my hips. I was alone and a lot of people were watching.
I had remembered what my traveling compañeras had said about guys having strong personalities and this test of courage, or whatever you may want to call it, may have been an attempt at reaching out for that identity. It also may have been more spontaneous. I danced for maybe 7 – 8 minutes before Fabiola addressed me from the side of the square, not moving so close as to actually enter the dancing area, and she called me back out by motioning with a quick wave of her hand. For me, that was where my spontaneous role ended. The night developed into the same guy chase girl situation as in Salto leaving me feeling displaced. My attempt at displaying a show of bravery was nothing more than an awkward yankee-ism in the eyes of the other dancers.
The following morning, after sleeping for four hours, I decided to go for a run. In a similar way with the dance of the night before, I had to do something different; something that many other people might not consider normal. I didn’t realize it while I was running that morning (My thoughts were distracted when I randomly ran into a group of other foreign exchange students studying at the Catolic a in Montevideo – more proof of a small world), but I was exploring the very same question I set out to answer by writing this blog entry: “What characteristics do I change about myself and what do I keep the same?” And at this conclusion, I still don’t have a good answer. Plato argued that one theme and comparative analysis in the search for identity, androgyny, comes from the original form of the humankind: a combination of the man and the woman in the same form. It was a natural tendency to make this comparison, he may have said, because of our ancestral connection. The theme exists because we are instinctually interested in it. I need to do some things, on occasion, to set myself apart from others (like running at obscure hours, dancing oddly and alone, and making a list of the factors that determine me from “new socks” to “slinkies”). I have an occasional “strong personality.” And why do I do this? Why do I stay firm with some parts of who I am while allowing others to change? Because my instinctual tendencies meet with my social surroundings and they explode like the end of the waterfall’s cascade, where it first smashes against the water, and repeats endlessly. Constant explosions.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
The Lone Streets of Identity Far Far South of the Americas: Chapter 1
In the beginning of my junior year of college, I sat down to write a list that would explain me: who I am, the things I like, the things I’m ashamed of and so forth. From 1 to 52, I wrote every thought that came to me such as #1 Action figures, #27 Momma’s boy, #41 Ankle socks, and #37 Morning person. I saved the file to my computer and haven’t bothered looking at it in many months.
This past Wednesday, I was talking with a group of international exchange students about the differences between me and my host family when I was forced to question the operation of identity in a study abroad experience. I was explaining that, even though the Uruguayan culture has made a lot of changes in my daily lifestyle, many of my character traits are directly contrasting with my environment. For example, I am a morning person who loves breakfast. I wake up with an energetic sort of hunger.
My breakfast in Uruguay: bread (toasted or untoasted), water, juice, and DULCE DE LECHE!!!! (Ignore the flies ... a good source of protein and other valuable nutrients for any aspiring ex-vegetarian anyway)
The example I was using with my international friends was that, in Uruguay, the concept of the energetic morning person doesn’t exist and the idea of having a big breakfast in the morning is even less prevalent (there are of course exceptions to these statements). Uruguayans typically eat dinner between 9 and 10 pm, enjoy socializing activities a short while afterword (this includes the children) and start the next day with little or no breakfast. So when I get up at 5:30 am to eat breakfast and work on homework, it’s something of an oddity for my host family. My host mother also gets up early: around 6:00 am to get ready to go to work. The last few times that I have engaged her in conversation (admittedly a slightly springing, bouncy sort of dialogue exchange on my end) she has responded with a very tired sort of confusion. The following is a translated excerpt from a morning form a few weeks ago:
Host Mother (HM): The steady clapping of slippers announces her journey toward the kitchen in search of coffee. She performs a jumping one-step in retreat upon discovering a crouched figure sitting in the kitchen and holds a hand near her heart. Its 5:45 am. Oh, Andy. Studying already.
Andrew Michael Seifert the First (AMSF): Head flying upward, disconnecting itself from the slough of words printed in Spanish. Hello! Good morning! Yes, I wanted to get up early to work on the homework assignments that I didn’t do over the weekend. But I really like the morning. The best time for me to finish things. How are you? Did you sleep well?
HM: Yes. I’m well. She takes her first opportunity to flap those slippers toward the corner of the long, narrow kitchen and work away at preparing coffee.
AMSF: Still watching her for another response and glancing reluctantly back toward the homework. Awkward. He feels awkward in a kitchen so small. Something must be said. Ready for the day of work?
HM: The tinking of the swirling spoon amidst the coffee and sugar is the most predominant sound. Possibly the only non-sleeping sound in the entire apartment complex. Yes. I believe so.
The short dialogue exchange was a meager example of the immense difference I felt between me and my host mother. It may have been her laid back tone or her tired eyes but I knew that this sort of conversation, and at that hour, were not part of her routine. If that wasn’t evidence enough, the next few time that I woke up at 5:00 am to do homework in the kitchen I could only hear the sounds of the slapping slippers, the trickle of the shower, and the clatter of keys as she left to go to work without a cup of coffee. Conversation successfully evaded.
Quest for identity to be continued in following chapters ...
This past Wednesday, I was talking with a group of international exchange students about the differences between me and my host family when I was forced to question the operation of identity in a study abroad experience. I was explaining that, even though the Uruguayan culture has made a lot of changes in my daily lifestyle, many of my character traits are directly contrasting with my environment. For example, I am a morning person who loves breakfast. I wake up with an energetic sort of hunger.
My breakfast in Uruguay: bread (toasted or untoasted), water, juice, and DULCE DE LECHE!!!! (Ignore the flies ... a good source of protein and other valuable nutrients for any aspiring ex-vegetarian anyway)
The example I was using with my international friends was that, in Uruguay, the concept of the energetic morning person doesn’t exist and the idea of having a big breakfast in the morning is even less prevalent (there are of course exceptions to these statements). Uruguayans typically eat dinner between 9 and 10 pm, enjoy socializing activities a short while afterword (this includes the children) and start the next day with little or no breakfast. So when I get up at 5:30 am to eat breakfast and work on homework, it’s something of an oddity for my host family. My host mother also gets up early: around 6:00 am to get ready to go to work. The last few times that I have engaged her in conversation (admittedly a slightly springing, bouncy sort of dialogue exchange on my end) she has responded with a very tired sort of confusion. The following is a translated excerpt from a morning form a few weeks ago:
Host Mother (HM): The steady clapping of slippers announces her journey toward the kitchen in search of coffee. She performs a jumping one-step in retreat upon discovering a crouched figure sitting in the kitchen and holds a hand near her heart. Its 5:45 am. Oh, Andy. Studying already.
Andrew Michael Seifert the First (AMSF): Head flying upward, disconnecting itself from the slough of words printed in Spanish. Hello! Good morning! Yes, I wanted to get up early to work on the homework assignments that I didn’t do over the weekend. But I really like the morning. The best time for me to finish things. How are you? Did you sleep well?
HM: Yes. I’m well. She takes her first opportunity to flap those slippers toward the corner of the long, narrow kitchen and work away at preparing coffee.
AMSF: Still watching her for another response and glancing reluctantly back toward the homework. Awkward. He feels awkward in a kitchen so small. Something must be said. Ready for the day of work?
HM: The tinking of the swirling spoon amidst the coffee and sugar is the most predominant sound. Possibly the only non-sleeping sound in the entire apartment complex. Yes. I believe so.
The short dialogue exchange was a meager example of the immense difference I felt between me and my host mother. It may have been her laid back tone or her tired eyes but I knew that this sort of conversation, and at that hour, were not part of her routine. If that wasn’t evidence enough, the next few time that I woke up at 5:00 am to do homework in the kitchen I could only hear the sounds of the slapping slippers, the trickle of the shower, and the clatter of keys as she left to go to work without a cup of coffee. Conversation successfully evaded.
Quest for identity to be continued in following chapters ...
Monday, April 25, 2011
Falling a Little Late
The sea lions of Cabo Palonio (more explanation later)
Travel Tip 012: Don’t give up on your blog. Writing and reflecting after adventures are the last scintillating nuggets to top a great study abroad experience. You will be busy. You will want to take the next bus to any and every other travel destination possible; to see the white sands, the hand-shaped monument, the vineyard, the Brazilian hospitality, the world renowned waterfalls and then some. But keep writing about them. I am a great example of the downside to keeping up with a blog throughout one’s travels because I let my experiences far exceed my reflections of them.
Because I have failed to post any of my recent experiences in South America, I have a lot to summarize. First, set to the date of April 2nd – 3rd, Cabo Palonio: part national park, part tourist community, and part super small destination sensation, Cabo is another chill summer location known for the fact that it has so little going on. Traveling with three French ladies, three representatives of Germany, and running into three ladies from el país Vasco, Cabio Palonio became exactly the type of adventure we made of it. Some of us went horse-back riding, others trekked through the sand dunes, and one of our party consumed a pizza sized “bomb” made up of sugar coated sweet bread wrapped around oozing dulce de leche, told horror stories about the origination of Cabo beneath a full moon en español, befriended a stray dog, lost and recovered his camera case, and spoke with sea lions (guilty). But whether waking up to a prime quality breakfast in the same hostel that uses beer bottles for landscaping, attempting to get in cover from the rain in a place that has no shelter, or placing one’s self directly in the path of a speeding cuatro y cuatro (open roof vehicle), there was never an empty moment.
Skipping ahead to the following Saturday, April 9th, I found myself traveling to el Cerro del Pan de Azucar with Manue and Ferley from France, Kelsey and Nicole of the United States, and Daniela of Germany. The theme here was la naturaleza >> nature and free space. Finally escaping the condensed streets of Montevideo and evading some of the more typical tourist locations, my friends and I headed to the Indigenous Wildlife Preserve and mountain (actually a hill but “mountain” sounds much more adventurous) of el Pan de Azucar. The base of the mountain was devoted to a zoo: a circuit of cages enclosing mountain cats, alligators, furry pig-like creatures, birds of all shapes and sizes, turtles, badgers, and jaguars. We found the zoo depressing: there were mountain cats pouncing on the corner of their cage, a solitary hare shaking in the corner of its cage, and a massive jaguar prowling a limited, highly restricted hut. However scaling the mountain was an amazing turn toward freedom and coexistence with the la naturaleza. Balancing on mossy tree trunks, scraping my legs up and over rocks, sneaking through a bat cave, and following brightly painted directional markers, I felt like a miniature board piece on a “Find the Buried Treasure” board game. The reward at the top: la vista (view). Panoramic views are much better when they include a long rest on a rock after a quarter day’s climb. We lunched on a variety of awkward snacks like champions.
The top of el Pan de Azucar
I realize this blog is getting a little long so I’m going to wrap up with a brief description of the Iguazu Falls I saw during la semana santa, the Easter holiday between April 14th and April 23rd. I should comments; the Iguazu Falls are a system of massive waterfalls located on the borders of Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay. Like Niagra Falls but BIGGER and spread out.
Swirling mists of corporeal gas cut toward the end of the world while hidden dragons poke nostrils out of their caves to snort explosive fumes. Water is everywhere in one form or another, enveloping everything within a Petri dish. You feel small. And soggy: soggy rice peering at the long, voluminous, egg-white, and wheat-brown spaghetti strands of water carving straight down, down, down. A constant and inescapable Shhhhh accompanies the moisture like a hail storm. Wet, musky, shining green plants give off a taste of citrus and dew. You will remember the high population of people, the cramped catwalk, the butterflies landing on your arms, the dense humidity, and the urge to free fall.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Adventures in el Punto
I spent the weekend of March 19th – 20th in el Punto del Diablo: another vacation, relaxation, warm sand sensation sort of place east of Montevideo. I’m writing now two weeks after the fact but a few of my adventures are still fresh in my mind.
The early mornings of Saturday, March 19th, and Monday, March 21st, were devoted to the five-hour bus ride and my recovery from it. Five hours on a bus can be absolutely terrible: meandering like those five minutes before class dismissal. But great traveling partners make a world of distance. I traveled with Manue from France, Daniela and Manuel from Germany, and Julia from New York. We spent the time sleeping when we could and talking in Spanish when we couldn’t.
Travel Tip 011: Take advantage of your travel time. Studying abroad or vacationing in another country, it’s easy to forget about the essential requirements like sleep and homework. Travel time, no matter how extensive, should be utilized in whatever ways possible. Use the time to sleep (possibly even saving the need for a hotel or hostel), or for studies, practicing the language, building relationships with friends, or, and indeed this may be exactly what you need, relaxation.
Saturday, by in large consisted of taking in the small city of el Punto del Diablo, relaxing at the beach, and posing for/taking photos. El Punto del Diablo is tiny: a rough splotch of colorful, titled buildings set up for tourists and travelers. The few local residents live on a separate side of the town, their precarious, leaning homes harboring the ocean. El Punto more or less reminded me of my hometown of Pepin except with many, many more wild dogs roaming the countryside and the coast: It was small, the people were friendly in a reserved sort of way, and there was a definite sensation of the stale energy left behind from summer tourists. Because it was near the end of the summer and beginning of autumn, there were few people walking about the town. Like walking into an empty movie theatre, el Punto felt more personalized for me and my friends and we had a great time.
Sunday, I went on a horseback riding adventure. Although I’m from Wisconsin, I have never been real comfortable or confident around horses. Put simply, they’re huge. Manue, Daniela, Cecil from France, and Megan from Wisconsin accompanied me on the adventure along with our guide (whose name I’ve managed to forget) and, although timid at first, I quickly warmed up to the rhythm and tempo of riding a horse. I was comfortable with the slow pace and my calm horse (whose name I’ve also forgotten but wouldn’t have know how to spell anyways as it was in Portuguese – the horse also only understood vocal commands in Portuguese and, although I managed alright by directing the horse with the reins, I could only hope my horse understood I meant well when I spoke to him in Spanish) but I soon learned that I much preferred galloping. It wasn’t until we were nearing the end of our journey that I had the chance to gallop on the coast of the ocean. The canter of galloping felt much more natural than a bumpy trot and my horse and I easily broke into a comfortable, but rapid pace. It’s an experience I would recommend for anyone.
Returning back to Montevideo on Monday (at 2 am) was sad but I needed the rest offered by the bus ride. Classes that day were difficult as well but well worth it for my weekend of adventuring.
The early mornings of Saturday, March 19th, and Monday, March 21st, were devoted to the five-hour bus ride and my recovery from it. Five hours on a bus can be absolutely terrible: meandering like those five minutes before class dismissal. But great traveling partners make a world of distance. I traveled with Manue from France, Daniela and Manuel from Germany, and Julia from New York. We spent the time sleeping when we could and talking in Spanish when we couldn’t.
Travel Tip 011: Take advantage of your travel time. Studying abroad or vacationing in another country, it’s easy to forget about the essential requirements like sleep and homework. Travel time, no matter how extensive, should be utilized in whatever ways possible. Use the time to sleep (possibly even saving the need for a hotel or hostel), or for studies, practicing the language, building relationships with friends, or, and indeed this may be exactly what you need, relaxation.
Saturday, by in large consisted of taking in the small city of el Punto del Diablo, relaxing at the beach, and posing for/taking photos. El Punto del Diablo is tiny: a rough splotch of colorful, titled buildings set up for tourists and travelers. The few local residents live on a separate side of the town, their precarious, leaning homes harboring the ocean. El Punto more or less reminded me of my hometown of Pepin except with many, many more wild dogs roaming the countryside and the coast: It was small, the people were friendly in a reserved sort of way, and there was a definite sensation of the stale energy left behind from summer tourists. Because it was near the end of the summer and beginning of autumn, there were few people walking about the town. Like walking into an empty movie theatre, el Punto felt more personalized for me and my friends and we had a great time.
Sunday, I went on a horseback riding adventure. Although I’m from Wisconsin, I have never been real comfortable or confident around horses. Put simply, they’re huge. Manue, Daniela, Cecil from France, and Megan from Wisconsin accompanied me on the adventure along with our guide (whose name I’ve managed to forget) and, although timid at first, I quickly warmed up to the rhythm and tempo of riding a horse. I was comfortable with the slow pace and my calm horse (whose name I’ve also forgotten but wouldn’t have know how to spell anyways as it was in Portuguese – the horse also only understood vocal commands in Portuguese and, although I managed alright by directing the horse with the reins, I could only hope my horse understood I meant well when I spoke to him in Spanish) but I soon learned that I much preferred galloping. It wasn’t until we were nearing the end of our journey that I had the chance to gallop on the coast of the ocean. The canter of galloping felt much more natural than a bumpy trot and my horse and I easily broke into a comfortable, but rapid pace. It’s an experience I would recommend for anyone.
Returning back to Montevideo on Monday (at 2 am) was sad but I needed the rest offered by the bus ride. Classes that day were difficult as well but well worth it for my weekend of adventuring.
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