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.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Class Tactics: The Will of Armistice Breaking Down
I’ve been struggling with thinking of a way to introduce my first week of classes in Montevideo, Uruguay. How do you make a full day of classes more interesting? Rowling threw in a little magic, Jeff Kinney through in a socially unaccepted kid; Boy Meets World introduced … a boy to the world. I suppose I have la gorra charrúa.
La gorra charrúa was something I didn’t learn about until my Uruguayan Culture class on Tuesday, March 15th but once I learned it, I’ve been applying it to the entire week of classes. It’s a term of indigenous origination that technically means “the claws of Charrúa.” The Charrúa was one of two major indigenous groups (the other being the Guarani) that lived in la Banda Oriental, or the area of Uruguay, before colonization. The Charrúa kept fighting Spanish conquistadors and other invaders until their complete distinction. Ironically, the first Republic government of Uruguay exterminated the last remaining indigenous but today, Uruguayans continue to refer to themselves as descendants of the Charrúa, the people that never gave up, never surrendered, and never stopped fighting.
College classrooms may not look like typical battlefields but don’t be fooled. They are. I’ve been applying the term “la gorra charrúa” to the majority of my classes and, so far, the term fits. My first class of the week was the Spanish Language B1: an intermediate class on Spanish for those students who need a lot of work to become fluent. I was frustrated about being placed in lower class level (the other option was B2, a more advanced class) but more importantly, I was frustrated about the enigma that is my professor. One minute she’s speaking to my peers and me like we’re nine-year-olds, the next she’s popping completely random questions out at specific people, and then she’s clearing her throat and shaking her head like she’s never worked with a bigger pack of imbeciles in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I respect her as a professor but I’m coming to realize the class as warfare: you do your homework, you never give up, and you come to class prepared with the vigor of “la gorra charrúa” to answer any question and pay the utmost attention.
“La gorra charrúa” is typically a term Uruguayans use in fútbol or soccer games. If a Uruguayan soccer team is down on points, they continue fighting their hardest with the unending will to fight of the Charrúa. I have since had classes in history, culture, and literature and, although each professor is completely different from the other, the term remains the same: when the teacher asks you a question, you answer. When you can’t think of the right word in Spanish, you speak circles around the word until you manage to explain it. No giving in; it’s part of the culture.
The insufferable Uruguayan independence and strive to fight for number one continues outside of the classroom. Many of the native students form close-knit groups of study buddies and friends but rarely do they allow new amigos into their groups. The cantina or cafeteria, a more condensed area that you might normally think as a cafeteria and including a small café, rows of tables, a ping pong table, and an enclosed office, a bookstore, and a printing service wrapping the borders of the area, is typically packed with these groups of students hunched near each other talking and hardly sparing a glance to the typical foreign exchange student. Even with these guys, “la gorra churrúa.” I’ve been asking a number of random people to play a game of ping pong to slowly work my way into an understanding of the social rules and unwritten customs of the University; to keep fighting the peaceful fight.
Travel Tip 010: Learn the basic history and culture that defines the local people and attempt to put yourself in their shoes. How do they move about? Why are certain clothes so popular? How do they get by in class, with friends, and on the street? Adapt to those customs and … oh goodness crap mountain of all the cheesy clichés: Do as the Romans do.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Ex-Vegetarian Says
Travel Tip 009 Twofer: Watch your money and watch your spending. So you’d think that if you had your money concealed it would be safe, right? You’d think that if you carried around a calculator and converted prices to amounts you understand that everything would be happy fish and daisies, right? Wrong. There’s an entirely different element to spending money some people don’t take into consideration when they travel to new countries (at least I didn’t). Willingness to pay. It’s a basic economic device that can make all the difference. Uruguayans love their meat and dulce de leche (a sweet caramel-like spread used on bread and fruit). In result: high quality meat and dulce de leche are incredibly expensive. Cultures in free trade societies set their own standards for what things should cost based on how much people are willing to pay for them. Especially in nations where tourism is on the rise, local residents figure travelers’ have a higher willingness to pay than your average citizen and the sad fact is that foreigners pay the big bucks.
Uruguay is the same. On Friday, after taking a Spanish proficiency exam in the morning (easy), I went along with a few other foreign exchange students to visit la Ciudad Vieja in the western side of Montevideo. La Ciudad Vieja is the older part of the city with ancient statues, archaic buildings, street vendors on every side, and expensive restaurants catering to tourists in particular. We took a business bus to travel to that side of the town and we were charged twenty-five pesos for admittance onto the bus. Twenty-five pesos is a little over a dollar and it may not sound like a lot but, for a fairly short bus ride, it adds up quickly. Uruguayan locals affiliated with la Universidad República del Uruguay are granted cards, special deals with buses, and five peso service fees for internal city transport. Five pesos!
Upon arrival to La Ciudad Vieja, I had to admit the old buildings, massive yet archaic hotels, the plaza, and the epic statue of the Latin America liberator Jose Artigas were impressive. My friends and I took our time walking around and taking pictures. We had to be careful to watch our backpacks, camera, and wallets because of the heightened amount of theft that was common for the area. Sitting on a bench and people watching, I had backpack under the bench and between my legs but a local Uruguayan still warned me it would be a better if I had it in my lap. The sad truth was that we were targets. Our picture taking, backpacks, undoubtedly slurred sounding Spanish, and our way (I have since tried to get Uruguayan friends to explain this to me but I have not yet understood the “way” that makes it obvious I’m from the US) made us targets for any and all thieves. We were tourists and, according to common knowledge, tourists have money.
The same common knowledge applies to restaurants. Hot, tired, and hungry, my friends and I decided to have a late lunch at la Estancia del Puerto: a well known circuit of restaurants and grills that specialize in preparing meat. Knowing the meat could be expensive; we decided to try out the restaurants anyways for the experience of doing so. A restaurant near the back had six waiters running back and forth and greeting customers to be seated. The fact that they spoke some English should have been our first warning but it wasn’t until we sat down and opened our menus that we saw how expensive the food was (thirty to forty U.S. dollars for a piece of chicken). We went to another open grill which was more or less like a bar with seating all around it and a huge grill right at its center. We ordered a combo meal intended for three and received a feast of food that could have fed ten easy. Once again, it was fairly expensive but not nearly as bad as other places. Tired, overheated from the cooking grill, and stuffed, we left the restaurant and headed for home. Once again, we had to be careful.
Later that night, all the international students got together at a pizza place to hang out. After having been awakened to the reality of prices I decided not to order anything and to do my best to watch my spending. After walking down la rambla or boardwalk near the beach and dancing at a boliche or dance club for some time, I ended up heading for home around 4:00 am. Once again, the nagging feeling that the taxi would cost too much nipped at my better judgment and I ended up walking and running the forty five minutes or so to get home, dodging homeless people sleeping near the streets and keeping my eyes front and center as not to attract too much attention.
The following day, my fellow apartment resident Elisa and I headed to la Punta del Este. We had purchased tickets for a departure of 8:15 am and a return set for 10:15 pm. After three and half hours of glorious sleep in my room and another two on the bus ride, I felt more-or-less prepared to enjoy the day. La Punta del Este is a resort city where the rich of Uruguay and of the world come to stay for a weekend or longer. Everything there is big: big hotels, big beaches, big lawns, big waves, and big Wal-Mart like stores. We stopped at El Devotó, the Wal-Mart of Uruguay, and bought a few snacks for the day. Also in the pharmacy I found the first bottle of contact solution I’ve yet to find; the only problem was that it was 860 pesos or $46 US dollars for the one bottle. Like any unsuspecting foreigner, I bought the bottle out of necessity. Willingness to pay strikes again. Uruguayans don’t often wear contacts; the majority of the people I’ve seen wear glasses. Letting it go, I was able to enjoy the rest of the day by relaxing at the beach, seeing the sights, and speaking to some newfound friends.
Elisa and I returned to our apartment by ten pm that night. My host mother cooked pizza and it was the most glorious, delicious food knowing I had already paid for it and need not worry about making another ridiculous payment. Take me as an example and watch out for additional prices based on willingness to pay. Yes you may be on vacation and yes it may be worth it for the experience but watch out for people who would take advantage of that.
On Living in a Yellow Submarine
I had my first day of orientation this past Wednesday, March 9th and I’m happy to say it didn’t go the way I thought it would; everyone was not completely separated based on where they were from. United States high schools are well known for their clicks: jocks vaulted off on one side of the lunchroom, the scholastic team hugging the walls, and cheerleaders at front and center. I was worried the students from Spain would keep to one side, those from the United States near the door; those from other parts of South America would keep toward the front of the classroom and so on. Instead, orientation was much more of a mixture of cultures and, despite our language barriers, we made cross cultural communication, references, and shared in cultural facts that would have take hundreds of years to collect in a time before the computer.
This cultural spread is possibly one of the best parts of the study abroad experience: you’re not just studying the country you’re placed in but people from all around the world. You can’t get that kind of experience by traveling on your own time and without the structured cushion of study abroad. I walked into the culture mezcla or international melting pot of la Universidad Católica del Uruguay five minutes before the orientation session was set to begin and sat next Elisa towards the back of the class. All students were sitting in a circle. Luck being on my side, I ended up sitting right next to a group of students from Spain.
Travel Tip 008: If you want to learn the language of the country you’re traveling in, it’s a good idea to get to know some other travelers or people close to you own age who speak the language. Spain had been my number two choice for the study abroad experience and I wanted to know more about the country. So by sitting next to a group of students from Spain, I had the opportunity speak with a few of them and to learn a little bit about them (them being Isabel, Gines, and Mónica). This part was tough because I had already been struggling to learn the Uruguayan accent. Communication can only be a barrier if you forget how to use your hands, facial expressions, and charades skills (no joke) along with your speaking abilities.
During the first orientation session, all of the intercambios or international students spent the time playing ice breakers and getting to know each other. We played a number of somewhat embarrassing and occasionally awkward card-based communication games that forced us to get up and talk to one another. I had the “privilege” of standing up on a chair and talking about myself for a while because I failed to grab a piece of cloth in time. Before that, we played a game in which I believe among the Spanish directions I didn’t understand, Nacho (our amigo and volunteer assistant) explained that the object of the game was to entertain him by forming chains of people by sitting on one anothers’ laps.
By the time the session was over, I was nervous but exhilarated to spend some more time hanging out with these people and learning about their different backgrounds. Therefore it was a little saddening when most people headed directly for the exit and left the building. As we were heading out, I was speaking with Manu from France and Manuel from Germany about getting cell phones in Uruguay. I had already purchased one so I offered to accompany them to Tres Cruces: a large shopping and travel ticket center. My amigos from the Estados are great, but there is something unique about forming a group made up of three nationalities and going on an adventure as small as four blocks in one of Montevideo’s city districts. Speaking only in Spanish, we were able to talk a bit about ourselves, plan some future outings, purchase a cell phone for Manu, a sim card for Manuel, and also to learn a lot more about Uruguay from the cell phone seller who claimed he could tell the difference between a U.S. accent in Spanish, a German accent in Spanish, and a French accent in Spanish after hearing only a few words. We parted later on to return to our individual residences but I had the same feeling of restlessness and was forced to pace in my apartment room. Not sure what the anxiety was about, might have been a culture shock sort of thing because the next day I was feeling amazing.
But despite my renewed energy, orientation the next day, March 10th, was like a giant slob ball of information in Spanish and, even if it had been in English, it would have been confusing. The orientation leaders were great, truly, but it’s tough understanding tedious school rules and procedures to begin with. Gina was once again my savior and she helped out by giving me the summarized low down on essential, need-to-know facts: fill out this paper with class A, continue with class B, speak to your professor, write down the class number, etcetera, etcetera. Afterward, there was another session intended for business majors and somehow I ended up staying (there was some confusion involved). But hey, perfect joke material starting with “A creative writing major walks into a room full of business majors and…” The next session was intended for Communications majors and I stayed for this one as well. In a University that offers no classes on creative writing, communication is the next best thing.
Later that day, I ended up among another melting pot of cultures at la playa de los pocitos. Earlier, we had spread the word among many of the intercambios that we were going to meet up but Manu, Manuel, Gines, another girl from France, and her brother were the only ones to come to the beach. Nonetheless, we had a great time talking, playing soccer, jumping into el rio de la plata, and catching some rays. Gines, Manuel, and I are big fans of soccer and we found it easy to get a few games going with some Uruguayan kids. In a country where soccer defines la pasión, we all had something in common: soccer, the heat of the sand, and the excitement over scoring goals. The kids were big fans of Manuel – we weren’t entirely sure if it were because there weren’t many Germans to travel through Uruguay or because the German soccer team played well in last year’s World Cup but, either way, the Uruguayans made sure to get some pictures taken.
Later that night, we ate at a restaurant called El Chivorito: also the name of a popular sandwich stuffed with meat, peppers, mayonnaise, and olives. Over the food (which was somewhat expensive) we shared more stories about our own cultures and backgrounds. For example, Manuel explained that the word frankfurter actually isn’t used in Germany and Manu told us some of the many words in French that were extremely close to words in Spanish. I attempted to explain my deep seated love for peanut butter sandwiches but it was difficult to put into words. Everything we said was in Spanish: our unifying language and common link.
It can be easy to forget that you’re talking to people whose first language isn’t your own when you’re getting along fine in Spanish. At times we spoke slow and used gigantic hand gestures but conversation never fell dry. I did a double take when I found out a guy from France and I knew the same person: a person who had gone to my high school, attended my college, had a major in creative writing, and had also studied abroad in Scotland where he met my friend from France. Small world, my friends. It’s a very small world we all live in.
The Dirty Corner of Rock and Roll
Last Monday, I went to el teatro del verano in el parque rodo to celebrate las llamadas or las murgas as a part of the carnaval (end-of-summer) celebration. Las murgas are typically theatric performances or parades displaying extreme costumes, vibrant colors, and popular music. A major part of las murgas is the celebration of black peoples’ arrival into the Americas. The next day, Tuesday, was el dia internacional de las mujeres: a day celebrating women’s rights. These two events directed my attention to the countless faceless of Montevideo, Uruguay: the beggars, the thieves, the street vendors, the garbage-picking-horse-carriage drivers (for cereals), the con artists, the ice cream sellers, the bus musicians, the man selling hand knitted doilies named Paco Viejo, and the man sleeping on the corner of the street – out my window and underneath a sign reading the dirty corner of rock and roll (“the dirty corner of” in Spanish and “rock and roll” as is).
As I said, on Monday I visited el teatro verano: a huge, out-door theatre opening up to a series of concrete seats. There were three different rows of seats in the stadium; those nearest the stage were the most expensive at 200 pesos ($10), the central area a bit further back was around 150 pesos ($7.50) a seat and the furthest back were 100 pesos ($5). To be honest, I didn’t understand many of the comedy routines, songs, or skits performed on stage. For me, the stage was setting the background noise while I spent time watching the crowd and following the progress of popcorn, churro, potato chip, and cotton candy sellers as they worked their way through the crowds. I was cheap and went with the 100 peso seats a long distance off from center stage but I’m glad I did. In the 100 peso section, you find rich Montevideo businessmen intermingled with the middle class and the extreme poor. People propping up a bag of popcorn on their laps while setting the zoom feature on high powered cameras sit elbow to elbow with those who have never held a camera, who would steal one first chance they got and sell it for food.
The snack sellers typically make their way through the more expensive sections, likely in the hopes of targeting consumers who could afford more. But, these vendors had to pay the entrance price as well and many of them kept to the cheaper sections because they couldn’t afford to move about. Selling anything in Montevideo is an art. Vendors call out the name of their product in ascending and descending volume to catch the most ears while they move about. Typically they repeat a certain pattern of phrases. For example, the potato chip seller called out “Papas fritas, papas, papas, fritas, papas fritas, fritas at an incredibly fast accelerating pace, breaking off for moments to catch his breath and to move on to the next row of seating. Sometimes, the volume and energy the vendors put into their calls can make or break their sales. The man selling popcorn was calling out a halfhearted “Pop” every three to four minutes and I noticed that by the end of the show, he had sold maybe five measly bags in total. The potato chips guy, an energetic man closer to eighty years of age than to sixty had to refill his cart of chips several time. Long story short: advertising works.
The songs and skits kept continued that night from 9 pm until 1 am in the morning. Elisa and I left the theatre exhausted, backs sore, and a little dissatisfied by the performance (seeing as we didn’t understand everything) but I kept help but wonder how those snack sellers felt or how many people they were working towards supporting. I thought the same thing when, nearing our apartment in the center of the city, Elisa and I saw a few haggard looking people sitting around the curb, eyes wide but in a tired, strained sort of way. In my entire time in Montevideo, I have only ever seen maybe two homeless people sleeping during the night. The other eight or nine I’ve seen have all been sleeping during the day. I can only guess that nights are more dangerous, colder, and more of a prime time for other activities and thievery. I don’t mean to judge these people but I’m only trying to understand them. That’s also why I read the thousands of graffiti messages on walls and buildings like “The dirty corner of rock and roll,” or political messages against certain presidents, or “Get out foreigners,” and so on and so forth. My translation are likely a little off and sugar coated but they are there: messages for me and ignored by most.
My first day in Montevideo, I was amazed to hear the sound of horse hooves out on the streets of Montevideo. I realize horses can be common police mounts in populated cities but, it being my first time in a new city, I thought it was part of some new and fantastical cultural trend I had never heard of; maybe an attempt at reducing carbon emissions – a cleaner way to live. I was only partially right. Excited, I asked my host brother Mauro why horse were out on the streets and he explained that they were among the many poor people of Uruguay who ride horse-bound carts through the city looking for garbage containers. I didn’t understand everything Mauro said but I have since found out that there are two types of garbage searchers: some are looking for recyclables like plastic bottles and glass while others are searching for food. The men, women, and children riding horse bound carriages are often and sadly doing both. They attach huge woven and re-stitched containers on the back side of their carriages, put blinders on the horse so they won’t be as afraid of the many cars of Montevideo, stash children old enough on precarious perches of the cart, and make their ways searching for half eaten food and beer bottles, horses coconut clapping against the pavement all the way.
Horses aren’t the only popular animal among the poor. There are also dogs almost everywhere among the crevices, parks, houses, abandoned buildings, and sidewalks. The dogs are not completely wild because they have owners but many of them are fed from the trash and left to wander in long radii near their owners. Curious, I have been doing some asking around about the popularity of canines over felines and I have since heard a popular explanation: dogs are warm. Even though Uruguay had a very temperate climate and typically stays between 55 and 80 degrees F, the wind coming off the Ocean along with the scarcity of heated units can make for cold nights. Dogs are popular among the homeless because, along with being faithful companions, they keep their owners warmer at night. I have since seen some cats but always on their own and prowling through the city trying to make a living like so many others.
Travel Tip 007: On getaway vacations and in temperate climates, limit your escape-the-world beach time. I only write this because I understand completely the temptation to spend all of one’s time at the beach soaking up rays, jumping in the water, listening to some tunes, and face down reading a good book. My advice is that if and when you do go to a beach in a culture new to you, do some people watching. Beaches, besides being great places to veg out, are the perfect places to investigate cultural traditions like those in Uruguay: pickup soccer games, pickle ball without the net, sand castles, conversations about the traffic and, of course, the walking sand vendors: some selling ice cream, others hotdogs, hats, dresses, rugs, towels, key chains, and more. These guys are the epitome of tan: dark skinned wanderers who pull refrigerated containers, carry hiking backpacks filled with odd adornments, haul a long pole on their shoulders with clothing or cloth waving in the wind and all underneath the pounding some and over relentless sand that, in my experience, gets over everything. Despite the sand, the heat, the sun, these guys walk for miles across the beaches of Uruguay only to turn around and do it all again. They do charge somewhat ridiculous prices (three dollars for a super skimpy ice cream sandwich) but I have deep respect for them.
Another faceless group, the bus vendors for which every Montevidian (my term) has a certain scorn or impassive nod reserved. Anywhere for a twenty-three year old selling his music to eighty-year-old Paco Viejo with his doilies, these guys work around the clock jumping on crowded city buses to first offer a sample of whatever they’re selling for free and then jump into a fast tirade and peso equivalence to whatever they’re selling. The musicians work a little differently and rely on the free and giving spirit of passengers but all of them have to be energetic, motivated, willing to advertise, and especially willing to accept the scorn and empty handedness of the occasional bus. I’ve been having a hard time not giving some of these people pesos because I respect that, in their own way, their working hard and getting their own street-life education.
Last Tuesday was el dia de las mujeres and, in respect to the event, President Jose Mujica had a televised speech broadcasted to the Uruguayan people in which he paid his respects to and encouraged the development of women's rights. I was reminded of the countless and faceless poor I have seen, both men, women and children, and especially one woman who, among other car-side street entertainers (another group of street vendors who wait for red light to jump out into the streets and juggle or do other tricks to win over a few pesos from the drivers), stopped in front of the bus on one of my travels and whipped multicolored socks through the air with a huge smile on her face. It was one of the worst car-side demonstrations I've seen but she kept up that smile even when most of the nearby cars refused to offer up any pesos. Even after Mujica's report finished and I was frustrated that I couldn't understand everything he had said, I thought of that girl's smile and hoped for the best.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Las Noches de la Carnival en Uruguay o The Birthday Weekend of the Lost Ninja
(Note: this post is long but I'm bribing you to read it by including a picture at the end) Quite the title, right? This past weekend was a major adventure and a sensible title wouldn’t have done it justice. Where do I begin? You know like the golden birthday you had when you were young and everyone had to dress up in cowboy outfits because you said so or, if your golden birthday fell later in the month, your parents or loved ones surprised you with an extravagant gift like a car, a weekend getaway, a star named after you? Well, my 22nd birthday was nothing like either of those.
It started Saturday afternoon. After having communicated via email with my friend and fellow study abroad traveler far south of her native Wisconsin, Megan, I planned a trip to see her in Lagomar: Another barrio or neighborhood twenty-ish miles west of central Montevideo. We had been planning this earlier in the week but it took a while to figure out each other’s locations and the best forms of travel from place to place. I should also note that on Friday, a girl from Houston, Texas named Elissa joined my host family to live in the same apartment as me. She will be studying at La Universidad Católica along with Megan and I. So I invited Elissa to accompany me in my expedition to Lagomar and I was incredibly glad to have the company.
Elissa and I spent some time visiting le feria early on Saturday afternoon. La feria is very similar to the farmers market in Eau Claire except all the produce and goods are set up for display on wooden shelves right in the middle of the street. After half an hour spent inspecting the different fruits (and failing to figure out some of their names in Spanish) we headed for la avenida italia, a central street in Montevideo, to find a bus. I carried my backpack with a towel, some books, a camera, and some money while Elissa carried only a purse. I note this because these were our only supplies for the next two days. Finding the bus was easy after Elissa stepped up to a group of people and asked for directions to Lagomar. Having spent the last week going on adventures of my own and refraining from speaking to many people, I was amazed at how easy and comfortable it was to speak to native Uruguayans. The first person we asked gave us a long explanation we didn’t entirely understand (minus “red bus”) but then another person pointed at a bus and we waved it down. We asked the driver where he was headed and, within a matter of a few simple seconds and an exchange of pesos, we were headed toward our destination.
The bus was packed, but a native Uruguayan serenaded the passengers with an English song called “Angel.” Some of the verses didn’t make sense but it was oddly comforting to hear a song in English. Well worth the two pesos I dropped in his hat. I had drawn out a rough imitation of the area around Lagomar and once we neared our destination, I recognized some of the street names from my drawing. Elissa and I got off (a little too early, mind you) and walked an easy half mile to la Tienda Inglesa: a large shopping center; still much smaller than a Super Wal-Mart but compared to the dense inner city it was huge.
After Elissa and I had explored the store and the surrounding area (a much nicer and higher class neighborhood than the buildings closer to the city) Megan arrived at la Tienda Inglesa with her host sister, Natalia. Natalia is regular student at la Universidad Católica and she is also completely bilingual in Spanish and English owing to a semester spent studying abroad in Seattle. Natalia drove us back to her house: an amazing two story building painted a crisp yellow that matched a few of the caged birds residing in the backyard. A backyard! This was the first backyard I had seen and, even though smaller than the area of a volleyball court, it felt luxurious to stand in that much open space. Natalia also had three dogs named Luna, Jackie, and Chloe; the first two rottweilers and the last a daschund all colored a similar black and rustic red. Natalia’s sister and her grandmother were also home; they were kind, welcoming people open to speaking with los tres estadounidenses. It was comforting to be a group of three people who spoke English and imperfect Spanish while at the same time it may have made us less approachable. When we went to the beach a short while later, and when I attempted conversations with three different people and even tried helping a kite surfer who we feared was about to unwillingly fly off into the sky, I was ignored every time.
Natalie’s friends, on the other hand, were great. Later that night (Natalie had invited Elissa and I to stay over and, after I incidentally said something small about it being my birthday the following day, she declared we were going to have a get together and there was nothing I could say to change her mind) maybe seven or ten of Natalia’s friends came over to help celebrate my birthday in high energy, fiesta fashion. The city comes alive during the night and it’s common for people to continue the festivities of the night until 6 or 7:30 the following morning. Since dinner is typically served at 9 pm and since the favored drink, Mate, is loaded with essential vitamins, minerals, and super caffeine, people keep going until they drop. We spent the night talking, playing card games, and laughing. Somehow as I got more and more tired, I felt as if I understood more Spanish. I don’t know how this worked out, but I remember vividly understanding and learning about Chevi’s goal to become a lawyer, Juan’s (was it Juan?) interpretation on what it takes to become an Uruguayan, Sebastian’s jokes, and what to do in a figurative situation in when the keys are locked in the house. Suffice to say, I went to bed exhausted and not feeling quite up to the Uruguayan standard. Even though it was 5 am, I’m sure the night continued for many others.
Sunday morning, I felt great. I was pleased that I managed to hold a few conversations during the previous night and I had a lot of energy. I waited for a while for Megan, Elissa, and Natalia to wake up, drank some juice, stood in the sun, and basked. Somehow, maybe because of the card games we played during the night, I wanted to play ninja. It was a small inkling that spurned and flared as the day continued and, even later, I ended up spending time thinking about how I might begin to make the game popular in Uruguay; how I might change the country with a small game popular with college students. If you don’t know, ninja is a game played with a group of people in which, in incremental motions, players stand in a circle and take turns trying to smack the hands of people nearby. So later, when Natalia declared (she has an energetic way of declaring the next event as if no other option existed) that we were going to go to Atlantida: a vacation city where we planned to visit the beach and possibly go dancing (I was terrified of that part and, luckily, it never happened) – they mentioned something about my birthday party continuing but I was too afraid to ask for details.
A short drive later we, los tres estadounidenses, arrived in the beautiful city of Atlantida along with Natalia and five or six of her friends. Once again, and maybe this is typical of the areas west of Montevideo, the area was lush with big houses surrounded by iron gates, beaches with clear white sand, large stores, and buildings serving as entertainment like theaters and arcade centers. This was a place where the rich families of Uruguay go to celebrate, relax, and take a vacation away from work. We spent the day walking, taking lunch at an out-door café, playing pool and air hockey, and sitting nearby the beach of Atlantida. Too scared to ask in Spanish, I attempted to get Elissa and Megan to take part in a game of Ninja but my dastardly plans of changing Uruguay as it is known were doomed to fail.
Instead of playing Ninja , a few of us (myself, Natalia, Elissa, and two of Natalia’s friends) ended up going on something like a boat ride except we all sat on a floating apparatus shaped like a hotdog while a person driving a jet ski tugged us quickly across the water and attempted to force us to fall off the flotation by taking sharp turns. Natalia called it a banana and, for only 100 pesos or roughly 5 dollars, it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time: the speed, the ocean water, the air time we got off of waves, and the moment where we quite literally flew off the flotation were incredibly exhilarating.
Later that night, we ended up going to a house that a few of Natalie’s friends were renting for their vacation getaway during la carnival. I should have mentioned this earlier but la carnival is the Latino celebration of the end of the summer and the start of the fall and school year. Many people take the weekend, Monday, and Tuesday to travel, relax, or go on vacations. It was another great excuse to celebrate. We feasted that night on carne asada: rich meat seasoned and broiled, bread, salad, and cheese. I’m not going to lie, the meat tasted delicious even though I had spent the last three years as a vegetarian. The sight of raw meat still makes me queasy but, cooked, it tasted amazing. Later that night, we played Mafia and charades but all in Spanish. I had never played Mafia before so it was difficult to learn based on Spanish directions but Natalia was a huge help by translating. Charades, I knew how to play, but you try acting out “El Siniestro en la Calle 13” without using any words and without being certain on the meaning. Nonetheless, it was a great time.
After and during the feast of broiled meat, we had a few great conversations about tattoos, vegetarianism, poverty, and drugs. As it turned out, a number of Natalia’s friends were more-or-less fluent in English and we had an interesting exchange of broken Spanish, English, and mixtures in between. I was amazed that, in a culture and location so different from my own, I had a lot in common with native Uruguayans. And even though my birthday was nothing like a golden celebration with rich gifts, even though I felt as if I had absolutely no control or comprehension over these two days, I had a great time not knowing; being surprised. Like believing in Santa Clause or Santa Claus once again.
Later on Sunday night, Natalia drove Elissa and me to Portones, a city in the neighborhood Carrasco and dropped us off at the bus station. Within seconds (que suerte), a bus showed up and it was headed in the right direction. Being both exhausted and a little overwhelmed with the interactivity within the last two days, we were happy to return to out apartment in the city of Montevideo and call it quits on our adventure. Reluctantly, I gave up on the lost and forgotten game of Ninja but those up for it should be warned: you’ve been challenged to a game of ninja, ping pong, and ultimate Frisbee the next time I see you state side.
It started Saturday afternoon. After having communicated via email with my friend and fellow study abroad traveler far south of her native Wisconsin, Megan, I planned a trip to see her in Lagomar: Another barrio or neighborhood twenty-ish miles west of central Montevideo. We had been planning this earlier in the week but it took a while to figure out each other’s locations and the best forms of travel from place to place. I should also note that on Friday, a girl from Houston, Texas named Elissa joined my host family to live in the same apartment as me. She will be studying at La Universidad Católica along with Megan and I. So I invited Elissa to accompany me in my expedition to Lagomar and I was incredibly glad to have the company.
Elissa and I spent some time visiting le feria early on Saturday afternoon. La feria is very similar to the farmers market in Eau Claire except all the produce and goods are set up for display on wooden shelves right in the middle of the street. After half an hour spent inspecting the different fruits (and failing to figure out some of their names in Spanish) we headed for la avenida italia, a central street in Montevideo, to find a bus. I carried my backpack with a towel, some books, a camera, and some money while Elissa carried only a purse. I note this because these were our only supplies for the next two days. Finding the bus was easy after Elissa stepped up to a group of people and asked for directions to Lagomar. Having spent the last week going on adventures of my own and refraining from speaking to many people, I was amazed at how easy and comfortable it was to speak to native Uruguayans. The first person we asked gave us a long explanation we didn’t entirely understand (minus “red bus”) but then another person pointed at a bus and we waved it down. We asked the driver where he was headed and, within a matter of a few simple seconds and an exchange of pesos, we were headed toward our destination.
The bus was packed, but a native Uruguayan serenaded the passengers with an English song called “Angel.” Some of the verses didn’t make sense but it was oddly comforting to hear a song in English. Well worth the two pesos I dropped in his hat. I had drawn out a rough imitation of the area around Lagomar and once we neared our destination, I recognized some of the street names from my drawing. Elissa and I got off (a little too early, mind you) and walked an easy half mile to la Tienda Inglesa: a large shopping center; still much smaller than a Super Wal-Mart but compared to the dense inner city it was huge.
After Elissa and I had explored the store and the surrounding area (a much nicer and higher class neighborhood than the buildings closer to the city) Megan arrived at la Tienda Inglesa with her host sister, Natalia. Natalia is regular student at la Universidad Católica and she is also completely bilingual in Spanish and English owing to a semester spent studying abroad in Seattle. Natalia drove us back to her house: an amazing two story building painted a crisp yellow that matched a few of the caged birds residing in the backyard. A backyard! This was the first backyard I had seen and, even though smaller than the area of a volleyball court, it felt luxurious to stand in that much open space. Natalia also had three dogs named Luna, Jackie, and Chloe; the first two rottweilers and the last a daschund all colored a similar black and rustic red. Natalia’s sister and her grandmother were also home; they were kind, welcoming people open to speaking with los tres estadounidenses. It was comforting to be a group of three people who spoke English and imperfect Spanish while at the same time it may have made us less approachable. When we went to the beach a short while later, and when I attempted conversations with three different people and even tried helping a kite surfer who we feared was about to unwillingly fly off into the sky, I was ignored every time.
Natalie’s friends, on the other hand, were great. Later that night (Natalie had invited Elissa and I to stay over and, after I incidentally said something small about it being my birthday the following day, she declared we were going to have a get together and there was nothing I could say to change her mind) maybe seven or ten of Natalia’s friends came over to help celebrate my birthday in high energy, fiesta fashion. The city comes alive during the night and it’s common for people to continue the festivities of the night until 6 or 7:30 the following morning. Since dinner is typically served at 9 pm and since the favored drink, Mate, is loaded with essential vitamins, minerals, and super caffeine, people keep going until they drop. We spent the night talking, playing card games, and laughing. Somehow as I got more and more tired, I felt as if I understood more Spanish. I don’t know how this worked out, but I remember vividly understanding and learning about Chevi’s goal to become a lawyer, Juan’s (was it Juan?) interpretation on what it takes to become an Uruguayan, Sebastian’s jokes, and what to do in a figurative situation in when the keys are locked in the house. Suffice to say, I went to bed exhausted and not feeling quite up to the Uruguayan standard. Even though it was 5 am, I’m sure the night continued for many others.
Sunday morning, I felt great. I was pleased that I managed to hold a few conversations during the previous night and I had a lot of energy. I waited for a while for Megan, Elissa, and Natalia to wake up, drank some juice, stood in the sun, and basked. Somehow, maybe because of the card games we played during the night, I wanted to play ninja. It was a small inkling that spurned and flared as the day continued and, even later, I ended up spending time thinking about how I might begin to make the game popular in Uruguay; how I might change the country with a small game popular with college students. If you don’t know, ninja is a game played with a group of people in which, in incremental motions, players stand in a circle and take turns trying to smack the hands of people nearby. So later, when Natalia declared (she has an energetic way of declaring the next event as if no other option existed) that we were going to go to Atlantida: a vacation city where we planned to visit the beach and possibly go dancing (I was terrified of that part and, luckily, it never happened) – they mentioned something about my birthday party continuing but I was too afraid to ask for details.
A short drive later we, los tres estadounidenses, arrived in the beautiful city of Atlantida along with Natalia and five or six of her friends. Once again, and maybe this is typical of the areas west of Montevideo, the area was lush with big houses surrounded by iron gates, beaches with clear white sand, large stores, and buildings serving as entertainment like theaters and arcade centers. This was a place where the rich families of Uruguay go to celebrate, relax, and take a vacation away from work. We spent the day walking, taking lunch at an out-door café, playing pool and air hockey, and sitting nearby the beach of Atlantida. Too scared to ask in Spanish, I attempted to get Elissa and Megan to take part in a game of Ninja but my dastardly plans of changing Uruguay as it is known were doomed to fail.
Instead of playing Ninja , a few of us (myself, Natalia, Elissa, and two of Natalia’s friends) ended up going on something like a boat ride except we all sat on a floating apparatus shaped like a hotdog while a person driving a jet ski tugged us quickly across the water and attempted to force us to fall off the flotation by taking sharp turns. Natalia called it a banana and, for only 100 pesos or roughly 5 dollars, it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time: the speed, the ocean water, the air time we got off of waves, and the moment where we quite literally flew off the flotation were incredibly exhilarating.
Later that night, we ended up going to a house that a few of Natalie’s friends were renting for their vacation getaway during la carnival. I should have mentioned this earlier but la carnival is the Latino celebration of the end of the summer and the start of the fall and school year. Many people take the weekend, Monday, and Tuesday to travel, relax, or go on vacations. It was another great excuse to celebrate. We feasted that night on carne asada: rich meat seasoned and broiled, bread, salad, and cheese. I’m not going to lie, the meat tasted delicious even though I had spent the last three years as a vegetarian. The sight of raw meat still makes me queasy but, cooked, it tasted amazing. Later that night, we played Mafia and charades but all in Spanish. I had never played Mafia before so it was difficult to learn based on Spanish directions but Natalia was a huge help by translating. Charades, I knew how to play, but you try acting out “El Siniestro en la Calle 13” without using any words and without being certain on the meaning. Nonetheless, it was a great time.
After and during the feast of broiled meat, we had a few great conversations about tattoos, vegetarianism, poverty, and drugs. As it turned out, a number of Natalia’s friends were more-or-less fluent in English and we had an interesting exchange of broken Spanish, English, and mixtures in between. I was amazed that, in a culture and location so different from my own, I had a lot in common with native Uruguayans. And even though my birthday was nothing like a golden celebration with rich gifts, even though I felt as if I had absolutely no control or comprehension over these two days, I had a great time not knowing; being surprised. Like believing in Santa Clause or Santa Claus once again.
Later on Sunday night, Natalia drove Elissa and me to Portones, a city in the neighborhood Carrasco and dropped us off at the bus station. Within seconds (que suerte), a bus showed up and it was headed in the right direction. Being both exhausted and a little overwhelmed with the interactivity within the last two days, we were happy to return to out apartment in the city of Montevideo and call it quits on our adventure. Reluctantly, I gave up on the lost and forgotten game of Ninja but those up for it should be warned: you’ve been challenged to a game of ninja, ping pong, and ultimate Frisbee the next time I see you state side.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Autobuses or The Night Buses of Harry Potter in Reality
There’s not quite anything from the United Stated I could use to compare with the bus services of Montevideo, Uruguay. The rules and regulations for driving, the whistles, the honking, the sudden stops, and the condensed population are only the beginning, and even then, almost everyone in the city uses the bus service to get around.
My first ride through the city was with Jose, the taxi cab driver. I didn’t mention this earlier but as we rode into the heart of the city, groups of people were standing near the road waiting to clean windows, or toss up bottles in the air as a juggling act, or join partners for duets in the middle of the street – all in an attempt to win over a few pesos.
The bus services are the same. They are a business and although the 18 peso (roughly one dollar) faire isn’t too bad, the price adds up. The rules are roughly the same in driving: The Rule of One. Drivers do not yield to pedestrians; they are in a hurry to get to their destination. Buses won’t even pause for you if you can’t dish out the pesos. Vehicles on the road are in constant competitions with each other; if an opening in the roads opens for a heartbeat, a car will make the dash to pass around the vehicle in front of it.
My first bus trip was with Mauro: a short jaunt down one of Montevideo’s central roadways. That time I simply followed his lead, passing the money and sitting down in the back of the bus. No sweat. (Note to self: I noticed an odd basket-ball shaped handle on the top of the stick shift. I’ve since then noticed almost every bus with the same shape. Not a soccer ball (fútbol), mind you, but definitely a basketball. Possibly, a definitive factor of the culture? A new take on the flying spaghetti monster? Must look into this for creative material.)
On Thursday, March 3rd my bus trips were entirely different journeys. First, I needed to find a sign that filled me in all of the different buses’ destinations. Bus 14 goes to la playa de los pocitos, bus 152 does not, and so on. Then you wait until you see your number flying down the road and you stretch one straight arm as far out in the road as possible (Remind you of anything?). Sometimes the bus driver notices you, sometimes he doesn’t. He’ll open the door and, depending on the time of the day, either waves of people will pour in and out or a slight trickling of people will make their way through the bus’s portal. One again, time is money and the bus driver is making his stops as fast as possible; if a large amount of people clump at the entrance, the driver will ask that you squeeze in so he can shut the door – otherwise, he’s going. I had to quick step and mash myself in before the doors were closed.
One minute, in rapid Spanish, the bus driver wants you clumped in the entrance so he can close the doors and the next, more rapid Spanish and he’s telling you to work your way to the back of the bus to make more room for passengers. More passengers = more money. I stood around waiting at the entrance until the driver told me, with this cold, course, and cutting voice and while keeping a hand on that basketball shaped stick shift, that I needed to make my way to the back (And thanks to my friend Gina for translating). The buses are often packed and sense of space and personal bubbles is out the moment you step inside.
Getting a seat and watching out the window is great. The sights, the exciting driving (never a dull moment), the literal dodging in and out of traffic (magic has got to be at work because there is no other way that no accidents happen), and the people standing around wrapped up by their own thoughts are mesmerizing. So much so, it can be easy to forget to watch out for your stop. Passengers need to stand up and hit a buzzer above the buses portals to communicate that they want to get off. Stepping off from the bus, holding onto that first sigh and welcoming the solid ground, you can’t help but feel, despite the negatives, that this culture is great.
My first ride through the city was with Jose, the taxi cab driver. I didn’t mention this earlier but as we rode into the heart of the city, groups of people were standing near the road waiting to clean windows, or toss up bottles in the air as a juggling act, or join partners for duets in the middle of the street – all in an attempt to win over a few pesos.
The bus services are the same. They are a business and although the 18 peso (roughly one dollar) faire isn’t too bad, the price adds up. The rules are roughly the same in driving: The Rule of One. Drivers do not yield to pedestrians; they are in a hurry to get to their destination. Buses won’t even pause for you if you can’t dish out the pesos. Vehicles on the road are in constant competitions with each other; if an opening in the roads opens for a heartbeat, a car will make the dash to pass around the vehicle in front of it.
My first bus trip was with Mauro: a short jaunt down one of Montevideo’s central roadways. That time I simply followed his lead, passing the money and sitting down in the back of the bus. No sweat. (Note to self: I noticed an odd basket-ball shaped handle on the top of the stick shift. I’ve since then noticed almost every bus with the same shape. Not a soccer ball (fútbol), mind you, but definitely a basketball. Possibly, a definitive factor of the culture? A new take on the flying spaghetti monster? Must look into this for creative material.)
On Thursday, March 3rd my bus trips were entirely different journeys. First, I needed to find a sign that filled me in all of the different buses’ destinations. Bus 14 goes to la playa de los pocitos, bus 152 does not, and so on. Then you wait until you see your number flying down the road and you stretch one straight arm as far out in the road as possible (Remind you of anything?). Sometimes the bus driver notices you, sometimes he doesn’t. He’ll open the door and, depending on the time of the day, either waves of people will pour in and out or a slight trickling of people will make their way through the bus’s portal. One again, time is money and the bus driver is making his stops as fast as possible; if a large amount of people clump at the entrance, the driver will ask that you squeeze in so he can shut the door – otherwise, he’s going. I had to quick step and mash myself in before the doors were closed.
One minute, in rapid Spanish, the bus driver wants you clumped in the entrance so he can close the doors and the next, more rapid Spanish and he’s telling you to work your way to the back of the bus to make more room for passengers. More passengers = more money. I stood around waiting at the entrance until the driver told me, with this cold, course, and cutting voice and while keeping a hand on that basketball shaped stick shift, that I needed to make my way to the back (And thanks to my friend Gina for translating). The buses are often packed and sense of space and personal bubbles is out the moment you step inside.
Getting a seat and watching out the window is great. The sights, the exciting driving (never a dull moment), the literal dodging in and out of traffic (magic has got to be at work because there is no other way that no accidents happen), and the people standing around wrapped up by their own thoughts are mesmerizing. So much so, it can be easy to forget to watch out for your stop. Passengers need to stand up and hit a buzzer above the buses portals to communicate that they want to get off. Stepping off from the bus, holding onto that first sigh and welcoming the solid ground, you can’t help but feel, despite the negatives, that this culture is great.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
On getting lost
On Wednesday, March 2nd, I got lost in the city of Montevideo, Uruguay. This wouldn't have been much of a problem if I had a map, or if I could have worked up the courage to ask someone for directions, or if I took the bus. As it happened, I was maybe one street off from where I needed to be, but I walked a number of circles before I could figure that one out.
I wasn't the only one. A lady came up to me and asked for directions to somewhere else in the city. Either she was asking what direction another barrio (neighborhood or district) was or she was completely lost just like me. In that moment, I wanted to explain my predicament: how I had been at one beach, and then went running to find another beach, about the large group of people wearing red shirts and chanting something about what they were about to tell the police, about this one landmark I had marked my passage by (a tall blue building) - but then I would have had to explain that I'm not good with directions and I didn't know all the street names, that I was more of an audio-visual learner and that detailed pictures and translations in English might have been the only way in which I would understand. Nope. I told her "I don't know" in Spanish of course and coming as close as possible to the truth. And then it dawned on her - maybe a set expression in my face, the mismatched clothing, the backpack with an English title, the slight tinge of red around my face. She said thank you and left me to ask someone else. Strangely enough, I knew exactly how she felt.
Later, when I thought I had found the right road (which ended up being the right road but I was walking down the wrong direction), a group of men sitting on the corner of a street called out to me. In the cacophony of six or seven people speaking to me at once, the only thing I could understand was "pesos". They were begging and, in one of those moments that slip by faster than one could begin to consider the politics, the pros, and the cons, I had said "no" and walked on. Now this might be false retrospection, but I'm pretty sure one of the men said "Come on" in English as I walked down the road. At the time, I thought the entire exchange of words had been in Spanish but now I realize that I don't really know how exactly to say "come on" in Spanish while I'm fairly certain that was what he said. I walked away with ten or twelve pesos clinking in my pocket and fearing I had turned my back on the country. But hey, right afterward, I found a street I recognized.
Travel Tip 005: When in doubt, stay calm. "When in Rome ..." they say. Traveling websites and study abroad advice will suggest you "blend in to the culture." I don't always agree. In those moments when you feel like you're about to panic, ignore the common advice, calm down, stop thinking about what someone in that country might do, and consider what you would do. I found this helpful because I didn't know exactly what local citizens would do if they got lost. Keeping a level head, planning your next step, even writing down what you are certain of (and in a language you completely understand) can be the best steps in worrisome situations.
I wasn't the only one. A lady came up to me and asked for directions to somewhere else in the city. Either she was asking what direction another barrio (neighborhood or district) was or she was completely lost just like me. In that moment, I wanted to explain my predicament: how I had been at one beach, and then went running to find another beach, about the large group of people wearing red shirts and chanting something about what they were about to tell the police, about this one landmark I had marked my passage by (a tall blue building) - but then I would have had to explain that I'm not good with directions and I didn't know all the street names, that I was more of an audio-visual learner and that detailed pictures and translations in English might have been the only way in which I would understand. Nope. I told her "I don't know" in Spanish of course and coming as close as possible to the truth. And then it dawned on her - maybe a set expression in my face, the mismatched clothing, the backpack with an English title, the slight tinge of red around my face. She said thank you and left me to ask someone else. Strangely enough, I knew exactly how she felt.
Later, when I thought I had found the right road (which ended up being the right road but I was walking down the wrong direction), a group of men sitting on the corner of a street called out to me. In the cacophony of six or seven people speaking to me at once, the only thing I could understand was "pesos". They were begging and, in one of those moments that slip by faster than one could begin to consider the politics, the pros, and the cons, I had said "no" and walked on. Now this might be false retrospection, but I'm pretty sure one of the men said "Come on" in English as I walked down the road. At the time, I thought the entire exchange of words had been in Spanish but now I realize that I don't really know how exactly to say "come on" in Spanish while I'm fairly certain that was what he said. I walked away with ten or twelve pesos clinking in my pocket and fearing I had turned my back on the country. But hey, right afterward, I found a street I recognized.
Travel Tip 005: When in doubt, stay calm. "When in Rome ..." they say. Traveling websites and study abroad advice will suggest you "blend in to the culture." I don't always agree. In those moments when you feel like you're about to panic, ignore the common advice, calm down, stop thinking about what someone in that country might do, and consider what you would do. I found this helpful because I didn't know exactly what local citizens would do if they got lost. Keeping a level head, planning your next step, even writing down what you are certain of (and in a language you completely understand) can be the best steps in worrisome situations.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Walking the streets of Montevideo
It being my second day in the lovely Montevideo, Uruguay, I thought it prudent that I get out and see the sights. After waking up around 8:30 am (curses upon the comfortable bed) I found myself alone in the apartment and figured, what the hey, and I planned a few adventures outside.
Travel Tip 004:
Google maps is like one of those friends who merit Facebook friendship but not so much a party invite. Be careful. Google maps is reliable but can lead you astray and force you to beg random strangers for assistance (which is a learning experience in itself). I got lost because I thought my building was on the other side of the street and a then a few of my directions ended up being completely incorrect. Trial and error is sometimes the best way to go.
So I managed to find my way to the University (La Universidad Catolica del Uruguay), a park (el parque Batlle, a shopping center (Los Tres Cruces) and the beach (La Playa Ramirez). I did all of this alone and I must say, traveling alone can be a rewarding experience. Most of the other walkers flew by me while I had my head up in the skies. I attempted matching their pace and I was out of breath after three blocks. My favorite adventure of the day was the beach: White sand, 80 degrees F, around 6:30 pm and no chance of losing daylight for another 2 and a half hours, a family playing soccer on the coast, groups of men playing something like bean bag toss and crochet combined (money and betting was probably involved) and a light breeze. It was great. I didn't quite work up the courage to speak with anyone at the beach but there's always room for progress.
Later Tuesday night, I went with my host brother Mauro and his friend Santiago to watch an Uruguayan soccer team take on a team from Argentina. We took the bus (my first time doing so) and road to the apartment of another one of Mauro's friends, Nicholas. I can honestly say I hardly understood any of the exchanges these guys made during the soccer game but it was fun nonetheless. Every goal scored by the Uruguayan team (a total of three goals) was celebrated in epic fashion. Gol! Gol! Gol! It was great and I at least understood that part of the night. We ordered pizza and had a great time. From glimpses into their language, I could tell they were mostly talking about the game but they drifted in and out of conversation about professions, homework assignments, and pizza places. The Uruguayan soccer team ended up winning 3:1. All in all, a good day.
Ciao,
Travel Tip 004:
Google maps is like one of those friends who merit Facebook friendship but not so much a party invite. Be careful. Google maps is reliable but can lead you astray and force you to beg random strangers for assistance (which is a learning experience in itself). I got lost because I thought my building was on the other side of the street and a then a few of my directions ended up being completely incorrect. Trial and error is sometimes the best way to go.
So I managed to find my way to the University (La Universidad Catolica del Uruguay), a park (el parque Batlle, a shopping center (Los Tres Cruces) and the beach (La Playa Ramirez). I did all of this alone and I must say, traveling alone can be a rewarding experience. Most of the other walkers flew by me while I had my head up in the skies. I attempted matching their pace and I was out of breath after three blocks. My favorite adventure of the day was the beach: White sand, 80 degrees F, around 6:30 pm and no chance of losing daylight for another 2 and a half hours, a family playing soccer on the coast, groups of men playing something like bean bag toss and crochet combined (money and betting was probably involved) and a light breeze. It was great. I didn't quite work up the courage to speak with anyone at the beach but there's always room for progress.
Later Tuesday night, I went with my host brother Mauro and his friend Santiago to watch an Uruguayan soccer team take on a team from Argentina. We took the bus (my first time doing so) and road to the apartment of another one of Mauro's friends, Nicholas. I can honestly say I hardly understood any of the exchanges these guys made during the soccer game but it was fun nonetheless. Every goal scored by the Uruguayan team (a total of three goals) was celebrated in epic fashion. Gol! Gol! Gol! It was great and I at least understood that part of the night. We ordered pizza and had a great time. From glimpses into their language, I could tell they were mostly talking about the game but they drifted in and out of conversation about professions, homework assignments, and pizza places. The Uruguayan soccer team ended up winning 3:1. All in all, a good day.
Ciao,
Monday, February 28, 2011
El Primer Dia en Montevideo
Understandably, you have to the leave the first day for some jet lag adjustment. But still, the day was worth mentioning.
I arrived at the airport in Montevideo around 11:20 and, after getting my bags and what not, I found an awesome elderly gentleman named Jose who drove me to my apartment. I was nervous about speaking with him at first but I warmed up to conversation and we talked about weather, Japanese cars, Montevideo, and the downfalls of McDonald's.
Then I hung out at the apartment with my host brother, Mauro. We had nunes papas (mashed potatoes) and something-or-other pollo (fried chicken) for lunch. Delicious. We sat down to some televised news and sports reports. Soccer, of course, is a big deal in Uruguay and Mauro filled me in on his favorite stadium here in Montevideo.
My host mom got back from work at 4 pm and I spent some time speaking with her, exchanging a few gifts from the states, and asking her a few questions about life in Uruguay.
My body is begging for more sleep but I shall not give in. Jet lag has nothing on me.
Travel Tip #3:
Take it all in slow on the first day. A country can look one way through an air port window and an entirely different way on the street sidewalks. Enjoy a short walk (rectangular loops if you're sense of adventure outweighs your sense of direction), speak the language but don't expect to be sharing life stories, chill out, and smile (universal language the savior).
I arrived at the airport in Montevideo around 11:20 and, after getting my bags and what not, I found an awesome elderly gentleman named Jose who drove me to my apartment. I was nervous about speaking with him at first but I warmed up to conversation and we talked about weather, Japanese cars, Montevideo, and the downfalls of McDonald's.
Then I hung out at the apartment with my host brother, Mauro. We had nunes papas (mashed potatoes) and something-or-other pollo (fried chicken) for lunch. Delicious. We sat down to some televised news and sports reports. Soccer, of course, is a big deal in Uruguay and Mauro filled me in on his favorite stadium here in Montevideo.
My host mom got back from work at 4 pm and I spent some time speaking with her, exchanging a few gifts from the states, and asking her a few questions about life in Uruguay.
My body is begging for more sleep but I shall not give in. Jet lag has nothing on me.
Travel Tip #3:
Take it all in slow on the first day. A country can look one way through an air port window and an entirely different way on the street sidewalks. Enjoy a short walk (rectangular loops if you're sense of adventure outweighs your sense of direction), speak the language but don't expect to be sharing life stories, chill out, and smile (universal language the savior).
El Vuelo and the Mathematical Error
The flights went well. From the sparse town of Pepin, Wisconsin (population 908), I drove to Rochester with los lovely padres, flew to Chicago, then Miami, and finally Montevideo (population 1.2 million).
The best part was people watching in air ports. Call me what you like, but when you're half boggled from high altitude ascension and declination, wandering aimlessly through miles of car-free air port hallways is entertainment.
The worst part was the eight and a half hour international flight. Although manageable, eight cramped hours spent in a plane is a lot like a reoccurring dream of waking up and falling back asleep but the random middle aged guy who keeps sliding through your bubble is not part of the dream and the floating, freeing, anti-gravity feeling wears off and reverses the direction of your stomach.
CREATIVE SPLURGE ALERT. Yeah, a few of these are prone to happen when I have time on my hands. The following includes maybe 12 percent facts from my travels and 90 percent fiction. This one is about flying phobias.
You pause long enough to surrender all foresight to the flight attendant's demeaning demonstration of clicking a seat belt together and, quite unexpectedly, you're rendered useless, strapped and stymied inside the old American Airlines. The attendant probably thinks of you as sacks of straw suckers. You think of her as pock marked with makeup running the rivers of her creases.
Don't panic. Don't scream. Chew gum in time with your popping ears and stare at the neighbors who aren't freaking out. One of them is reading a romance novel titled Virgin Helen or Virgin Helios. No kidding. Two attractive girls sit southeast of you but they have that lip snapping, gum popping, purse shopping way about them. Don't look up that word, Helios. Don't bother. You're young; go with twenty and you still need to be ear muffed.
Quick list the following in avoidance of plane noises:
1)87 % of all plane flights ever attempted reached their destination.
2)Edison's hundreds of failed light bulbs are like mini planes.
3)Planes are flurrious, not furious.
4)Whether flying a plane during the night or during the day, it's always black and white.
5)Celestial question: Heaven, Hell, in between on flight 1238?
Pat yourself on the back and worry you may never be Shakespeare. A, you don't have the stuff (el hueso). B, you can't dream of the sky when you're in it and C, you can't leave you're hopes and dreams with the stars when you acknowledge them as gaseous balls of condensed heat and light.
Accept your flight phobia, the sweat over stretched muscles, temporary dyslexia, an intense focus in sounds or woooshes. Grip the arms of your seat and fear other phobias. The left turn phobia is still an unfortunate possibility.
When the pilot recommends that the departing travelers return to visit America, cringe. You just landed in South America. Leave with wobbly legs and a new perspective on bloodshot eyes. You're fairly confident everyone has phobias, some they don't even know about.
The best part was people watching in air ports. Call me what you like, but when you're half boggled from high altitude ascension and declination, wandering aimlessly through miles of car-free air port hallways is entertainment.
The worst part was the eight and a half hour international flight. Although manageable, eight cramped hours spent in a plane is a lot like a reoccurring dream of waking up and falling back asleep but the random middle aged guy who keeps sliding through your bubble is not part of the dream and the floating, freeing, anti-gravity feeling wears off and reverses the direction of your stomach.
CREATIVE SPLURGE ALERT. Yeah, a few of these are prone to happen when I have time on my hands. The following includes maybe 12 percent facts from my travels and 90 percent fiction. This one is about flying phobias.
You pause long enough to surrender all foresight to the flight attendant's demeaning demonstration of clicking a seat belt together and, quite unexpectedly, you're rendered useless, strapped and stymied inside the old American Airlines. The attendant probably thinks of you as sacks of straw suckers. You think of her as pock marked with makeup running the rivers of her creases.
Don't panic. Don't scream. Chew gum in time with your popping ears and stare at the neighbors who aren't freaking out. One of them is reading a romance novel titled Virgin Helen or Virgin Helios. No kidding. Two attractive girls sit southeast of you but they have that lip snapping, gum popping, purse shopping way about them. Don't look up that word, Helios. Don't bother. You're young; go with twenty and you still need to be ear muffed.
Quick list the following in avoidance of plane noises:
1)87 % of all plane flights ever attempted reached their destination.
2)Edison's hundreds of failed light bulbs are like mini planes.
3)Planes are flurrious, not furious.
4)Whether flying a plane during the night or during the day, it's always black and white.
5)Celestial question: Heaven, Hell, in between on flight 1238?
Pat yourself on the back and worry you may never be Shakespeare. A, you don't have the stuff (el hueso). B, you can't dream of the sky when you're in it and C, you can't leave you're hopes and dreams with the stars when you acknowledge them as gaseous balls of condensed heat and light.
Accept your flight phobia, the sweat over stretched muscles, temporary dyslexia, an intense focus in sounds or woooshes. Grip the arms of your seat and fear other phobias. The left turn phobia is still an unfortunate possibility.
When the pilot recommends that the departing travelers return to visit America, cringe. You just landed in South America. Leave with wobbly legs and a new perspective on bloodshot eyes. You're fairly confident everyone has phobias, some they don't even know about.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Preparation
I head out for Montevideo, Uruguay in less than two weeks and I must say preparation is a major pain. Between packing, paperwork, last-minuted researching, grabbing prescriptions and wrapping my mind over the fact that I'll be living in another country for the next five months, I've found myself somewhere in between the stress of finding a profession I'm passionate about and graduating from college.
Tip 001 for Study Abroad Survival: Keep Busy. With a flight date set for February 27th, the first semester starting mid March, and no college course, due dates, or papers since December 19th, an over-extended winter break quickly becomes abysmal. Reading helps, a stocked refrigerator is both friend and enemy, exercise routines are only as good as your motivation, and never be afraid to cry. I've spent much of my time barreling through a few journals, reading the classics, falling asleep to Odysseus (How do you read that monster?), being reawakened by Raymond Carver, staking out the local library, and resisting the never-ending netflix splurge. Any time spent in comfort is good, but keeping busy is key.
Tip 002: Pack Light. The family pet won't fit, the toaster isn't worth it, and weigh the pros and cons between every inclusion (yes I could pack that neck tie but I don't know how to tie it ... learning how to to tie vs. ugly knot vs. having someone else tie it and handling it like a time bomb ... note to self: watch my language at the airport). Packing is another additional stress/learning experience thrown into the study abroad mix. The key here is coming up with a good list and trying to stick to it. Most likely, half of everything you pack is unneeded.
Buenas noches
Tip 001 for Study Abroad Survival: Keep Busy. With a flight date set for February 27th, the first semester starting mid March, and no college course, due dates, or papers since December 19th, an over-extended winter break quickly becomes abysmal. Reading helps, a stocked refrigerator is both friend and enemy, exercise routines are only as good as your motivation, and never be afraid to cry. I've spent much of my time barreling through a few journals, reading the classics, falling asleep to Odysseus (How do you read that monster?), being reawakened by Raymond Carver, staking out the local library, and resisting the never-ending netflix splurge. Any time spent in comfort is good, but keeping busy is key.
Tip 002: Pack Light. The family pet won't fit, the toaster isn't worth it, and weigh the pros and cons between every inclusion (yes I could pack that neck tie but I don't know how to tie it ... learning how to to tie vs. ugly knot vs. having someone else tie it and handling it like a time bomb ... note to self: watch my language at the airport). Packing is another additional stress/learning experience thrown into the study abroad mix. The key here is coming up with a good list and trying to stick to it. Most likely, half of everything you pack is unneeded.
Buenas noches
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)